The Coast of Adventure Part 4

While they talked about other matters, Evelyn Cliffe sat in the stern of the tiny sloop, enjoying the sense of control the grasp of the tiller gave her, and the swift rush of the polished hull through the sparkling foam. There was also some satisfaction in displaying her nerve and skill to the loungers on the beach, who were, for the most part, fas.h.i.+onable people from the Northern States. Among these was a young man upon whom Evelyn knew her mother looked with approval.

Though he had much to recommend him, and had shown a marked preference for her society, Evelyn had come to no decision about Reginald Gore, but she was willing that he should admire her seamans.h.i.+p, and it was, perhaps, in the expectation of meeting him afterward that she had dressed herself carefully. She wore well-cut blue serge that emphasized her fine pink-and-white color, and matched her eyes; and the small blue cap did not hide her red-gold hair.

As the breeze freshened, she forgot the spectators, and began to wish she had taken a reef in the mainsail before starting. Hitherto she had had somebody with her when it was necessary to shorten canvas; but it was unlike a sport to turn back because of a little wind. She would stand on until she had weathered the point and was out on the open Atlantic, and then run home. The strain on the helm got heavier, the foam crept level with the lee deck, and sometimes sluiced along it when the boat dipped her bows in a sea. Then the spray began to beat upon the slanted canvas, and whipped Evelyn's face as she braced herself against the tiller.

The boat was sailing very fast, plunging through the sparkling ridges of water; there was something strangely exhilarating in her speed and the way the foam swirled past. Evelyn had an adventurous temperament, and, being then twenty-three, was young enough to find a keen relish in outdoor sport. Now she was matching her strength and skill against the blue Atlantic combers, which were getting steeper and frothing on their crests. The point was falling to leeward; it would be a fair wind home, and she determined to stand on a little longer. Casting a quick glance astern, she saw that the figures on the beach had grown indistinct and small. She felt alone with the sea at last, and the situation had its charm; but when she fixed her eyes ahead she wished that the rollers were not quite so large. She had to ease the boat over them; sometimes let the sheet run in the harder gusts, and then it was not easy to get the wet rope in.

When the point shut off the beach, she saw she must come round, and, after waiting for a patch of smooth water, put up the helm to jibe. The strain on the sheet was heavier than she thought; the rope bruised her fingers as it ran through them. The boat rolled wildly, and then the big sail swung over with a crash. Evelyn saw with alarm that the gaff along its head had stopped at an unusual angle to the canvas. Something had gone wrong. But her nerve was good. She could lower the mainsail and run home under the jib.

When she left the helm the boat shot up into the wind, with the long boom banging to and fro and the spray flying across her. Evelyn loosed the halyards, but found that the gaff would not come down. Its end worked upon a bra.s.s slide on the mast, and the grips had bent and jambed. Things now looked awkward. It was blowing moderately fresh, the sea was getting up, and the sail she could not shorten might capsize the boat.

With difficulty, she got the sloop round, but, as the gaff was jambed, she would not steer a course that would take her to the inlet, and Evelyn remembered with alarm that there was some surf on the beach. She could swim, but she shrank from the thought of struggling ash.o.r.e from the wrecked craft through broken water. Still, it was some comfort to see the point drop astern and the beach get nearer; she was on the way to land, there were boats on the inlet, and somebody might notice that she was in difficulties. No boat came off, however, and she realized that from a distance nothing might appear to be wrong with the sloop.

When she was near enough to signal for help it would be too late.

A small steamer lurched at anchor not far away; but Evelyn could not reach her: the sloop was like a bird with a broken wing and could only blunder clumsily, in danger of capsizing, before the freshening wind. In another quarter of an hour she would be in the surf, which now looked dangerously heavy.

While she was trying to nerve herself for the struggle to land, she saw a boat leave the steamer's side. It was a very small dinghy, and there was only one man on board, but he waved his hand as if he understood her peril, and then rowed steadily to intercept her. This needed judgment: if he miscalculated the distance it would be impossible for him to overtake the sloop. And Evelyn could do nothing to help. She must concentrate her attention upon keeping her craft before the wind. If she jibed, bringing the big sail violently over with its head held fast would result in a capsize.

Five minutes later she risked a glance. The dinghy was close at hand, lurching up and down, lost from sight at intervals among the combers.

The man, coatless and hatless, seemed to be handling her with caution, easing her when a roller with a foaming crest bore down on him, but Evelyn thought he would not miss her boat. Her heart beat fast as she put the helm hard down. The sloop swung round, slackening speed as she came head to wind, there was a thud alongside, and the man jumped on board with a rope in his hand.

Then things began to happen so rapidly that the girl could not remember exactly what was done; but the man showed a purposeful activity. He scrambled along the narrow deck, got a few feet up the mast, and the sail came down; then he sprang aft to the helm, and the sloop headed for the steamer, with his dinghy in tow and only the jib set.

They were alongside in a few minutes, and he seized a rope that some one threw him.

"Our gig's hauled up on the beach for painting, and I'm afraid we couldn't reach the landing in the dinghy, now the sea's getting up," he said. "You'd better come on board, and I'll see if Macallister can put your gaff right."

Evelyn hesitated, for she suspected that it would take some time to mend the damaged spar. It was not an adventure her mother would approve of, but as she could see no way of reaching land, she let the man help her through the gangway.

CHAPTER IV

THE "ENCHANTRESS"

On reaching the steamer's deck, Evelyn glanced with curiosity at her rescuer. He was a tall, lightly built man, dressed in an old blue s.h.i.+rt, paint-stained duck trousers, and ragged canvas shoes, but he had an easy manner that was not in harmony with his rough clothes. Evelyn liked his brown face. It had a hint of force in it; though now he was watching her with a half-amused smile. He fell short of being handsome, but, on the whole, his appearance made a good impression on the girl.

Then she looked about the vessel. The deck, finely laid with narrow planks, was littered with odd spars, rusty chain, coal bags, and pieces of greasy machinery, as if repairs and refitting were going on. She was a very small, two-masted steamer, carrying some sail, for smoke-grimed canvas was furled along the booms, and Evelyn thought she had been built for a yacht. Her narrow beam, her graceful sweep of teakwood rail, and the long, tapering counter suggested speed. A low, lead-gray funnel stood just forward of the mainmast, and a teak house, rising three or four feet above the deck, occupied part of her length. The bra.s.s boss of the steering wheel bore the name _Enchantress_. The after end of the house, however, was built of iron, with raised lights in the top, and the hammering and the pointed remarks that came up indicated that somebody below was grappling with refractory metal. After one exclamation, Evelyn's companion walked to the skylights.

"Mack," he said in a warning tone, "there's a lady on board."

"One o' they half-dressed hussies from the hotel? Man, I thought ye had mair taste," a hoa.r.s.e voice replied.

Evelyn was glad that her boating costume was not in the extreme of fas.h.i.+on, for sleeves and skirts were severely curtailed then, but she waited with some amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Come up and don't talk!" said the man who had brought her on board.

"Here's a job for you."

"That's one thing I'll never die for the want of," the voice below went on. "I've got jobs enough already, and no help wi' them. Ye cannot make a mechanic out o' a dago muleteer, and the gangrel son o' a rich American is no' much better. They're wrecking the bonny mill and when I had them strike at a bit forging the weariful deevils smashed my finger.

I telt them----"

"It won't stand for repeating. Let up; you've the voice of a bull,"

somebody broke in. "Grahame's waiting with a lady. Can't you get a move on?"

"What's the lady wanting--is it her watch mending?" the Scot asked with a hint of eagerness. A pa.s.sion for tampering with the works of watches not infrequently characterizes the marine engineer.

"Come and see!" called Evelyn's companion; and a few moments later the mechanic appeared.

He was big, rather gaunt, and very dirty; but he carried himself well, and had obviously just put on a smart blue jacket with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons that bore the crest of an English mail line. Evelyn thought his age was between forty and fifty, but his eyes had a humorous twinkle and his air was rakish. Behind him came a much younger man in greasy overalls.

The engineer bowed to Evelyn with some grace.

"Ye'll be Miss Cliffe; I ken ye by sight," he said. "They telt me who ye were in the bar at the hotel."

"Do they talk about me in such places?" Evelyn asked with a touch of haughtiness.

"What would ye expect? When ye're born good-looking, ye must take the consequences. But, as Grahame has nae manners, I'll present myself--Andrew Macallister, extra chief's ticket, and noo, through speaking my mind to a director, engineer o' this barge." He indicated his greasy companion. "Mr. Walthew, who, though ye might not think it by his look, was taught at Harvard. If my temper stands the strain, I may make a useful greaser o' him yet. The other ye nae doot ken."

"No," said Evelyn, half amused. "He kindly came to my help when I was in trouble with my boat."

"Then he's skipper. They call him Grahame, and it's a good Scottish name. But I was hoping ye had maybe some difficulty with your watch."

"Why did you hope so?" Evelyn asked, laughing.

"On no account let him have it," Walthew interposed. "He brought back the last watch a confiding visitor left him with the gold case badly crushed. 'I had to screw her in the vice, but a bit rub with a file will smooth her off,' he told the owner."

"He was a fastidious beast o' a Custom House grafter," Macallister explained. "But if it's no' a watch, what way can I serve ye?"

Grahame took him to the sloop and showed him the gaff, and a few minutes later he came back with the bent jaws.

"It's no' a bad piece o' work; your people have an eye for design, but they make things too light," he said. "Noo I'll cut ye a new grip out o'

solid bra.s.s, but it will take an hour."

"I suppose I must wait; there's no other way of getting back," Evelyn answered dubiously.

Macallister went below, and Grahame put a deck chair for Evelyn under the awning in the stern, where he sat down on a coil of rope, while Walthew leaned against the rail near by. The girl felt interested in them all. She had heard that Walthew had been to Harvard, and his appearance suggested that he belonged to her own world. If so, what was he doing in the _Enchantress's_ engine room? Then, Macallister's random talk had some piquancy. His manners were not polished, but they were good in their way.

"The steamer is yours, I suppose?" she remarked.

"Yes," said Grahame. "We bought her cheap, and are getting her ready for sea. As I dare say you have noticed, she needs refitting."

"But wouldn't that have been easier at New Orleans or Galveston?"

"Perhaps, if we were able to hire professional a.s.sistance, but we have to do the work ourselves, and this place is quiet, and clean for painting."

"Aren't you painting her an unusual color? White would have been prettier than this dingy gray."