The Deaves Affair

But no alarm was raised. Evan waited half an hour in the keenest impatience and then the librarian returned alone.

"What happened?" demanded Evan.

"Nothing – as yet," was the answer. "I took your friend around through the American History room, just as I took you that day, and explained to him the location of seat 433. Since there was no danger of his being recognised he went right into the reading-room and took a seat at the same table. I scarcely liked to show myself, so I waited in the adjoining room. I had an attendant there in case he needed help.

"But we heard no sound, and when I finally looked into the reading-room I saw that your friend had gone, and that seat number 433 was also empty. The Carlyle books were lying on the table. The money had been taken. So I came back here to tell you."

Evan was anxious and perplexed. "I don't understand what could have happened," he said. "If the crook got away in spite of Charley, why didn't he come back here to report?"

"Perhaps he's still on his trail."

"But he was told not to let him get out of the building. There's nothing for me to do I suppose, but wait here."

Evan waited in the librarian's office until after lunch, but Charley neither came back nor sent any word. By the end of that time Evan, divided between anger and anxiety, was in a fever. He decided to make a trip home.

By the time he reached Washington Square anxiety had the upper hand. The gang must have got the better of Charley he told himself, or he would have had some word. Evan had had experience of the desperate lengths to which they were prepared to go. Would they now put their final threat into execution upon his hapless friend? Evan blamed himself bitterly for having sent Charley into danger. "If I do not hear from him during the afternoon, I'll send out a general alarm at police headquarters," he thought.

When Evan opened the door of 45A, Miss Sisson, according to her custom, stuck her head out into the hall.

"I suppose you haven't seen Mr. Straiker," said Evan.

"Yes, I have," she answered. "He came in about lunch time."

"What!" said Evan staring.

"He came in and packed his trunk and took it away in a taxi-cab. Said he was going away for a few days. Wouldn't tell me where he was going. Seemed funny to me he wanted his trunk if it was only a few days, but of course I couldn't object for his rent is paid up and he left his furniture anyway, though that wouldn't bring much. I will say he acted funny though, to an old friend like me. Wouldn't give me any information."

Evan stared at the woman as if he thought she had suddenly lost her mind. Then without a word he ran up the three flights of stairs. A glance in Charley's room confirmed what she had told him. Things were thrown about in the wildest confusion. But all Charley's clothes were gone, as well as all the personal belongings that he treasured.

Evan never gave a thought to the five thousand dollars; what cut him to the quick was the suggestion that his friend had betrayed him. There is nothing bitterer.

"I needn't have been so anxious about him," thought grimly. "This is more like treachery!"

CHAPTER XVII

THE ERNESTINA AGAIN

The next day was Saturday, and whatever had happened to Evan, he did not forget that this was the day of the Ernestina's excursion, nor would he relinquish his determination to take it. In his present sore and bitter state of mind the prospect of a row was rather welcome than otherwise.

He timed himself to arrive at the East Twentieth street pier at nine-twenty, that is to say ten minutes before the steamboat was due to leave. He found Denton taking tickets at the gangway as before, but it was a very different face that Denton turned to him this morning; censure, reproach and apprehension all had a part in his expression. "He's been filled up with great stories about me," thought Evan. There was a policeman standing near Denton. Evan's eyes glittered at the sight of him.

Evan made believe not to notice any change in Denton's manner. "Good morning," he said cheerfully.

Denton made no reply.

"What can I do to-day?" asked Evan.

Denton shook his head.

Evan affected to be greatly surprised. "Why, what's the matter?"

"I guess you know," the other said sorely.

The policeman stepped up. "Is this the guy as made trouble for you last trip?" he asked hoarsely.

Denton nodded.

The policeman turned self-righteously on Evan. "Say, fella, you'd ought to be ashamed of yourself! Don't you know no better than to make trouble for a charity!"

"You've got me wrong, officer," said Evan sweetly. "I didn't make any trouble. It was the other fellows made trouble for me!"

"Yes, they did!" was the scornful rejoinder. "That's what they all say! Well, they're running this show, see? And they don't want you. So beat it!"

Evan did not suppose that any charge would be pressed against him, but even if he were arrested and allowed to go, it would end the trip as far as he was concerned. He decided upon a strategic retreat. A new idea had occurred to him.

"That's all right, old fellow," he said indulgently. "Don't apologise." He turned to go.

The policeman turned a shade pinker than his wont. "Don't you get gay, young fella! I ain't apologising to the likes of you!"

"My mistake," said Evan, laughing over his shoulder. "Keep the change!"

As he passed out of hearing the blue-coat was saying sagely to Denton: "He's a bad one, all right. You can see it."

When Evan reached the shore end of the pier, he was cut off from the view of Denton and the policeman by a pile of freight which rose between. Unobserved by them, he made his way out on the next pier. This pier like its neighbour was occupied by craft of all kinds, canal-boats, lighters, scows, etc. Evan came to a stop opposite the Ernestina, and looked about him.

At his feet lay a large power-boat. She had a skiff tied to her rail. A burly harbourman, the skipper evidently, sat on the forward deck with his chair tipped back against the pilot-house and his hat pulled over his nose.

"How are you?" said Evan affably.

"How's yourself?" was the non-committal reply.

"I see you've got a skiff tied alongside," said Evan.

"Remarkable fine eyesight!" said the skipper ironically.

"I'll give you a dollar if you'll put me aboard that steamboat yonder."

"Why the Hell don't you walk aboard by the gangway?"

"Well, you see it's a kind of joke I want to put up on them. I want them to think they've gone off and left me, and then I'll show myself, see?"

"I never see nothing as don't concern me."

"I'll make it two dollars."

"I ain't running my head into no noose."

"Oh, I assure you it isn't a hanging matter."

"Nothin' doin', fella."

"Well, look here; you be looking the other way, and I'll take the skiff, see? Then you won't know anything about it. You can recover it with one of the other skiffs in the slip here."

"How do I know you won't make off down the river in my skiff?"

"All you've got to do is start your engine."

"Nothin' doin'!"

"You get the two dollars first of course."

The skipper let his chair fall forward and slowly rose. He looked past Evan. "Hey, Jake!" he cried to one on the pier. "Wait a minute! I got somepin' t' say to yeh." He stepped to the stringpiece.

Evan thought he had failed – until he saw a hand poked suggestively behind the skipper. Into it he hastily thrust two dollars. The skipper nonchalantly went his ways. Evan stepped aboard the power boat, skinned over the rail, and untied the skiff.

A few strokes of the oars brought him alongside the Ernestina. A steamboat of this type has a wide overhang bounded by a stout timber called the "guard." When Evan stood up in his skiff his shoulders were at the level of the guard. But as the ledge it made was only three inches wide and the gunwale rising above it provided no hand hold, it was a problem how to draw himself up.

He finally drew the skiff down to the paddle-box where the interstices of the gingerbread work enabled him to get a grip. As he pulled himself up he thrust the skiff away with his foot. He climbed back along the ledge to her stern gangway and vaulting over the rail found himself on the narrow deck encircling the stern, which is in marine parlance the "quarter."

All the business of the vessel was on the pier side, and this part was deserted. The sliding door leading to the entrance hall was closed and Evan took care to keep out of the range of vision of anyone who might look out through the panes. He determined to stay where he was until she got under way. A warning whistle had already been sounded. He made himself comfortable on a camp stool.

He chuckled to think of the sensation his appearance would cause. True, they might seize him and put him down in the hold again; they were strong enough. But at least this time they would not take him by surprise, and he doubted anyway if they would attack him before the children. Evan was strong with the children. It might precipitate a riot on board.

The Ernestina began to back out of the slip without anybody having stumbled on Evan's hiding-place. By this time the skipper of the power boat had recovered his skiff, and was watching Evan stolidly. Evan waved him a farewell.

Evan had no notion of risking all he had gained by venturing out too soon. He sat tight, entertaining himself as best he could with the unbeautiful panorama of Long Island City, Greenpoint (which is anything but green nowadays) and Williamsburgh. They had passed under the far-flung spans of the three bridges, rounded Governor's Island and headed down the Bay before he ventured to open the sliding door into the entrance hall.

At the moment there was no one in the hall who knew him, nor upon the stairway. He mounted unhindered. At the top he almost collided with Domville, the meekest of Corinna's brethren.

"How are you?" said Evan affably.

Little Domville stood as if rooted to the deck, his face a study in blank dismay. Then he turned without a sound, and scurried like a rabbit down the saloon and out on the after deck, presumably to spread the dreadful news. Evan chuckled.

Others in the saloon had recognised Evan. "Mister! Mister! Tell us a story! You know. About the robbers in the cave. They was just going to shoot Three-Fingered Pete for treachery!"

Evan reflected that he could hardly do better than take a leaf out of Corinna's book, and protect himself with a rampart of children. So he sat himself down and began, while they pressed close around:

"Well, Three-Fingered Pete was just about ready to give up when a shot was heard at the mouth of the cave, and a clear young voice cried, 'Hold! in the name of the U. S. cavalry!'"

The door to the after deck opened and Domville returned with Corinna and Dordess, the cynical one. Evan watched them without appearing to, and laughed inwardly at their amazed expressions. His heart beat fast at the sight of the red-haired girl. He told himself he hated her now – but perhaps hate can accelerate the pace of a heart too.

For a moment the three remained by the door in consultation, then Corinna and Domville went out on deck again, while Dordess came down the saloon, not towards Evan but on the other side. Evan was not going to let him pass in silence.

"How are you?" he called cheerfully.

Dordess sent him an ironical and courteous greeting. He had more savoir faire than the younger males of Corinna's family. He passed out of sight behind the engine trunk.

"Gone to get the others," thought Evan.

But Dordess presently returned alone, and nothing happened. He went back to the after deck. As the minutes passed, Evan grew anxious, not knowing what they had in store for him, but he kept the story going.

Suddenly he saw the hump of Staten Island sweep around into view through the stern windows, and the Statue of Liberty passed by on the port side. A few minutes before they had left it to starboard. Wails began to be raised in the cabin. "Oh! We're going back again! What's the matter? I don't want to go back!" No need for Evan to ask himself then what they were going to do.

He saw his opportunity when Corinna appearing in the saloon, stopped to pacify a crying child near the door. Dordess was on the other side of the saloon. Going to Corinna's side Evan said softly:

"I suppose you're going back to put me ashore."

She did not answer.

He said in the same tone: "Corinna, I will not submit to such a humiliation a second time."

"You have brought it on yourself," she answered without looking at him.

"Just the same I will not submit to it."

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked scornfully.

"I'll go down to the little deck outside the entrance hall on the port, that is the left-hand side. I will wait for you there. If you do not come to me before we pass under Brooklyn Bridge, I'll jump overboard."

She looked at him startled and searchingly. "You can't frighten me that way," she said proudly.

"I'm not trying to frighten you. I'm making a simple statement. You know what it is to have a strong will. Very well, others may have as strong a will as your own. When I say a thing I'd die rather than go back on it."

Corinna paled, but would not weaken. "I am not your keeper," she said. "You must do as you will."

"Give me five minutes talk alone with you, and I'll go ashore willingly. That's all I came for."

"I will not come. You will only make a fool of yourself."

"Very well, you have your choice," said Evan. He turned and went down the stairway.

Back on his camp-stool on the narrow deck, he felt as a man must feel after burning his bridges, a little shaky. He knew the lengths to which a stubborn will may carry a person, and he was not at all sure of her coming. Not that he meant to draw back; he spoke truth in saying he would have died first; he was a good swimmer, and he had no serious doubt of his ability to reach the shore, but he did not fancy being dragged out on a pier drenched and shoeless, and having to give an account of himself. And in that case Corinna would win out anyway. The only way he could really get the better of her would be by committing suicide, and he was not prepared to go as far as that.

To save time the Ernestina passed through Buttermilk channel between Brooklyn and Governor's Island. On the New York side the slips of South Ferry and Hamilton Ferry passed before Evan's eyes, and a little later Wall street ferry. The bridge was not visible to him where he sat, but he knew it was looming close ahead; the next ferry-house, Fulton Ferry, was almost directly under it. Finally he got an oblique view of the approach to the bridge with the trolley cars and trucks crawling upon it, and he stooped over to untie his shoes.

Suddenly the Ernestina gave a little lurch, and he looked up to see what was the matter. She was swinging around again! She turned her tail to Brooklyn Bridge and started out to sea again. Certainly if anybody had been following her course that morning they would have been justified in supposing the Captain to be slightly demented.

Evan laced up his shoes. He grinned to himself in mixed satisfaction and chagrin. Corinna had found a way to evade the choice he had given her! True, she had prevented him from jumping overboard, but she had not come to him. Clearly she preferred to endure his presence on the boat all day rather than give him five minutes alone with her.

The only thing he could think of to bring her was the power of curiosity. Perhaps if he stayed where he was she would be forced in the end to come see what had happened to him. He determined to try it anyhow.

"But as soon as she looks out of the door and sees me safe, she'll fly back," he thought. He moved his stool around to the very stern of the Ernestina. Here he was invisible unless one came all the way round to see.

Here his patience was indeed put to a test. He had nothing to read – he could not have applied his mind to it, if he had had, and he dared not smoke for fear of betraying himself. All he could do was to sit and study the scenery. The Ernestina went back through Buttermilk channel, and rounded Red Hook. She passed the Erie basin where upon the boundary fence Evan had the edification of reading a sign half a mile long extolling the virtues of a certain English condiment. And they say the English are not enterprising! She crossed the mouth of Gowanus bay and passed the villas of Bay Ridge, and still nothing happened.

But as she approached the Narrows, Evan thought he heard one of the sliding doors squeak, and his heart leaped. Jumping up he flattened himself against the deck house. There was an agonising pause. If only he dared peep around the side. Then Corinna came plump into view.

At sight of him a sharp exclamation escaped her. She hung motionless for a moment, her face fixed in a comical mask of surprise and indignation, like a child's, then she turned to run.

"Wait!" cried Evan peremptorily.

She saw that he could seize her before she gained the door. She had learned the folly of running from him. So she stood still. Drawing herself up she said:

"I have nothing to say to you. I only wished to make sure that you had not done anything foolish."

Evan glanced at the shores. Staten Island was the nearer – less than half a mile. "It is not too late," he said.

"Overboard I go," said Evan, "unless you stop here and talk to me as if I were a Christian."

She smiled scornfully.

"I shall not be fooled a second time," she said.

"You were not fooled the first time," he said quietly. He bent down and started to unlace his shoes.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Can't swim with my shoes on," Evan said without looking up.

He heard her catch her breath, but her voice was still inflexible. "Do you think me so simple!"

"I don't think at all," said Evan with his hand on the rail. "I give you your choice. Will you stop and talk to me like a reasonable being for five minutes."

Their hard eyes battled furiously, and neither pair would down. "No!" she said, though her lips were white.

He glanced down at the water boiling from under the Ernestina's counter, and gathered himself for the spring.

The glance was too much for Corinna. "Evan! Evan!" she cried sharply, and put her hands out.

In a trice he had her in his arms.

"Ah, don't kiss me!" she begged, even while her lips surrendered to his.

"Ah, you nearly let me go!" murmured Evan.

"I would have gone too!"

"Then we'd both have drowned. I couldn't carry you all that way."

"I wouldn't have cared."

"I'd rather live with you, you beautiful thing! Why do you want to kill us both?"

She tore herself from his arms. "I can't help myself. This is only torment."

"But why? why? I'm of age. I have a right to know, to judge for myself. What comes between us?"

"I cannot tell you."

"And do you expect me to let you go on your mere say-so? No, by God! Not while I live!"

"You must let me go!"

"Is it a sin for you to love me?"

"It is impossible."

"That's not answering my question. Have you a husband?"

"Certainly not!" she said indignantly.

He laughed at her tone. "Is there any other man who has a better claim on you than I have?"

She shook her head.

"Well, then!" he cried in great relief. "What's the matter? There's no other reason that I would recognise."

"Have mercy on me," she murmured. "Let me go. Help me to be strong!"

"In other words help you not to love me," he said tenderly. "Not on your life! I will never let you go without a good reason."

"I will tell you everything as soon as I can."

"What does that mean, 'soon as you can'?"

"In a few days, a week maybe."

"Why not now?"

"Something must happen first."

"Corinna, don't you understand how this mystery tortures one who loves!" he cried.

"I know. I cannot help myself."

"But you promise to tell me?"

"Yes, if you will let me entirely alone until I do tell you."

"I'll do my best," he groaned. "One can't promise miracles."

"And you must not let yourself love me, until you know."

"Oh, that's clearly impossible. I would have to love you just the same if you had two or three husbands and were the wickedest woman in the world beside."

"I'm not a wicked woman!" she passionately cried.

"Why, I didn't suppose you were," he said surprised. "But it wouldn't make any difference."

"Let me go now," she begged. "This only makes it harder."

"Tell me you love me, and I'll let you go. You owe me that after having had me assaulted on the last trip."

"I didn't know what they were going to do."

"Well, tell me you love me, anyhow."

"I do not love you."

"You do! It's in your eyes, your lips, I know you do!"

"If I told you it would be impossible to manage you!"

Evan laughed a peal. "Darling stubborn child! Then kiss me of your own free will and I'll let you go."

"No! No! No!"

"Then I must kiss you."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE ACCIDENT

Evan's talk with Corinna did not help him at all with the brotherhood. Whether they knew or not that he had had his five minutes with her, the fact that Corinna had ordered him put ashore and had then countermanded the order, was enough to rouse their jealous suspicions. One and all they sent Evan to Coventry. Let him work as willingly and cheerfully as he might, they ignored him: when they met they looked straight through him or over his head. Evan told himself he didn't care – and devoted his time to the children; but he was a man, and the heart in his breast was hot against them. With the children his popularity grew apace.

To-day the Ernestina was bound for Sandy Hook to give the small passengers a sight of the real ocean. They saw the ocean, and were not much impressed. Apparently they had expected the waves to come rolling in mountains high, whereas the ocean was as flat as Central Park lake. To be sure there was a slow swell that mysteriously heaved the Ernestina and troubled squeamish tummies, but it was not at all spectacular.

Later they lay in calm water inside the Hook while everybody ate. As the day wore on the weather began to thicken. The wind veered to the East and blew chill, and banks of white fog gathered on the horizon. Evan wondered why no one gave the word to return. It was hardly his place to interfere, but in the end he felt obliged to.

Tenterden happened to be the one that he spoke to. "We're going to have some dirty weather," Evan said lightly, "and we're a long way from the Bowery."

Tenterden looked him up and down. "Say, are you going to tell us how to run this show?" he asked. "That's good."

Evan shrugged and left him. "I owe you one for that, old man," he thought. "All right, my time will come."

It came sooner than he expected.

Someone did give the word, and the little Ernestina started back up the lower Bay at her customary head-long rate of eight miles an hour. And none too soon; the white wall of fog was creeping fast on her trail.

Evan was doing duty on the forward deck where the largest crowd of children was gathered. These were the healthiest and most obstreperous of their passengers. With his back in the point of the bow he could survey all his charges at once. No other helper was in that part of the boat at the moment. All was serene; the children for the most part swinging their legs in camp chairs and amiably disputing.

Suddenly from the very bowels of the vessel there came a horrifying report. The Ernestina staggered sickeningly, listed to port, and commenced to limp around in a circle like a wounded bird. Terrible smashing and rending sounds succeeded the first crash. It seemed as if the frail little vessel must fly asunder under such blows.

After a second's frozen silence on deck a dreadful chorus broke forth. Only those who have witnessed a panic at sea will know. On land one may always run from a horror; at sea there is nothing between horror and horror. When the majority of passengers are helpless children the scene surpasses horror. With sharp animal cries of fright, they ran around in blind circles, or charged in a body from side to side of the deck.