THE LODGING HOUSE

Jan Tingloff, not wishing to get too far away from the dry dock, turned up a side street near the water-front, and there, in a basement window of a narrow four-story brick building, he saw the sign “Furnished Room to Rent.”

A second look showed Jan that the basement also afforded an entrance to a not too well lit pool-room and that a not overclean alley ran up one side of the building. Jan, with no prejudices against alleys or pool-rooms, entered the pool-room to inquire. “Yeh,” said the man behind the cigar-case-“second floor-a week in advance-ring the front-door bell-a woman will come and show you.”

A woman who preceded him like a discouraged shadow showed him the room, but it was to the man in the basement that she told Jan to pay the week’s rent when he said he would take the room. “Yes; I take the rent-always,” this man said; and his eyes brightened as Jan pushed the money across the cigar-case at him. And he wore finger-rings out of all keeping with the dark little place; but he had a pleasant smile for Jan and Jan smiled back at him; for Jan was one of those friendly natures who prefer to be pleasant, even to men whose looks they do not like.

Jan Tingloff slept in his new quarters that night. He saw nobody connected with the house as he passed out in the morning; but that evening as he entered the front-door he heard a cough. It was a woman’s cough and dimly he saw a woman’s form-a rather slender form. Jan’s senses were the kind which see a thing large at first and then go back for details. He hurried to close the door so that the cold November wind would not endanger the poor creature further. As he closed the door she said:

“Good evening.”

Jan hurried to take off his hat.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“You go off early mornings, captain?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He peered into the twilight of the hall and saw a hand lighting the suspension lamp. “But I’m not a captain, ma’am. I was a seafaring man one time; but I am a ship-carpenter now in a repairing job on a big coaster in the dry dock, and I have to be over there early to get my gang started.”

She was turning the wick of the lamp high and then low, and high again, and Jan was vexed to think he had not offered to light the lamp for her in the first place, especially as he now recognized in her the same sad-eyed woman who had showed him his room the evening before. It was twilight then, too, but she had lit no lamp in the hall or in the room, and Jan guessed why and did not blame her for it. The furnishings here, as in his room, were shabby.

Jan began to feel a pity for her. There was that in the curve of her back which caused him to address her with unwonted gentleness-and ordinarily Jan was gentle enough for anybody’s taste. Yes, she was the same woman; but if he had met her anywhere else he would not have known her. She was now all tidied up. Her clothes were fresh, her shoulders had lost their droop. Her face was less pale and a glow was coming into her eyes.

Jan’s room was on the second floor and now he ascended the stairs to go there. At the top of the stairs he glanced back; but catching her looking at him he looked quickly away. From the darkness of the second-floor hallway, however, he could peer down and she could not see him. She was still there, standing under the lamp which was now at full blaze. One arm had been raised high in regulation of the wick and now she raised the other to steady the lamp, which was swinging. Her figure was in the shadow from the waist down, but her bust, her neck, face and long, slim hands were in full light.

“I’d never took her for the same woman-never!” thought Jan.

Next evening Jan saw her again, this time in the narrow second-floor hallway near the stairs. She shrank against the stair-rail to let him pass. Jan drew up against the wall. She mutely indicated that he should pass.

“After you, ma’am,” said Jan, and resolutely waited.

“Thank you,” she said, and passed on. At the head of the flight of stairs she turned her head. Jan was still there.

“Is your room all right?” She asked the question hurriedly, awkwardly.

“All right, ma’am.”

“And not too noisy for you here?-the basement noise, I mean.”

“A ship-carpenter, ma’am-he soon gets used to noise.”

“Of course.” She glanced furtively at him. “Good-night.” She hurried downstairs.

That night when Jan, who read romantic fiction to relieve his loneliness, laid down his stirring mediaeval tale to go to bed, he did not follow up the intention with immediate action, as usual.

By and by he raised the window-sash, and the cool, damp sea-air feeling good, he leaned out to enjoy it. It was a cloudy night, with a touch of coming snow in the air; but for all that a night to enjoy, only for the racket ascending from the pool-room.

“I don’t think much of those people down there,” thought Jan as he lowered the sash to all but six or eight inches for fresh air and picked up the alarm clock from the rickety dresser. “I wonder if she’s one of that crowd?” And he began to wind the clock. “But sure she ain’t-sure not.”

Jan had been holding the clock absently in his hand. Suddenly he set it down and scolded himself-“Jan Tingloff, remember you has to be up at six in the morning!”-and undressed, blew out the light and slid into bed, and tried to go to sleep. And he did after a while; but his last thought before he fell into slumber was: “Who’d ever think one day a woman could grow so young-looking the next day?”

Many an evening after that Jan met the landlady on the stairs or in the hall, and always she stopped to ask him how he was coming on with his ship; but never any more than that or a brief word as to the weather and his comfort, though there were times when Jan felt he would like to become better acquainted-times when he even had a feeling that if he had asked her to sit down somewhere for a talk she would be willing. Jan had learned, however, that she was married. It had been a shock to learn that. It had come about by his noticing after three or four days the plain gold ring on the wedding finger. He had kept staring at it until she could not help remarking it; and by and by, in a casual sort of way, she had told him she was married.

“And is your husband living, ma’am?” asked Jan.

“He’s living-yes,” she answered slowly.

That made a difference. Even though a man didn’t know anybody in the city except the men he worked with and it was terribly lonesome of evenings-even so, her being married made all the difference. And she must have been a wonderfully pretty girl once-and was pretty yet, now he had a chance to look good at her. Pretty-yes; but-well, Jan didn’t know what it was, except that she was all right. Jan knew he didn’t know much about women, especially strange women-and he knew, too, that he never would; but he would never believe she wasn’t all right-never!

Yes, it was pretty lonesome at times; and there was the girl who roomed on the top floor. Jan was thrilled by alluring glimpses of her in the half-dark recesses of the back halls, but the glimpses remained only glimpses after he saw her one Sunday by daylight. Only then was Jan convinced that she painted. She was a little too much and he took to dodging her. Yet it was a pity-oh, a pity! and Jan, still thinking what a pity, was going out for a lonesome walk one night, when who should meet him on the front stoop but that same top-floor girl! And no sliding by her this time. She nipped the lapel of his coat with a dexterous thumb and forefinger.

“Why, hello, cap! Where yuh goin’?”

“Nowheres.”

“Then you got time, ain’t you, to buy a girl a glass o’-” She stopped and winked sportively.

“Glass o’ what?”

“Why, ginger ale!” She laughed at his surprise. “You thought I was goin’ to say beer, or maybe somethin’ stronger, didn’t yuh? But I don’t drink no hard stuff. No. An’ I was dyin’ for a drink o’ somethin’ when yuh pops out that door. An’ I know yuh ain’t any hinge.”

“How do you know I ain’t a hinge?”

“Oh, don’t I? Leave it to me to pick a sport from a piker.”

“But I’m no sport either.”

“You could if yuh wanted ter. An’ yuh ain’t any hinge, even if they do say you’re a square-head. Come on an’ let’s go in back an’ have a couple o’ bottles o’ ginger ale in Hen’s place.”

And Jan followed her into the private room beyond the pool-room-the room to which, as he had gathered before this, the street girls of that section steered drunken sailors. The ginger ale was brought in by the proprietor himself. Jan threw down a ten-dollar bill. Jan had a good many bills with him that evening-his month’s wages; and seeing it was the fashion round there to show your money when you paid for anything, why, he’d show them-even if he was a square-head-that he could carry a wad too.

“Say, cap, but yuh must be drawin’ down good coin?”

“Oh, a boss ship-carpenter gets pretty good wages.” And with one splendid sweep Jan emptied his glass.

“I should say yes. An’ there’s tinhorners round here that if they had half your wad Hen’d have to ring in the fire alarm to put ’em out-they’d feel themselves such warm rags. But what d’yuh say to another ginger ale?”

“Sure,” said Jan, and called aloud for them. And again Hen brought in the ginger ale in two long glasses, but also with two empty bottles to show Jan by the labels that it was the real imported and no phony stuff; and Jan said, “I know! I know!” as he paid and waved Hen away.

A door led from this back room into the lower back hall of the house, and in the shadow of the back hall Jan thought for an instant that he saw the landlady’s figure; but he wasn’t sure. Two minutes-or it may have been five minutes-later, a boy whom Jan had noticed round the house came into the room by way of that same door and said to the girl:

“Mrs. Goles wants to see you a minute.”

“Tell her I got no minute to spare-not now.”

The boy went out and quickly came back.

“Mrs. Goles says for you to come out and see her or she’ll have the policeman in off the beat. He’s at the corner now.”

The girl went out.

“Who’s Mrs. Goles?” asked Jan of the boy.

“Why, she’s the landlady.”

“Oh!” said Jan. So that was her husband, the handsome proprietor with the evil eyes. “Poor woman!” muttered Jan, and absent-mindedly drank his ginger ale.

The boy was still there. “Where is Mrs. Goles now?” asked Jan.

The boy jerked his head. “Out there on the back stairs.”

Jan stood up. “Here!” He handed the boy a quarter. “A wonder a boy like you hangs out round here!”

“I run Mrs. Goles’s errands. I been runnin’ ’em since I was a kid. My mother used to work for her mother. She was a lady.”

Jan was heading for the side door, the door which led into the alley.

“Will I tell her you’re comin’ back, mister?”

“Tell who?”

“Why, that girl you was with.”

“Tell her nothing. Nor”-Jan nodded his head toward the pool-room-“him. Better go home. This is no place for a good boy like you.”

Jan went out by the alley; and from there, after peeking to see that nobody was looking out of the pool-room windows, he stepped quickly up the front steps of the house.

Cautiously he unlocked the door. He could hear voices, but not distinctly. Quietly he tiptoed toward the head of the back stairs. It was Mrs. Goles who was talking.

“Didn’t I warn you again and again never to bother him?” Jan heard.

“An’ why not?”

“Why? He’s a lodger-that’s why.”

“Is that why? Say, but ain’t you takin’ an awful sudden interest in yer lodgers though! Are yuh sure you don’t want him for yerself? Are yuh sure he ain’t something more than a lodger?”

“You-you-”

“Me-me! Yes, me. D’yuh think I ain’t been onto yuh? D’yuh think I ain’t seen any o’ that billy-dooin’-you an’ him upstairs in the entryway-huh? An’ d’yuh think Hen ain’t wise too? D’yuh think he gave me the top-floor room for nothin’-huh? Oh, yes; we’re a couple o’ come-ons-Hen an’ me-oh, yes! Run along now, Salomey-he’s there, waitin’ for me. D’yuh hear-waitin’ for me! They all fall when yuh play ’em right. All of ’em. Thought yuh had’m to yerself-huh? Well, guess different next time; for he’s out there waitin’ for me-the soft-headed Dutchman! Beat it! Beat it when yer gettin’ the worst of it. An’ talk any more about a policeman-an’ see what Hen says to it!”

Jan could hear Mrs. Goles ascending the stairs behind him. He hurried up, intending to get to his room and hide away before she knew, but it was the last key of the bunch which fitted the lock, and before he had the door opened she was up with him.

She turned the hall light up to see him better.

“Weren’t you downstairs in the back room a minute ago?” she asked at last.

“I was; but-” Jan reached up a heavy hand and rubbed his forehead. “I was-I know I was; but-” somehow he was feeling bewildered.

She drew nearer to him.

“Come nearer the light. Stand where the light will be on your face. Let me see your eyes. There-you can’t keep them open. Did you drink that second glass of ginger ale-after it was brought in all opened up? Never mind trying to speak-just bow your head. You did? Oh, you poor innocent boy! Here-go into your room. And wait there. I’ll be right back. Light the lamp if you can while you’re waiting.”

Jan managed to light the lamp.

She was soon back with a bowl of something hot which she held to Jan’s lips-a nasty-tasting stuff. While he stopped once to get his breath she stepped to the door, took the key from the outside and set it on the inside. She stepped to Jan’s side again. “Finish it!” she ordered. “Every drop. There-but sh-h!-hear’em?”

“Hear what, ma’am?”

“The footsteps-coming upstairs. Creeping up. Hear ’em?” She stepped to the light and blew it out. She stepped to the door and turned the key.

“Oh-h!” Jan had fallen backward on the bed and now was rolling from side to side. His stomach was griping him like a burning hand.

“Hold in for a minute if you can!” she whispered

Nausea uncontrollable, as it seemed to Jan, was taking hold of him when a knock came on the door. “Sh-h!” she warned, and Jan controlled himself. He wanted more than ever to vomit, but there came another knock on the door-and another. And then the knob was turned.

A silence then; and then a voice-a man’s voice: “I told you you were crazy. He felt dizzy and went out into the street for some fresh air. You shouldn’t ’ve left him once he got the stuff into him. Take a look round the block. He’s probably laying in the gutter somewhere with that load into him.”

The voice stopped, footsteps followed, the stairs creaked. And Jan’s tortured stomach was allowed its relief. And while he retched in the dark Mrs. Goles held his head and, soaking a towel in the water jar, bathed his forehead and face and neck, and kept wetting the towel and bathing his head with the cold water until at last, with a grateful sigh, Jan stood up and said:

“I think it’s all gone now.”

“That’s good. So I’ll be leaving you. And you-” They had been talking in whispers, but at this point her voice broke into a cough. When she spoke again her voice was husky and pitched in a higher key. “But you-listen! You must leave this house!”

“Why must I leave?”

“It’s no place for you.”

“And is it for you, ma’am?” he asked her.

“For me? No-nor for any woman. But I’m talking about you. To-morrow-don’t say a word to him downstairs-but to-morrow, when your week’s up, take your grip and walk out.”

“The day after to-morrow,” amended Jan. “Tomorrow’s Saturday and I has to be at the dry dock. But what will become of you?”

“There’ll nothing become of me-no more than before.”

“He will beat you?”

“Beat me! If he don’t any more than beat me!” Jan fancied she was smiling at him in the dark. “But I’d better go. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Jan. “And I’ll see you to-morrow to say good-by.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be about. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Jan again, and found himself standing at the door after it had opened and closed behind her.

“I wonder,” thought Jan, “if he will beat her!” And he stooped to lock the door. His hand was on the key, but he did not turn it. Who was that? Jan had keen hearing. He jammed his ear against the crack. It was the sound of breathing, heavy breathing, of breathing and tramping, and now-Jan had been listening for perhaps a minute-of suppressed voices.

Jan stepped back to the washstand and poured out a glass of water. He took it at a gulp. He had another. It was cold and bracing to his fevered stomach. He stepped to the door, cautiously turned the knob and slowly drew the door to him. He peeped out.

Under the hall light he saw them-she jammed back against the stair-rail and he with his hands at her throat. His back was to Jan.

“Where is it? Come-give up!” he was saying. Jan could not hear what she said; but the man took a fresh grip and shook her. “Don’t tell me anything like that! You gave in at last and got the money off him. Give it up!”

“I did not! I’m not that kind of a woman-not yet. I may be yet if you keep on-but I’m not yet. And he’s not that kind of a man.”

“You’re not? And he’s not? And you an hour in his room with the door locked! You got money off him! Give it to me!”

“N-no-no!”

“You lie, you-” He shifted his grip to her hair and started to drag her along the hall.

Jan stepped softly out, reached his arms round Goles’s shoulders, drew them tight against his own chest; and then, holding him safe with his elbows, he ran his fingers down until they felt the knuckles of the other’s hands. And then he squeezed. With thumb and forefinger of each hand he squeezed. Jan could pick up a keg of copper rivets with one thumb and forefinger and toss it across the deck of a ship. And now he squeezed. Goles hung on. Jan squeezed. The knuckles began to crack. “G-g-g-” snarled the other and loosed his grip.

Jan relaxed the grip of his thumb and forefinger, swung the man round, walked to the head of the stairs, raised his left knee, pressed it against the small of Goles’s back, shifted his right hand to behind the man’s shoulders and suddenly let knee and arm shoot out together. In one magnificent curve, and without touching a step on the way, Goles fetched up on the lower hall floor.

He stood up after a while and made as if to come back upstairs. As he did so Jan made as if to go down.

Goles glared up at him.

“So it is you!”

“Yes, it’s me,” said Jan. “Come!”

“Come? No! But you wait there, will you? Just wait there and see what happens to you! Wait!” And even as he called that last “Wait!” he was running for the back stairs.

Jan turned to her. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the stair-rail. Her knees were drawn up, and with elbows on knees she was supporting her head in her hands.

“Where is he gone to?” asked Jan.

“I don’t know-to get his revolver probably.”

Jan bent over to see her face. A great listlessness was all he could read there.

“Would he shoot? Did he ever shoot anybody?”

“Yes-two. But the police never found out. You’d better get out while there’s time.”

“And won’t he shoot you?”

She raised her head to look at him. “No,” she answered presently-“not just now. He will some day-that’s sure. He promised me that more than once, and he means it; but I don’t think he will to-night.”

“Then, if ever he meant it, he will to-night,” said Jan. “I don’t want to get shot; and I’m going. You better come too.” She shook her head. “Yes,” He put an arm under her shoulder. “Come.”

“No, no. I mustn’t.”

“But you must.” Jan put his other arm under her and lifted her to her feet; but yet she lay heavy, half-resisting. “Come,” said Jan. “I’ll take you out of here-to my mother.”

“Your mother?” she repeated, and straightened up; but almost instantly fell back. “But we can’t now!” she whispered.

“Why?” whispered Jan.

“It’s too late. Hear him?” Jan heard steps on the landing below; and as he listened and looked the light in the hall below went out. “You can’t get out the front door in time now,” she said hopelessly.

“There’s more ways than front doors to get out of a house. And there’s lights to put out up here too.” He reached up and turned down the lamp-wick, then blew out the flame. “Come,” he whispered, and led her into his room and locked the door.

He groped for the bed, tore off the sheets, twisted them tightly and knotted them together. “There!” he said, and, taking a turn of it under her arms, let her down from the window into the alley. Then he swept into his suit-case a few things from the dresser and snapped it, and dropped it out the window.

He was about to fasten one end of the twisted sheets about the bedpost, to let himself down; but hearing the door-knob slowly turning he did not finish the job. He dropped the sheet, lowered himself by his hands from the window-sill and let go. He landed without damage.

“Come,” he said, and led the way to the street. At the first corner he turned. At the next corner he turned. At the third corner a cab was in sight. He helped her in.

“Do you know,” Jan whispered to her, “a good hotel I could tell him to drive to?”

“With me looking as I am? Why, no. Tell him any hotel we can get into.”

Jan addressed the cabman.

“I want”-he said it very distinctly, so that there could be no mistake-“a good hotel to take a lady to.”

“A lady? An’ a good hotel? Sure thing. Jump in.”

Jan got in and sat opposite to her. She was restoring order to her hair.

“Did the cabby laugh?” she asked.

“No. Why should he?”

“Why?” Jan saw that she was staring at him. Suddenly her stare was transformed to a soft smile. “Oh-h-sometimes these cabbies think they’re funny.”

Presently the cab stopped. Jan looked out. It was a hotel, with a wide door and a narrow one. The narrow door was marked “Ladies’ Entrance,” and through the transom a red light shone.

“Wait,” said Jan.

He went through the wide door to the desk. “I want a room for a lady,” he said to the clerk.

“Lady? Sure. Four dollars.”

Jan paid the four dollars and registered. The clerk touched a bell. A boy bobbed up.

“I will bring her in by the ladies’ entrance,” said Jan; but in passing out to the street he caught a glimpse of a room across the hall-a room with tables, and men and women at the tables, and drinks on the tables. He halted for a longer look and went out to the cab finally with a troubled look.

“There’s a room for you, but”-he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair-“I don’t think you ought to stay here.” He had put his head inside the cab and was speaking low, so that the cabman should not hear. “I don’t think it’s a nice place for a lady.”

“But”-she almost smiled-“I’m afraid we’ll have to put up with it. Look!” She spread wide her rumpled skirt. Her eyes rolled down to indicate her torn bodice. With her fingertips she touched the bruises on her face and the marks on her neck. “And I haven’t even a hat on,” she concluded with an undoubted smile.

Jan gave in. He paid the cabman, and led her through the ladies’ entrance to where the bell-boy was waiting. The boy led the way upstairs, opened a door and turned on the light.

“You wait out in the hall,” Jan said to the bell-boy. “The lady may want hot water and things to clean up. You know? The lady”-Jan tapped the boy on the shoulder-“fell out of a buggy and lost her hat.” He handed the boy a dollar bill. “You understand now?”

The boy tucked the bill away. “I’m wise! I’m wise!” He winked at Jan and left the room.

Jan turned to her. “I’ll have a few things sent up in the morning.”

She was standing straight and motionless in the middle of the room.

“You’re good,” she said, but without looking at him.

“And-oh, my mother! I most forgot her. She lives in Port Rock. To-morrow night I’ll put you aboard the boat for Port Rock. And I won’t be able to see you till then.”

“Not till to-morrow night?”

“I has to be at the dry dock early in the morning or they can’t start work. Good-night.” He was holding his hat very stiffly in one hand. The other hand he extended to her.

“Good-night,” the woman said, and took his hand and clung to it. Suddenly she lifted it to her lips and sobbed.

A woman crying and kissing his hand, and all done so suddenly he couldn’t stop it-Jan was shocked at himself. “Sh-h!” said Jan. “Sh-h! You mustn’t.”

“I will. You’re the first man ever came to the house who didn’t look at me as if I was a streetwalker. And he tried his best to make me one. And I fought him-and fought him; but not a soul to help me. And a woman can’t hold out forever. I’d ‘a’ killed myself, but I was afraid to die that way. I was beginning to weaken when you came. And if you had been the wrong kind of a man-”

“Sh-h! Don’t say things like that.”

“But it’s so. And you helped me to get over it. Before I was married I used to dream of a man like you. But what chance had I in the dance-halls along the water-front and my people dead? And he was a dance-hall hero, the kind girls used to write notes to. I was never as bad as that-believe me I wasn’t,-but I married him just the same-at seventeen, and what does a girl know of life at seventeen? And him! Almost on my wedding-day he began to abuse me.”

“No, no!”

“It’s true. And when you told me you’d take me to your mother-that was the first message I’d got in five years from a man except what was meant for my harm. But a good mother-I’ll tell her so she’ll understand.”

“She’ll understand without you telling her. She’s brought up a dozen of us and has grand-children-lots of ’em. Sunday morning you’ll be in my mother’s house in Port Rock.”

She stooped to kiss his hand again.

“Here! Here-you mustn’t!”

“I will-I will! And there! And there! And now good-night.”

“Good-night,” mumbled Jan. He hurried out of the room and all but fell over the bell-boy in the hall. “What you hanging round for?” Jan almost hissed. “Go below.”

The bell-boy hurried downstairs and “Say, but that’s a new kind of an elopement for this shack!” he exploded to the clerk, and repeated what he had heard.

The clerk took a look at the register and read: “’Mrs. H.G. Goles, City.’ Now I didn’t notice that before. ‘Mrs. Goles’ he registered, and not himself. Goles? I wonder if that’s Hen’s woman? Well, if it is he’ll get his good and plenty before Hen’s done with him.”

“Yes, and the police’ll get Hen. And, say, that Swede ain’t such a gink when yuh get a second look at him.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a second look at him; but the way he pulled out that wad-I charged him four bucks for a dollar-’n’-a-half room. And-”

“S-st!” warned the boy.

It was Jan re-entering the office.

“What’s wrong?” demanded the clerk.

“Paper and envelope, please,” said Jan.

“Oh!” The clerk looked relieved and passed them over. Jan took out a carpenter’s thick-leaded pencil and wrote on the sheet of paper: “You must buy some things for the trip on the boat.” He looked at the clerk and then at the boy, and went out into the hall, folded one ten-dollar bill and two twenty-dollar bills inside the sheet, sealed and addressed the envelope, and brought it in to the boy.

“You take this up to the lady. Give it to her and hurry away before she can open it. And if you are back in two minutes-”

The boy was back in less time. Jan gave him half a dollar and passed out into the street.

THE PORT ROCK BOAT

The Port Rock boat was due to leave her dock. The first mate made his way to the upper deck. He found his captain in the pilot-house, studying the barometer.

“Freight all aboard, sir.”

“All right,” nodded the captain; “but did you hear about the storm flags being up?”

“So I heard, sir.”

“M-m! Close that door. It’s cold.” The mate closed the door; but almost immediately the captain raised a window and gazed down the harbor. “It looks bad to me,” he said after a while.

“It is a bad-looking night,” assented the mate.

“A wicked night!” barked the captain; and gathering one end of his moustache between his teeth, began to chew on it.

The mate pursed his lips. “What will I do, sir?”

The captain stopped chewing his moustache. “It all comes down to dollars and cents. Use our judgment and stay tied up to the dock here and it’s go hunt another berth. Do you want to hunt another job?”

“Not me. I got a family to look after.”

“N’ me. We’ll put out.”

“All right, sir.” The mate descended to the wharf. “In with that freight runway and plank!” he called out to the waiting longshoremen. “And you”-a colored steward was at his elbow-“tell ’em all aboard on the dock and all ashore on the boat that’s goin’ ashore.”

The steward voiced the mate’s instructions; the last passenger came aboard and the last friend went ashore. The gangplank was hauled in, the lines cast off and the Port Rock steamer slid out from her slip.

She was well down the harbor before Jan took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Number two hundred and seventy-six,” he read. “That’s it-two hundred and seventy-six.” And seeking out the number he knocked on the door. It opened slightly and Jan saw peeking out at him the lips, chin and half an eye each side of the nose of a pretty and well-dressed girl. Jan looked up at the number over the door again to see if he had made a mistake. Then the door opened more widely-and it was she, smiling out at him; but so rosy and terribly pretty that Jan felt afraid and drew back.

“I thought maybe you would like to get out for some fresh air soon,” he stammered.

“I was just trying on the new hat I bought with the money you sent up last night-and a shirtwaist and a lovely long coat. How did you get through the night?”

“Fine! I went over to the dry dock and turned into a bunk on the schooner.”

She made a mouth at the mirror. “That was no place to sleep. You should have taken a comfortable room at the hotel.”

Jan was silent.

“Yes, you should. I’ll be right out.”

She came out, but with her face veiled, and clung close to him as they walked the deck. Jan sniffed the air.

“Snow, I think,” he said.

“Meaning a storm? I was never in a storm. Are they terrible?”

“A storm is nothing,” said Jan, “when you get used to them. But will we go in to supper?”

They went in. The boat was now outside the harbor and pitching slightly.

She did not eat much and at length laid down her knife and fork.”

“Sea-sick?” asked Jan.

“No. I must be too frightened to be sea-sick.”

“Frightened of what?”

“Of him.” She leaned across the table. “I’m sure I saw him. Yes-spying through the window of my room just before I left it just now.”

Jan tranquilly went on eating. “He can’t hurt you aboard a boat.”

“I don’t mind that, so he won’t hurt you.”

Jan shook his head. “He won’t because he can’t on here without getting caught.”

They stepped outside at last. Cozy enough in the dining-room; but outside the snow was now thick enough to show white on deck where the passengers had not tramped it down. They sought the open space in the bow-Jan to see how it looked ahead and Mrs. Goles to feel the fresh gale blowing in her face.

“It’s a north-east snow-storm,” said Jan, “and coming thicker. But no danger. No-no danger,” he repeated quickly, with a glance at her.

“It’s not danger of a storm I fear,” she said simply. She was peering, not ahead at the darkening, rising sea but at the form and face of every muffled-up passenger who came near them.

Not many passengers were venturing onto the open deck; and those who did were wrapped high and close, with hardly more than their eyes showing out. “If he comes on us he will come like that-coat collar to his ears and hat over his eyes,” she thought as one after another so wrapped appeared and passed; and almost with the thought, catching sight of a lurking man’s figure in the passageway between the paddle-box and the outside row of state-rooms, she added aloud: “Let us go up on the top deck.”

“It will be pretty cold and rough for you up there,” suggested Jan.

“Never mind; let us go there.” A man could not very well hide on the more open top deck, was what she had in mind.

They could hardly keep their feet on the top deck. An officer in passing warned them sharply to be careful. She looked after him scornfully. “As if you weren’t more at home on the sea than any of them!” she said proudly.

The wind on the top deck was blowing a gale. The snow was pouring down. Another officer bumped into them. “This is no place for passengers!” he yelled. “Better go below and inside the house!” And he hurried on.

“Excited, ain’t he?” said Jan. “But maybe we better go below too. But let’s go round by the lee side-this way.”

In passing the pilot-house a window above them was thrown open and a man’s face thrust through, and a man’s voice said:

“We’ll never make Port Rock to-night, not against this gale and snow. And no use trying to see anything ahead.”

Jan peered up through the dark and the snow to see who it might be. Against the light in the pilot-house he could distinguish the head and shoulders of the captain.

“Then we’d better put in somewhere for the night, hadn’t we?” Jan knew that for the mate’s voice.

“Put in where?”

“I don’t know-Gloucester, maybe?”

“Gloucester? And how does Gloucester bear now?-tell me that. And how does any port bear now?-tell me that, too. Suppose we did know, would you try to take her into Gloucester harbor on a night like this? Gloucester!”

“Sh-h! There’s something,” said the other voice.

The voices were hushed. Two long moans came over the sea.

“Wait for them again. And time ’em.” The captain’s voice that.

Mrs. Goles stepped closer to Jan. “Does it mean there’s danger to the ship?” she asked in a low voice in Jan’s ear.

“No, no. But listen!”

One long moan and one short moan came fitfully over the sea.

“Thatcher’s Island steam-whistle,” said the captain’s voice. “An’ bearing so.” So thick was the night with snow that Jan had to strain his sight to make out the mittened hand and coatsleeve stretching out through the window over his head.

Jan felt the wind whipping him on the other side, and with that there came from the pilot-house: “Well, if that ain’t the devil’s own luck! Here’s the wind makin’ into the north-west and the chief whistlin’ up half-steam’s all he can keep on her!”

“Ain’t it always something wrong! I told ’em about them boilers-that they been leakin’ right along. What will we do?”

“Only one thing to do now. Run her before it. Besides, she’ll be blown offshore soon now. Run her across the bay. South-south-east. She ought to fetch Provincetown.”

“Yes, sir. But when we get out from under the lee of the land what’ll happen?”

“I don’t know; but I do know what’ll happen to her bumpin’ over the rocks of this shore on a night like this!”

Jan touched Mrs. Goles’s arm. “We better go below now, I think. And you better go to your room and wrap up in any warm clothes you have-two pairs of stockings, if you have them, and things like that. To be ready for accidents, you know. And wait for me in the saloon.”

“So there is danger?”

“You must not be thinking of that; but it is foolish not to be ready for accidents. And while you are dressing up I will take a look round.”

“Oh, suppose he is aboard! Won’t you watch out for him?”

“It’s him has to watch out for me on a night like this,” said Jan-“and maybe watch out for more than me.”

Jan went to his room and put on his extra suit of underwear, and over his vest he drew his sweater. From his suit-case he took his mother’s photograph and tucked it in his inside pocket. Then he went up again to the top deck and located a life-raft-made the rounds of the boat-deck and located the life-boats.

It was time now to study the storm. The snow was not so thick, but the sea was making and the wind colder and stronger. A gale from the northwest it would be when they were out in the open bay; and, besides the wind getting stronger the sea would be higher. And it was as high now as was good for this old-fashioned side-wheeler with her old-time single engine.

Jan shook his head and, still shaking his head, once more made the rounds of the boat-deck. Eight boats; and each boat might hold twenty-five people-that is, if it was in a mill-pond. But a night like this-how many-even if the running gear were sound? “No, no,” said Jan to himself, and reinspected the lone life-raft on the top deck. Two cigar-shaped steel air-cylinders with a thin connecting deck was the life-raft. Jan had seen better ones; but a raft, at least, would not capsize.

He descended to the main deck, to where, in the gangway between house and rail, he could find a little quiet and think things over. While there, amidships, a sea swept up under the paddle-wheel casing. It boomed like a gun. With it went some crackling. Again a booming-again a crackling. The boat broached to. Sea-water was running the length of her deck.

From out of the snow and night another sea came; and this one came straight aboard, roaring as it came. Jan knew what it meant-there is always the first sea by itself. Not long now before there would be another.

And not long before there was another.

And soon there would be a hundred of them, one racing after the other. And a thousand more of them-only this rust-eaten hull, with her scrollwork topsides, would not hold together long enough to see a thousand of them.

Jan tried to figure out how far they were from the Cape Cod shore. Ten, fifteen, twenty miles. Call it twenty. Jan doubted if she would live to get there, even with the gale behind her.

He walked round the house to look into the lighted saloon. She was there-the poor girl-sitting patiently by herself. Long before this the orchestra had given up playing and only a dozen passengers or so were there; but she was the only lone one-in a red plush chair under a cluster of wall-lights. Besides the passengers, there was one steward and a colored maid, both staring together through the lighted window.

Jan’s feet were wet. He went down to the bar, where he called for a drink of ginger ale and a pint flask of brandy. “Of your best,” he added.

Leaning against the bar he listened to the loungers there. Four of them were at a table under a window which looked out on the open deck. One was struggling in a loud voice with what should have been a funny story. His companions neglected no chance to laugh, but after each laugh they hastily sipped their drinks. At intervals the wind would shriek and at each shriek they would look past each other with exaggerated calmness; but when the sea pounded the hull, and the spray splashed thickly against the window over their heads, they would look up at the window or across at the door. And when the boat would roll down and, rolling, threaten to dump them all on the floor, they would grab the table and yell “Whoa!” or “Wait a second!” with just a suggestion of hysteria in their throats; and somebody would call out, “Go on with the story, Joe!” and the story-teller would hasten to resume.

Jan turned to the bartender, who was filling waiting stewards’ hurried orders calmly if not impassively. After every heavy sea he would stop pouring or mixing to glance with unaffected interest at the beams above him or the door opening onto the deck. He was an undersized man with lean, pale cheeks, a hard chin, and a bright, cold eye. Once he looked fairly at Jan and Jan looked fairly at him. It was like an introduction.

“You a sea-going man?” he asked.

“I used to go to sea,” admitted Jan.

“I thought so. But those there,”-he lowered his voice and leaned across the bar to Jan,-“they don’t know whether this is a real bad gale or just the reg’lar thing. One of ’em says a while ago: ’This is the kind of weather I like!’ I bet it’s his first trip. But most of the passengers, the stewards tell me, are turned in, trying to forget it.”

“Better for ’em,” said Jan.

“Maybe so, too; but what do you think of it?”

Jan shook his head. “I will be glad when morning comes.”

“Same here. I’ve seen it as bad as this a couple of times before.” He picked up Jan’s bill. “But this old shoe box ain’t getting any younger. Here’s your brandy. It’s good stuff-don’t be afraid of it. Seventy-five and fifteen-ninety.”

“Have a cigar,” said Jan, “and finish the dollar.”

“Thanks. I will. But I’ll smoke it later, when it’s quieter, if it’s all the same to you.” He rang up a dollar on the cash register and turned to a new-comer who had ranged up beside Jan.

“Brandy,” said the new-comer.

As Jan thrust his flask in his inside coat-pocket he flashed a sidewise glance at the man drinking. The man was buttoned up to his eyes, but Jan thought he knew the voice. Jan buttoned up his own coat, said “Good-night” to the bartender and went out on deck, from where, through the window, he could view the customer at the bar.

Jan saw him empty his glass and motion for another drink. He drank that, paid, and turned to go. Jan caught a front glimpse of his face. It was Goles. Jan also saw that the bartender was looking curiously after him.

Jan waited for him outside. As he came almost abreast, the ship heaved and the two men fell against each other, while a great splash of sea-water drenched them. Again a roll and jump, and Goles would have fallen had not Jan held him upright. Goles gave him no thanks, but he said huskily: “I heard one of the sailors say she’s a goner.” With Jan holding on to Goles, the two men were swaying and stumbling to the boat’s heavy rolling and heaving.

“I don’t know about that,” said Jan; “but she’s in a bad way. And it’s going to be worse, I think.”

“That’s what the sailor said,” muttered Goles.

“So if you want to shoot anybody you better wait till we’re safe-to-morrow maybe. And your wife-But watch out!”

The sea washed fairly over them both. With the wave went a broken rail and part of the splintered house. Following the crashing of the wood and glass came the frightened questions and the patter of excited people running out of their rooms. The story-telling group from the barroom came as one man. The glass of the window over their heads had been showered on to their table. The bartender stopped only to empty his cash register, stuff the money in his pocket, and get into a great coat; then he came running out too. Bottles and glasses were breaking behind him as he ran.

“Come,” said Jan. Goles followed. Jan went up and looked into the saloon. There she was, still waiting. “You stay here and I will bring her out,” said Jan to Goles-“and don’t you open your mouth when you see her.”

Goles made no sign. He was gripping the house railing and his face was to the sea.

“Thank God for the sight of you!” she said to Jan as he came in. “Is the ship going down?”

“Not yet. But your husband is outside. He won’t say anything. Don’t you either. And when-Hold hard!”

The deck bounded up under them. She gripped Jan’s coat and Jan gripped a chair that was screwed to the floor; and then the deck rolled far down and Jan’s chair came loose, and both were thrown across the saloon. “She is breaking up!” thought Jan. A moment later it seemed to Jan as if all the passengers in the ship had suddenly awakened and were trying to crowd into the place. A ship’s officer and some stewards also came running in. The stewards had life-preservers, which they were buckling on to themselves. They remained; but the officer, after a look around, ran out again.

The boat rolled back on her keel. Jan led Mrs. Goles to the outer deck. Goles was there. “Come!” ordered Jan, and led the way to an iron ladder. The boat rolled far to one side and again far to the other. Mrs. Goles felt as if she were clinging to the tail of a kite, but still she clung to Jan; and Jan at last made the upper deck with her. He had forgotten her husband; but when he turned to look back the muffled form was there at his heels.

Jan groped his way to where the life-raft was lashed to the deck. He ordered Mrs. Goles to sit down on the raft. Goles sat down beside her. Goles seemed bereft of all volition.

“You wait here till I come back,” Jan said to him and turning to go below, bumped into another man.

“Hello! Is this you?” said the other man. “I thought I saw you come up here. ‘And there’s the man,’ I says to myself, ‘to tie to to-night!’”

Jan recognized the bartender. “You’re just the man I want, too,” said Jan. He dove into his pocket and drew out a revolver. “Here, take this.”

“A gun!”

“Yes-and loaded. Watch that man on the raft. And if he tries to hurt that woman or not let her on that raft if the boat goes down, shoot him!”

“You mean it?”

“Yes. He’s bad! He’s the man who was drinking in your place a few minutes ago-after me.”

“Oh, him! Yes; he’s bad, all right. He’s been drinking raw brandy since seven o’clock. I was noticin’ him.”

“Don’t shoot him unless you have to. And don’t let him see me passing it to you. I’m going to get a few more people up to the raft.”

“All right-but-Wow! I never shot a man in my life.”

Jan had hardly reached the saloon when the great crash came. He was swept away before it. Boom! it was-and again, crash! Now he heard the smothered appeals of people being swept overboard! Crackling wood was following the crash of every sea, and each sea receded only to let the next one strike even more heavily. It was now nothing but solid water that was coming aboard.

Her buoyancy had left her. Her roll had become a wallow. She was settling. “The water’s in her hold!” thought Jan, and took a quick look about. All kinds and all ages-but there was one girl with an expression on her face that startled him.

In fine but sodden clothes she was sitting, heedless of every person but the young man standing dumbly beside her. “And I told them I was going to stay with a girl friend out of town over Sunday,” she was saying. “And now they’ll know. Whether we’re drowned or not they’ll know. Everybody will know and what will they say?”

Near the girl were a young man and a woman locked in each other’s arms. Jan judged them to be a bridal couple. They were saying nothing-just holding each other and waiting. He hesitated an instant and then he saw a woman with a baby. She was leaning heavily against a stanchion crooning to the baby. He now saw that she was almost a middle-aged woman, a poorly dressed and toil-worn woman-a Finnish woman probably. Jan’s doubt was gone. He jumped to her side. “Want to save your baby?” The woman looked up at him and down at the baby. “Baby!” she said, and held it toward Jan. “Yes, save baby,” she said. “Come!” said Jan, and grasped her hand. Then the lights went out.

Jan had marked the ladder in his mind, and in the dark he made his way toward it; but before he could get to it there were many adventures. He went floundering this way and that, but holding the baby in one arm and dragging the mother with the other, he held on until he bumped into a stanchion in the dark. “It’s near here,” he thought; and, reaching out with his feet, he found the bottom step of the ladder.

He had two decks to surmount. On the boat-deck, as he passed up, he could hear the ship’s men shouting wildly and foolishly to each other. On the top deck he found the three just as he had left them. He gave the woman and baby into the care of the bartender and felt about until he found a coil of rope. He cut it loose and, carrying it back to the raft, lashed Mrs. Goles to a ring. Then, taking off his ulster, he wrapped it round the mother and baby, and lashed her. Then he lashed the bartender and Goles, and took a loose turn about a ring for himself. Then he waited.

It came soon enough. A large section of the top deck floated clear of the upper works. Jan stayed by the floating deck until he felt that the steamer was surely sunk beneath them. Then he cut the raft clear of everything and let her drift.

The raft was swirled from wave to wave. The spray broke over them. “We’ll get wet,” said Jan; “but one thing-she won’t capsize!”

The seas curled and boomed about them; but no solid seas rolled over them. The raft mounted every roaring white crest as if it were swinging from an aeroplane. The spray never failed to drench them and with every heaving sea came bits of wreckage that threatened them; but at least they were living, and not a living soul besides themselves had come away.

THE RAFT

The clouds raced low above them; but by and by the clouds passed away and clear and cold shone a moon on a terrifying sea. And so for hours-until the moon had gone and the struggling daylight revealed a surf breaking high on a sandy shore. They could not land there; so Jan took the long oar and wielded it over one end of the raft and held her parallel to the beach until he descried a point reaching out into the bay. On the other side of that point would be a lee and safety; but he said nothing of that to his companions yet.

In the middle of the raft lay Goles, huddled and silent as ever. Mrs. Goles, at the farther end of the raft, was mostly watching Jan as he heaved on the oar; but sometimes she seemed to be studying her husband. The Finn woman, nearest to Jan, was hugging her baby to her under Jan’s great coat. She, too, when she was not watching her baby, was looking at Jan. The bartender, between Jan and Goles, was looking out for marks ashore.

The bartender was also thinking that the two other men were about the same age, and yet the man in the middle of the raft, when he let his face be seen, looked the older by ten years. All night long he had not spoken and he seldom raised his head-when he did it was to gaze at the land. He seemed to be taking but small notice of anybody. Toward the bartender, who was behind him, he had not once turned his head.

Jan worked on the long oar. The point of land was coming nearer. “A hard drag yet; but we’ll be there by sunrise!” said Jan in a low voice to the bartender; at which Goles looked round suddenly-but said nothing.

At last they were under the lee of the point. The sea was beautifully smooth. Jan stopped sculling and went forward to Mrs. Goles. “The tide has her,” he said. “Soon she will be in and we will all be safe!” She looked back at her husband.

The bartender stood up and shouted aloud. “Safe-hah! Say, but ain’t it like looking at something in a moving picture though?” He stuck a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out Jan’s revolver. He stared at it; then, with a low whistle and a glance at Goles’s back, he returned it to his pocket. Only the Finn woman had seen the action.

The bartender shoved a hand into his trousers pocket. He pulled out a handful of bills and silver. “Well, what do you know? And I came near putting that into the safe last night!” He unbuttoned his coat and from his vest pocket he pulled out a cigar. “Well, what do you know?” He next drew out a metallic match-case. “Well, well-dry too!” He lit his cigar, took three or four puffs, contentedly sat down, and began smoothing out and counting the damp bills. “Well, well!-forty-five, fifty-five, sixty, seventy-the only time in my life I ever beat a cash register! Seventy-two-four-and on a good night there’d a been three times the business-eight-four-six-eight. Eighty-eight dollars.”

Goles looked over his shoulder at the bartender. He wet his lips and stood up. After a time he threw off his overcoat. “How about a drink from that flask?” he asked suddenly.

Jan, without looking around, drew the flask from his pocket and handed it to him. He had already given the two men a drink each-and the Finn woman and Mrs. Goles two swallows of it during the night; and almost half the brandy was now gone. Goles put the flask to his lips. The bartender stopped counting his silver to watch him; and, seeing it go, he called out: “Say there, Bill, just leave a taste of that, will you?” Goles drank it to the last drop. When he had finished he threw the empty flask overboard. “Well, if you ain’t one fine gentleman!” exploded the bartender.

Goles paid no attention to him. “How long before we’ll be ashore now?” he asked.

“Only a few minutes now,” said Jan. He was still standing with his back to Goles.

“A few minutes?” repeated Goles. At the words his wife turned sharply. Husband and wife stared at each other.

“There’s the sun coming over the sand-hill now,” said Jan. She turned to look shoreward.

The bartender, counting and chuckling over his money, felt a hand shaking the tip of his sleeve. It was the Finn woman. She pointed a finger toward Goles. The bartender saw Goles’s hand come out of his bosom with a revolver.

“So long as we’re safe,” said Goles slowly, “you’re going to get yours-and get it now, you-”

Jan was looking at the shore, but Mrs. Goles had turned with the first word and thrown herself toward Goles as he fired. Mrs. Goles fell before the bullet. “I was going to get her anyway,” said Goles evenly, and leveled his revolver at Jan, who had jumped to save her from falling overboard and was now holding her away from Goles.

“I got you where there’s no comeback!” gritted Goles, and took careful aim at Jan!-but did not fire. He felt a ring of cold metal pressed against his neck and half turned to see what it was. “Don’t shoot! Don’t!” he begged.

“You-” The word the bartender gritted out could not be heard, because he pulled the trigger as he said it.

Goles sagged down until his knees rested on the deck. Then he fell forward and over the side of the raft. There was the gentlest of splashes, a patch of red-a cluster of bubbles which burst like sighs.

“Well!” said the bartender, and held up the revolver in wonder. “I never thought I’d live to kill a man!” He looked to see how the others had taken it, but they were paying no attention to him. He saw Jan holding the baby and trying to hush its little cries for its mother, while the baby’s mother was pressing the tips of her fingers gently against the upper part of the injured woman’s right breast.

“You mustn’t die! You mustn’t die!” Jan said when the baby would let him.

“I don’t want to die-not now!” she answered.

The Finn woman looked up and smiled at Jan. “Not die. No, no-not die.”

The raft grounded gently on the beach. Jan took the wounded girl and set out for the top of the sand-hill with her. The bartender took the baby and toiled behind with its mother.

“Say,” said the bartender, “you’re all right! How many more children to home?”

“Home?” She held up seven fingers. “And him,” pointing to the baby.

“Great Stork! Here!” He set down the baby, drew out the bar-money and offered it to her. “When a ship goes down, I heard a sea-lawyer say once, all debts go with her. And that must mean all credits go too. Anyhow we’ll make it so now. Here-for you.”

“Me? No, no. I have husband. Fine job-dollar-half day.”

“Dollar an’ a half! It’s too much for the father of eight children for one day! But this-see. For baby. And the Lord knows a baby who came through last night and never a yip out of him, he oughter get a million. Here-put in bank-for baby.”

“Ah-h! For baby. Tenk you.” She beamed and took the money. “You brave man! Him”-pointing to Jan’s back-“brave man too.”

“Him, brave-yes. But me? No, no. Me scared blue. He’d ‘a’ shot me next only I beat him to it.”

“Kill baby too.” She kissed the baby.

The sun was well up when they reached the top of the hill-a pale, frightened-looking sun, but nevertheless a sun. The bartender took off his cap and saluted it gravely. Below them lay the town.

“We’ll go down there,” said Jan to Mrs. Goles, “and from there, when you’re well, we’ll go home-to my mother. But,” he added gravely, “we will go by train.”

She smiled weakly at him. “I could go without a train-on my hands and knees I could crawl to the mother of you! You don’t know it, but when I was growing up it was a man like you I always used to dream about. And I’m not sure I’m not dreaming now!”

“Don’t worry,” said the bartender. “We’re all awake-and alive. And you bet it’s great to be alive again! Ain’t it,”-he turned to the Finn woman,-“you mother of eight?”

The Finn woman made no answer. She was nursing her baby.