They were all seated now, the captain as near the door as possible, that he might beat a hasty retreat should the situation become too embarra.s.sing. He breathed more freely when music was mentioned.

"Let's have something lively, John," he suggested. "I haven't heard a real break-down fer a long time. Give us 'We won't go home 'til mornin',' or something like that."

"Sam'l, Sam'l," his wife protested. "I'm surprised at you. With so many terrible things happening around us, we should have hymns instead of songs. I'd like to have 'Oh, Day of Wrath, that Dreadful Day.'

That's far more appropriate."

"Ugh!" the captain grunted. "That hymn 'ud give anyone the blues.

What's the use of dyin' before yer time? But if ye want to sing hymns, let's start off with 'Here I'll Raise my Ebenezer.' It's a dandy, an'

about the only one I know. But fer pity sakes, cut out the 'Day of Wrath.' I know too much about that already. Sometimes we have the night of wrath as well as the day at our house, eh, Martha?"

Everybody in the room smiled except Mrs. Tobin. She was deeply offended, and her wrath was about to descend when a distant roll of thunder startled her. The captain chuckled as he saw its effect upon his wife. He knew how a thunder storm always frightened her. In fact, it was about the only thing of which she was afraid.

"Guess the Day of Wrath's comin', Martha, sooner than ye expected," he chuckled. "Thar it is agin, an' nearer this time."

Mrs. Hampton rose and closed the window. Just at that instant a vivid flash of lightning almost blinded her, followed immediately by a terrific crash which shook the house. Mrs. Tobin screamed and leaped from her chair.

"Oh, oh!" she moaned. "Isn't it awful! We'll all be killed!"

"Ah, keep still, Martha," the captain chided. "We're all right. It's mighty lucky we have sich a comfortable place as this. Now, if we were out on the river----"

He suddenly ceased, while an expression of consternation swept across his face. A peculiar gurgle escaped his lips as he seized his hat and sprang to his feet.

"The 'Eb an' Flo'!" he gasped. "I fergot all about her, an' the sail's up! That boy'll be asleep, an' won't hear the storm. Oh, Lord!"

The next minute he was out of the house, and hurrying as fast as he could toward the sh.o.r.e. He had gone but a short way when the rain struck him, and soon he was drenched to the skin. He could only direct his course by the flashes of lightning, and after each illumination the darkness was more intense than ever. As he neared the sh.o.r.e, he stopped and peered anxiously forward, and by the next vivid streak which followed a terrific crash, he caught one fleeting glimpse of the "Eb and Flo." She was still there, and her sail was down. He breathed a sigh of relief, and again started forward toward the small boat pulled upon the sh.o.r.e. He had taken but a few steps, however, when his foot caught and twisted upon a root, causing him to fall heavily forward full upon his face. With a cry of distress, he scrambled to his feet, and tried to stand, but so severe was the pain that he was forced to sink down again upon the ground. That he had wrenched his ankle, he was certain, and he groaned whenever he moved. But he must reach the "Eb and Flo," for the storm was increasing in violence, and he was sure that the boat could not hold up against such a tempest. He tried to crawl in his endeavour to reach the sh.o.r.e. The perspiration stood out in beads upon his forehead as he worked himself along, but so intense was the pain in his foot that ere long he was forced to give up in despair. And as he lay there he kept his eyes fixed in the direction of the river, catching brief glimpses of the "Eb and Flo" as she tugged hard at her anchor.

A more vivid gleam than formerly presently illuminated the river, and as the captain looked, he emitted a hoa.r.s.e cry. The boat was drifting!

She was farther from the sh.o.r.e he could plainly tell. Then blackness closed down once again, leaving the helpless man racked with the agony of suspense. The next flash revealed the boat farther away, with sail up, and to all appearance being driven full upon the opposite sh.o.r.e.

"Oh, Lord!" he groaned. "She's done fer now! An' it's high tide, too!

We'll never git her off them mud flats! How in time did Eben hist that sail in sich a storm? Why, it was all that both of us could do when it was calm."

The storm now was at its height, and so incessant was the lightning that the captain could see nothing more of the boat so dazzling was the illumination. The rain pelted upon him, and at times he groaned with pain.

"Guess I'll have to spend the night here," he muttered. "This is the worst fix I ever got into. Wish to goodness I could git some word to Martha. But she'll think I'm on board that boat by this time. I wonder what she'd say if she knew I was layin' here, helpless as a log.

But, then, it might be worse. I'm alive, me leg ain't broke, an' the lightnin' hasn't hit me. I've got much to be thankful fer yet, even though the 'Eb an' Flo' does go on the flats. Old Parson Westmore used to say that when things got black always count yer blessin's, an' ye'll be surprised to find how many ye really have left. So cheer up, Sam'l Tobin, it'll take more'n a thunder storm an' a sprained ankle to knock ye out, blamed if it won't."

Under the inspiration of this resolve, he began to hum his favourite tune. It made him feel better, and soon he was singing at the top of his voice:

"Here I'll raise my Ebenezer, Hither by Thy grace I'll come, And I trust in Thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home."

"My, them's great words!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, when he had finished.

"They've put new life into me already. Guess I'll sing 'em over agin.

There's nuthin' like a song in the night fer a sprained ankle."

As he lay there the storm gradually beat itself out, and rolled away in the distance. From where he was lying he could look up at his own house. Often he had turned his eyes in that direction, hoping to see a light in the window. But not the faintest gleam appeared to cheer his loneliness, so he knew that Martha and Flo must have remained at the Hamptons. No doubt they would go home when the storm ceased. After what seemed to him hours, he was rewarded by the sight of a light flickering among the trees. It was a lantern, he was certain, and he knew that John must be showing the visitors home. He watched it longingly as it neared the house. Could he make himself heard? Rising with difficulty to his knees, he lifted up his voice in several loud calls for help. Then he watched, while his heart beat fast within him.

Again he called, and the light suddenly stopped. This was encouraging, so with a great effort he gave one more mighty whoop, ere he sank back exhausted upon the ground.

CHAPTER XIX

THE CAPTAIN GIVES ADVICE

"I can't really tell ye how it happened, Martha."

The captain was lying on the sofa in the sitting-room, with his injured foot resting on a pillow. His wife had applied hot cloths to the ankle, and rubbed it well with liniment.

"You must have tripped on something, Sam'l, as you were running," she remarked. "It's a wonder you weren't killed. I hope to goodness you won't get cold. Why, you were soaked to the skin."

"An' I might have been struck with lightnin', Martha. Jist think of that."

"Indeed you might. Or you might have broken your leg."

"Or cracked me rib," the captain growled. "But I didn't, so what's the use of worryin' about things that didn't happen. I'm here, with nuthin' worse than a sprained ankle. You an' Flo had better go to bed.

I'm all right now. I want to stay right by this winder, so's I kin see the river as soon as it gits light enough. I'm anxious to know whar the 'Eb an' Flo' is aground. She must be hard on by this time. Wonder how Eben's makin' out."

"The poor boy must be greatly worried, Sam'l. Maybe he'll come home before morning."

"Mebbe he will, Martha. I never thought of that. But he'll not worry about the loss of the boat. Most likely he'll be glad, fer he doesn't take much to the water. I don't know what we're goin' to do with that boy."

"But what will you do without the boat, Sam'l? It's our only means of living, and with that gone we'll starve."

"Oh, I guess we'll pull through somehow. I'll git the boat afloat when her load's taken off, if she isn't too hard an' fast on them mud flats.

My, it was sartinly some gale last night! I've been boatin' on this river fer over twenty-five years, an' I never saw anything like it. I thought mebbe you an' Flo intended to stay at the Hamptons all night.

It was mighty lucky fer me, though, that ye didn't."

"Mrs. Hampton coaxed us to stay, but I wanted to get home. I had a peculiar feeling that something was the matter."

"An' didn't ye have a more peculiar feelin', Martha, when ye heard me yell? I imagined at first that ye didn't hear me."

"I really thought it was a dog howling, Sam'l. It was Flo who said it was a man calling for help. I then knew that it must be you. My, we had a job getting you to the house. We never could have done it if John hadn't been with us."

"It's a wonder he could leave his sweetheart long enough to come with ye, Martha. Did ye find out anything more about her?"

"Nothing. Mrs. Hampton banged on the piano, while John and the girl sang until my head ached. I believe they did it so I wouldn't ask any more questions. I really think there is something mysterious about Miss Bean. What was she doing at the quarry? How did she happen to get hurt? And how did John come to get so well acquainted with her?

Mark my word, I shall find out all about her."

Little sleep came to the captain that night, and the hours wore slowly away. He had insisted that his wife and daughter should go to bed.

Their presence annoyed him. He wanted to be alone that he might think, for he was more worried about the "Eb and Flo" than he would openly acknowledge. He was getting along in years, and boating was the only thing he could do to make enough to provide for his family. He could not afford to buy or build another craft for the season's work, not even a scow, so if the "Eb and Flo" could not be saved, he did not know what to do. His only hope lay in a heavy rain which would cause the river to rise enough to float the boat. That, however, was not a very bright outlook, for such a boon could hardly be expected during the summer. It was only in the fall when the heavy rains set in, and then it would be too late for much work. And besides, he would lose the carrying of the stones from the quarry. There was not much cordwood to be taken to the city, and most of the lumber from the mills was now being freighted in scows.

And thus he watched and waited, his anxious thoughts, and the pain in his foot driving all sleep from his eyes. Eagerly he listened to the clock as it ticked on the shelf across the room, and struck out the heavy-footed hours. Never did any night seem so long. Often he had sailed on the river from sunset to sunrise, and thought nothing of it.

He had something to occupy his attention then. But now he had nothing to do but lie there and wait.

When at last the first faint signs of dawn began to steal into the room, the captain lifted himself to a sitting position and looked out of the window. But nothing could he see, for the river still lay enwrapped in the shadows of the hills beyond. Impatiently he waited, and at length he was enabled to view quite clearly the water as it stretched out before him. Eagerly his eyes searched for the "Eb and Flo," but not a sign of her could he behold. Nothing but the flats on the other side of the river met his view. What did it all mean? he asked himself. Where was the boat? A mingled feeling of curiosity, hope and anxiety possessed him, and only with the greatest difficulty could he restrain his impatience until his wife came downstairs.

"She's gone, Martha!" he shouted, as soon as his wife entered the room.