An' then, skipper dear, Pat Kavanagh's girl Mary comes a-runnin' wid word as how d.i.c.k Lynch t'iefed a bottle o' rum from Pat himself and was brow-sprit under wid the glory of it an' fit to take a shot--except for the aim of him--at Saint Peter himself. She telled as how he'd shaped his course to the south'ard, with his gun on his shoulder, swearin' he'd blow the head off ye or never come home to Chance Along no more. So Nick an' me puts two an' two forninst each other an' figgered as how d.i.c.k would have ye if somethin' didn't happen to t'row out his plans."

"Ye bain't got the right o' it there, Bill," said Nick. "'Twas Mary telled us to follow after d.i.c.k Lynch. She'd gone herself, she said, but she'd heard o' it no more'n a minute ago from Pat, her bein' over to the skipper's house an' tryin' to cheer up the lady what come off the wrack!

'Save the skipper,' says Mary, the eyes o' her like lumps o' ice on the coast in June. 'Save him from the drunk dog wid the gun, even if it bes the death o' yerselves.' Aye, that bes what Mary Kavanagh said to us--an' here we bes, skipper."

"Mary bes a good girl," said the skipper. Then he laughed harshly and slapped Bill Brennen on the back.

"Me brains bes still in me head an' me hands on the ends o' me two arms," he exclaimed; "but what bes happenin' to d.i.c.k Lynch, I wonder? If ever he comes back--but he'll not dare! Aye, ye kin lay to that. He'd as soon jump into h.e.l.l wid the divil as come back now to Chance Along.

Maybe he'll be losin' himself like Foxey Jack Quinn went an' done wid himself. Aye, lads, fools kin tell as how me luck bes gone--but the saints themselves bes wid me, drivin' me enemies out o' Chance Along widout me so much as havin' to kill one o' them!"

"Sure, skipper, it looks that way, an' no mistake," said Bill Brennen.

"The saints be wid ye for the kind heart ye has for helpless women an'

childer, an' for yer love o' Father McQueen, an' for the work ye bes at to build the little church; but most of all, skipper, for the kind heart o' ye to every helpless woman an' child."

A scowl, or was it a shadow, crossed Black Dennis Nolan's face at that.

"Sure, a kind heart bes a grand t'ing," he said,--"and so bes sharp wits an' hard hands!"

They turned and went down the path. Mother Nolan met the skipper just inside the door, with the big wooden spoon from the stew-pot dripping in her hand. Her black eyes looked blacker and keener than usual as they met those of her grandson.

"So here ye be, safe back from Witless Bay," she said. "Ye didn't waste a minute, Denny."

"Sure I didn't," returned the skipper, quickly. "It beed fair weather an' fair goin' all the way an' one little letter bain't much o' a pack to tote. How be ye all, Granny? How bes the la.s.s from the wrack?"

"Grand altogether," said the old woman, returning to the stove and the pot of stew.

"Aye," said young Cormick, "she was singin' to-day fit to drag the heart o' ye out t'rough yer ears. Sure, Denny, if ye heard a fairy singin'

'twould sound no grander!"

"Aye, like a fairy," agreed the old woman, wagging her head. "I bain't wonderin' a mite at how she brought the salt tears a-hoppin' out o' the eyes o' the blessed Queen herself! An' she was that happy, Denny, a-t'inkin' o' how her letter to up-along was safe an' sure on its way, that didn't she have Pat Kavanagh down wid his fiddle, an' atween the two o' 'em they made the finest music was ever heard on this coast. Her heart bes fair set on up-along, Denny, an' on what she calls her career, meanin' songs an' glory an' money an' her name on the lips o' men."

The skipper was silent for a moment after that, staring at the floor. He raised his eyes to the old woman and found that she was gazing at him fixedly.

"Sure, an' why for not?" he said. "An' what bes she doin' now?"

"Sleepin'," replied Mother Nolan. "Sleepin' an' dreamin' o' up-along an'

all her grand friends."

A scowl darkened the skipper's eyes and brow, but he had no remark to make on the matter of the lady's dreams. He threw aside his outer coat, ate his supper, smoked his pipe, and at last retired to his bed. In the meantime, Nick Leary had taken word to Pat and Mary Kavanagh that the skipper was home in Chance Along, safe and sound, having missed d.i.c.k Lynch by shaping his course westward to spy out timber. Mary's face brightened at the news. Pat glanced at her, then nodded his tangled head toward Leary.

"The skipper bes still alive an' the letter bes gone on its way," he said. "So, come spring, they be takin' that singin' lady wid the eyes o'

magic away from Chance Along. Maybe they'll be comin' for her widout waitin' for spring? She bes a wonder at the singin', an' no mistake--the best I ever hear in all me v'yages into foreign ports. An' the looks o'

her! Holy saints, they bain't scarce human!"

Nick Leary grinned through his bandage.

"Aye, Pat, ye've got the discarnin' eye in yer head--ye an' the skipper," he said. "However the skipper kep' himself away from Chance Along for t'ree entire days, wid herself a-singin' an' a-flashin' her eyes right in his own house, bes a puzzle to me. Aye, sure it do, for didn't I see her put the spell o' women on to him the very first minute she opened her eyes at him on the fore-top o' the wrack."

"Leave the skipper be, Nick Leary," said Mary. "Never half a word would ye be sayin' if he could hear ye. Leave him an' his business be. He bes a good friend to ye--aye, an' to every soul in the harbor who don't cross him."

"Sure, Mary, I bain't meanin' naught," returned Nick. "Sure he bes a good friend to me!"

Pat Kavanagh smiled and took up his fiddle and his bow. His hands were still for a minute, and then the instrument began to sigh and trill. The sounds gathered in strength, soared high, then thinned and sank to no more than the whisper of a tune--and then Pat began to sing. This is part of what he sang:--

"Come all ye hardy fishermen An' harken to me song, O' how the mermaid from the wrack Come ash.o.r.e in Chance Along.

"Her eyes was like the sea in June, Her lips was like a rose, Her voice was like a fairy bell A-ringin' crost the snows.

"The Skipper he forgot the wrack, Forgot the waves a-rollin', For she had put the witchy spell On Skipper Dennis Nolan.

"Come all ye hardy fishermen An' larn from this me song, To turn yer eyes the other way To the girls from up-along."

"Yer songs get more foolish every day, father dear," said Mary.

"Sure, Pat, Mary bes right," said Leary. "Ye sings as if the girls in Chance Along hadn't so much as one eye in the heads o' the entire crew o' them. Now I bes t'inkin' as how there bes a girl in this harbor wid eyes an' lips----"

"Sure, Nick, yer thoughts bes no better nor father's songs," interrupted Mary.

CHAPTER XIII

BILL BRENNEN PREACHES LOYALTY

Black Dennis Nolan was permitted an interview with Miss Flora Lockhart in the afternoon following his return to Chance Along. The singer was sitting up in a chair by the fire, wrapped about in her own silk dressing-gown, which had been brought ash.o.r.e from the wreck, and in an eiderdown quilt. Her plentiful, soft, brown hair was arranged in a manner new to Chance Along, and stuck through with a wonderful comb of amber sh.e.l.l and gold, and a pin with a jewelled hilt. The ornaments for the hair had been supplied by Mother Nolan, who had possessed them for the past thirty years, hidden away in the bottom of a nunney-bag. Her own son, the late skipper, had salvaged them from a wreck. Flora had her own rings on her tapering fingers. There was color in her flawless cheeks, her wonderful eyes were bright and clear, and her lips were red.

She smiled at the skipper when Mother Nolan ushered him into the room.

"It was very, very kind of you to take my letter all the way to the post-office with your own hand," she said. Her bell-like voice was generous and sincere. "I wish I could reward you for all you have done for me, Mr. Nolan. But how can I--except in my heart? You are so rich and proud, I am afraid to offer you money." Here there was a playful note in her voice which the skipper detected. So she was making fun of his wealth and his pride. His dark face flushed with several disturbing emotions. To be addressed by the t.i.tle of "mister" added to his discomfort. There were no misters in Chance Along--or anywhere on the coast, except the Methodist preacher in Bay Bulls, away to the north. He was skipper--or just Denny Nolan. He was skipper of Chance Along--not a preacher and not the mate of a foreign-going ship.

"Sure, it bain't no great trip to Witless Bay an' back agin," he mumbled, staring at the girl in the big chair. The light that entered the room from the gray afternoon, by way of the small window, was more of a shadow than an illumination. The red fire in the wide chimney warmed a little of it, painted the low ceiling and touched the girl's eyes with a sunset tint. The skipper shuffled his feet on a rag mat and crumpled his cap between his big hands. He felt like a slave--aye, and something of a rogue--here in his own house. But he tried to brace himself with the thought that he was master of the situation.

"Please sit down and talk to me, Mr. Nolan," said Flora.

The skipper glanced around the room. Mother Nolan had gone, leaving the door ajar behind her. A small wooden stool stood near the fire, directly across it from Flora. The skipper advanced to the stool and sat down, the thumping of his heart sounding in his ears like the strokes of a sledgehammer on wood. For a moment the sight of his strong eyes was veiled by a mist--by an inner mist smoking up from the heat and commotion of his blood. When his sight cleared he saw the beautiful young woman regarding him with a slight smile on her red lips and in her wonderful eyes. There was inquiry in the smile--yes, and pity and amus.e.m.e.nt were in it, too. The young man felt short of breath and at the same time a choking sensation as of uncomfortable fulness of the lungs.

He stared across at her like one spellbound. The girl's glance wavered, but her smile deepened. A brief note of laughter, like a chime of gla.s.s bells, parted her lips.

"Dear me, you look very tragic," she said. "You look as if you saw a ghost."

The skipper started violently and turned his face to the fire. He laughed huskily, then got to his feet and looked down at her with the firelight red as blood in his black eyes. Suddenly he groaned, stooped and s.n.a.t.c.hed up one of her white, bejewelled hands. He pressed it pa.s.sionately to his lips, crushing the delicate fingers with his. For a second or two the singer was far too amazed and horrified to speak or act; then, recovering suddenly, she wrenched her hand free and struck him on the cheek. He flung his head back and stood straight. A short, thin, red line showed beneath his right eye where a diamond in one of her rings had scratched the skin.

"How dare you?" she cried, her voice trembling and her face colorless.

"Go away! You forget--who I am! You are a coward!"

The skipper did not flinch, his eyes did not waver. She was but a woman, after all, for all her talk of queens and fame. He had kissed her hand--and she had struck him. Well? He was rich. He would marry her--and she would soon learn to love him. He looked down at her with a smile on his lips and the light of mastery in his black eyes.

"Go away--you coward!" she cried. Then she hid her face in her hands and began to sob. Tears glinted between her fingers, beside the diamonds. At that moment Mother Nolan entered and clutched her grandson by the elbow.