"Yes, I mean that, and I mean more besides. He doesn't stop by being merely 'not good.' He is actively and busily downright bad."

"They's several kinds of 'bad,' Elsa Mallaby."

"Well, I mean the kind that makes a girl break her engagement and keep it broken, and that drives a man out of a decent village."

There was a long and pregnant pause while Ma Tanner got everything straight in her mind.

"You don't mean that he has--" she inquired, her little mouth a thin, hard line.

"Yes, I do. Exactly that. I knew the case myself in this very village before Jim died. There are some men who instinctively take the correct course in a matter of that kind; others who don't care two pins as long as they get out of it with a whole skin. Nat Burns was that kind."

"Then you mean he ought already to be married?"

"Yes, or in jail."

"Why isn't he?"

"It was entirely up to the girl and she refused to act."

"Gawd! My poor Nellie!"

The servant knocked, and, upon receiving permission to enter, handed Elsa a telegram, evidently just delivered from the village telegraph office. Unconsciously the girl reached into a gla.s.s-covered bookcase and drew forth a paper volume. Then she tore open the message and commenced to read it with the aid of the book.

Mrs. Tanner did not notice her. She sat staring into the future with a leaden heart. Such a thing as Elsa hinted at was unheard of in Freekirk Head, and she was overwhelmed. Suddenly she asked:

"Why do you hate Nat Burns so? You couldn't have told me that if you hadn't hated him."

Elsa looked up from her book impatiently, quite oblivious to the wound she had caused.

"Because I was very fond of that girl!" she said, and went back to the translation of the message. Suddenly she sprang to her feet with a little cry of dismay and rang the bell.

"Annette!" she cried. "Annette!" The maid rushed in, frightened, from the adjoining room.

"Tell Charles I am going to St. John's to-morrow, and to have the carriage at the door at half-past six. Pack my steamer trunk immediately. Great guns! Why isn't there a night boat?"

The maid flew out of the room, and Elsa, still doubtful, retranslated the message. Mrs. Tanner, taken aback by these sudden activities, rose hurriedly to go. This sudden flurry was inexplicable to her. Since the departure of the fleet Elsa had not as much as hinted leaving Freekirk Head. Now, in a moment, she was beside herself to go.

"I hope it isn't bad news, Elsa," she faltered.

"Well, it is, ma, it is, b-but only in a business way. A little trip will straighten it up, I think." And she was courteous but indefatigable in hastening the departure of her guest.

CHAPTER XXI

A PRISONER

When Code Schofield came to himself his first sensation was one of oppression, such as is felt after sleeping in an unventilated room. It seemed difficult for him to breathe, but his body was quite free and uninjured, as he found by moving himself carefully in all directions before he even opened his eyes.

Presently the air became familiar. It was a perfect mixture of flavors; oilskins, stale tobacco-smoke, brine, burned grease, tar, and, as a background, fish. His ears almost immediately detected water noises running close by, and he could feel the pull of stout oak timber that formed the inner wall of where he lay.

"Fo'c'stle of a fishing schooner!" he announced, and then opened his eyes to prove that he was correct.

He looked out into a three-cornered room occupied by a three-cornered table, and that ran as far back as the foremast. Above, fastened to a huge square beam, hung a chain-lamp so swiveled that it kept itself level however much the schooner kicked and wriggled. On the table, swinging his legs, sat a large, unpleasant-looking man.

"Wal, how are ye?" asked this latter, seeing his charge had recovered consciousness. Never having seen the man before, Code did not consider it necessary to answer. So he wriggled to find out if any bones were broken, and, in the end, discovered a tender k.n.o.b on the right side of his head.

He soon recalled the visit to St. Pierre, the purchase of the bait, Pete Ellinwood's fight, the general mix-up, and the blow on the head that had finished him. He sat up suddenly.

"Look here! What ship is this?" he demanded.

"You'll find out soon enough when you go on deck. Hungry? I got orders to feed ye."

"You bet I'm hungry; didn't have any dinner last night in St.

Pierre."

"Two nights ago," said the other, beginning to fry salt pork. "Nigh thirty-six hours you've laid here like a log." Code doubted it, but did not argue. He was trying to puzzle out the situation.

If this was a fishing schooner the men ought to be over the side fishing, and she would be at anchor. Instead, feeling the long, steady heel to leeward and half-recover to windward, he knew she was flying on a course.

Breakfast swallowed, he made his way on deck. As he came up the companionway a man stood leaning against the rail. With a feeling of violent revulsion, Code recognized Nat Burns. A glance at a near-by dory showed the lettering _Nettie B._, and Schofield at once recognized his position.

He was Nat Burns's prisoner.

"Mornin'," said Burns curtly. "Thought you were goin' to sleep forever."

"It's a hanging offense putting any one to sleep that long," retorted Code cheerfully. "Luck was with you, and I woke up."

"You're hardly in a position to joke about hanging offenses," remarked Nat venomously.

"Why not?" Code had gone a sickly pallor that looked hideous through his tan.

"Because you're goin' home to St. Andrew's to be tried for one."

Code glanced over his left shoulder. The sun was there. The schooner was headed almost directly southwest. Nat had spoken the truth. They were headed homeward.

"Where's your warrant?" Code could feel his teeth getting on edge with rage as he talked to this captor who bore himself with such insolence.

"Don't need a warrant for murder cases, and I'm a constable at Freekirk Head, so everything is being done according to law. The gunboat didn't find you, so I thought, as long as you were right to hand, I'd bring you along."

"Then you knew I was in St. Pierre?"

"Yes; saw you come in. If it hadn't been so dark you'd have recognized the _Nettie_ not far away." Code, remembering the time of night they arrived, knew this to be impossible, for it is dark at six in September. He had barely been able to make out the lines of the nearest schooners.

A man was standing like a statue at the wheel, and, as he put the vessel over on the port tack, his face came brightly into the sun. It was 'Arry Duncan. Code had not been wrong, then, in thinking that he had seen the man's face in St. Pierre.

"Fine traitor you've got there at the wheel," said Schofield. "He'll do you brown some day."