"What made people stop going?" asked the widow, suspiciously.

"Dey fou't dyah. Er man got killed in er fight an' de she'iff close de gamblin' house. Ain' nothin' to go dyah fo' now."

"It is very strange that I never heard of the place."

"Maybe dey done specify it to you by de common folk's name?"

"What's that?"

"Some folks calls it Faro Beach."

Mrs. Henderson gasped. The name recalled shocking stories of a river resort where games of chance had flourished in open disregard of the law until a murder had awakened public conscience and it had been closed. "I wouldn't think of going there," she objected, and suddenly she began to laugh. "We are creatures of convention. What difference does it make what the place was? Indeed, if they were gambling now it wouldn't hurt these mothers and their babies." Her manner became decisive. "Virginia, as soon as you have your lunch, go and see the place. If it is what we want, make arrangements for the use of it. We don't care about its history."

Strange as it may seem, when Virginia arrived at Elgin's Grove that afternoon she found that Ike's description was not exaggerated.

Great oaks towered towards the blue sky shading a green sod, clear of underbrush, rolling towards the river. The buildings were good, although locked, and there was a well with a pump at which Ike, much oppressed by the heat, refreshed himself, and recommended the water to Virginia as of superior quality, in these words. "It tast'tes lak de water f'om de seep back o' ma ole home in Tennessee. Dats de fines' water in de worl'."

The owner of the grove, a farmer, living a bachelor existence, after listening in a cold and suspicious manner to Virginia's enthusiastic description of the purposes of the picnic, suddenly thawed. Refusing pay for the grove, he announced his personal desire to be present. Having been straightway invited by Virginia, he agreed to unlock a building to afford shelter in case of rain, mow among the trees to scare out the snakes, and to clean out the well to insure a pure water supply. "Coming on the _Nancy Jane_?" he asked her.

"_The Nancy Jane?_" questioned the girl.

"Yes, the steamboat that used to run here."

Virginia became interested. "I didn't know that steamboats ran on this river."

"The _Nancy Jane_ ain't exactly running," admitted the farmer. "She is tied up at South Ridgefield unless she's sunk since last week. The _Nancy Jane_ is the best way to get to this grove and old Bill Quince is the man to bring the old boat here. Bill Quince knows this river."

"Would it be safe to bring the babies on it?" Virginia asked, troubled.

The farmer chuckled softly. "You ain't in nigh as much danger of drownin' on the old Lame Moose as of stickin'."

"That doesn't seem such a terrible calamity," laughed Virginia. "I will see Mr. Quince and inquire about his boat."

"It's a nice trip, Ma'am," the farmer encouraged her. "Bill Quince made it twice a day for two years a-carrying drunks, mostly, with nary an accident. He is a fine man. A natural born sailor, Bill is. Takes to the water like a duck. You won't make no mistake a trustin' Bill Quince, I promise you, Ma'am."

"Dat Mr. Quince is er gran' man," Ike told Virginia, on their journey home. "He done save de life o' er po' colored boy wot was er fishin' off de bank by his house. De pole dat de boy cut f'om de bresh ain' long 'nough to rech out to de deep water whar de big fishes is. He done git hisse'f er plank an' puts one end under er log an'

rest'tes de middle on a rock at de aidge o' de bank. Den he clum out on tother en' ovah de water. Long come 'nother boy an' rolls de log. De fisherman draps in de river. He done sink de secon' time an'

give er scan'lous yell. Mr. Quince rest'tes hisse'f by de house an' he hear 'im. Mr. Quince tek er quick look an' den he grab er pole wid er i'on hook off de house an hooks de boy in de britches an'

hauls 'im out, jes as he sink de las' time. Den he stan's dat kid on his haid an' let de water run outen him an' puts ointment on his purson, whar de hook dig 'im. He ain' no time think 'bout de floater money."

"What money?" inquired Virginia, much interested.

"De floater money. Mr. Quince bein' er river man, he catches de daid wot floats down de river, an' de county dey give 'im ten dollars fo'

each floater he git. Dat boy jes de same as daid. If Mr. Quince catch 'm er minute later, er hol' 'im undah er minute, dat boy die an' Mr.

Quince git ten dollars. Dat man is er hero, Miss Virginy."

The girl shuddered. "Stop talking about dead people, Ike, you make me nervous," she remonstrated, and, as they crossed the bridge, a creepy Virginia thought she caught shadowy glimpses in the green depths of a gruesome opportunity for Mr. Quince to win anew a reward from his grateful county.

The habitation of Mr. Quince presented much of interest. It was airily although damply situated at the point of a promontory where Hog Creek emptied its limited flow into the Lame Moose River. The site was desirable for a man of Mr. Quince's tastes and aspirations. Upon the one hand, the river afforded a pleasant marine foreground for the abattoirs and packing-houses, veiled in odoriferous smoke, upon the opposite sh.o.r.e. On the other hand, the quiet waters of Hog Creek offered a safe anchorage for the good ship _Nancy Jane_ and a fleet of skiffs in various stages of decay.

Mr. Quince was a man of ingenuity and resourcefulness, and a natural forager. On the day that he selected this site, for the sojournment of himself and a stray youth who had elected to follow his fortunes, Mr. Quince built a fire and cooked some fish. The next sun saw a brush leanto constructed, shortly made impervious to rain by a covering of old canvas. This structure was followed in turn, as freshets deposited their beneficent fruits, by a board shack, a hut and at last a something which a charitable public called a house.

While the evolution of Mr. Quince's fireside furnished much of professional interest to sociologists, it was viewed by that soulless corporation which owned the land, a railroad company, as an attempt to establish adverse possession, by open, notorious, and hostile occupancy. Divers ejectments, although temporarily successful, failed of permanent effect and Mr. Quince dwelt in more or less of a state of siege.

Virginia found the riverman seated before his house, in a chair shaped out of a barrel, and prevented from being mislaid by its permanent attachment to a post in the ground. His experienced eyes watched the surface of the river for signs of treasure trove awash. Upon the front of his residence, conveniently at hand, hung the pole with the iron hook, while, at the foot of a precipitous pathway, an old skiff bobbed, readily available to meet emergencies of the deep.

The arrival of the automobile startled Mr. Quince. To this aquatic man, a boat upon the river offered the more agreeable pathway to his home.

He arose nervously, as one suspecting ejectment proceedings. The wind blew his patched overalls and flannel shirt about his tall, thin figure.

Ike, bowing respectfully, spoke words of greeting. "Howdy, Bill."

"Howdy," returned the mariner, calmed by the thought that it was not the custom of courts to rely upon such instrumentalities as negro chauffeurs and young maidens.

"We want to rent your boat for a picnic at Elgin's Grove tomorrow,"

called Virginia.

The tender of charter appeared to surprise Mr. Quince. He removed his ancient hat and scratched his scalp.

"Where is your boat?" Virginia looked about as if expecting to discover the _Priscilla_ or _Commonwealth_ at rest upon the bosom of Hog Creek.

The riverman pointed and the girl's eyes followed his finger.

On the creek floated a monument to the ingenuity of Bill Quince.

Contrary to accepted naval traditions, the _Nancy Jane_ was in two parts. A rusty traction engine rested upon a decked scow almost square in form. It was geared by belt, chains and sprockets to a water wheel as wide as the scow and attached to its stern. This was the power plant, and, coupled to the front of it, was a second scow of like width but greater length. Decked over, railed, and covered by a wooden canopy, it furnished the pa.s.senger accommodations of the craft.

Such disappointment as Virginia felt was swept aside by the profound admiration of Ike for this vessel.

"Dat's er fine boat," he exclaimed. "Ah done had ma good times on dat ole boat. When you gits out on de cool river on dat ship you feels like er fightin' c.o.c.k on er hot night."

Ike's reference to the cool river encouraged his mistress to continue negotiations. "Can we rent it?" she asked.

"You kin rent it if you want to. They hain't no law again it," the mariner agreed. "But I hain't sure that she's goin' to move none."

His sporting blood was aroused. "I'll bet two bits that old engine is a-rusted tight."

Virginia desired certainty. "How am I going to find out if the boat will go?" she worried.

Approaching the car, Mr. Quince rested an elbow upon the edge of the door and a huge foot upon the running board. His thin jaw wagged incessantly and his eyes viewed the distant reaches of the river as he pensively ruminated upon the problem. At last a solution came to him. "We mought hist 'er over by hand," he told Ike.

"Do what?" the girl inquired anxiously, puzzled at what was to be "histed."

"See if we can turn the old engine over," explained Mr. Quince.

Ike having agreed to the suggestion, he and the riverman clambered down the bank and across a plank to the deck of the _Nancy Jane_. A period of silence ensued, broken by violent language when Mr. Quince put his confidence in and his weight against a rotten lever. There followed the sound of strong men grunting and breathing heavily. A sudden scramble took place and with a great splash the wheel of the _Nancy Jane_ clove the amber surface of Hog Creek.

Mr. Quince and Ike returned, perspiring freely.

"She turned," declared Mr. Quince with pride. "She hain't rusted up much in nigh unto two year."

"Is it settled? We can rent the boat?" demanded Virginia, all business.