"Ah done drink poison," Ike whined. "De col' chills is er runnin'

down ma back an' ma laigs. Ah's gwine ter die."

Serena drew near. Her extensive acquaintance with the young man made her skeptical in all things concerning him. She examined his surroundings with interest and cried, "Ef dat fool ain' got no bettah sense an'

to lay hisse'f out on ma ice why ain' he got col' chills?"

Lifting a sack, Dr. Jackson exposed the smooth surface of a block of ice.

Ike sprang from his chilly couch.

Serena made indignant outcry. "Howc.u.m yo'all mek er coolin' boa'd out er ma ice when ah needs it fo' lemonade? Ah fin' out mighty quick ef you is er dyin' when ah surves de fried chicken."

Disgust developed among the mothers; but Ike took no note of popular feeling. His was the joy of a reprieved man as his pains flew away before the rea.s.suring laughter of the medical man.

"Let's have something to eat," suggested the chuckling pract.i.tioner, when he had completed this cure by faith.

As if by magic, the luncheon was spread, and how those blissfully contented mothers did eat and make the woods ring with the merriment of their holiday. The fun was given greater impetus by the reappearance of Mr. Jones who, pending the drying of his own more luxurious apparel, was clothed in garments of rural simplicity loaned by the farmer.

Embarra.s.sment spoke from every feature of the stenographer as, in the midst of laughter, he approached the festive spread.

Virginia perceived his sad case and beckoned him to her side. "Here is Mr. Jones," she announced. "He suffered for the cause and shall be our guest of honor." With her own hands she arranged a place for him and saw that he had food enough for two men. This she made sweeter with smiles of approval and appreciation.

The private secretary said but little. Yet the day became beautiful, and once again joy rested in his heart.

In the coolness of Elgin's grove, the afternoon of the hottest day South Ridgefield ever experienced pa.s.sed lazily. The mothers chatted and laughed and some took naps; but best of all the babies ate and slept in comfortable rotation as the hot hours pa.s.sed.

Upon repeated urgings by Mr. Quince the tired party re-embarked upon the _Nancy Jane_ after supper. The riverman explained gloomily, "I hain't got no use for this old river after dark. The government hain't hangin' no lanterns on the snags in the Lame Moose, and I hain't got nothin' to steer by but the lightnin' bugs."

Regardless of the skipper's att.i.tude, the departure was delayed because a postprandial nap of Sim's had allowed the steam to get low while the commanding officer persuaded the pa.s.sengers to return aboard.

Becoming aware of this condition, rough language was used abaft the beam, as the Captain addressed the crew. Mutiny was evidently rampant, as the crew was heard to invite the Captain to return home on foot if dissatisfied with its efforts. Then came arbitration, and, after a time, above the noise of argument, the hissing of steam sounded in increasing volume.

The shadows of night lay upon the waters as the _Nancy Jane_ left Elgin's Grove. Since it was too dark for the navigator to procure his accustomed view of the river bottom, he peered into the gloom with anxious eyes. Upon the banks the tops of the trees showed clear against the evening sky; but the shadowy ma.s.s below was of a nature to baffle the judgment of all but the most experienced pilots.

Mr. Quince was not baffled. He laid the _Nancy Jane_ upon a course down the middle of the stream, and, laying aside the tiller, he retired to the engine room where, in a voice which reached every ear upon the lightless deck, he conversed with the engineer regarding the more intimate details of navigation. "How much steam have you got on the old tea pot?"

he asked, and when Sim told him, complained, "That hain't enough to make this yere turtle crawl home."

"It's all this leaky kettle kin hold," objected the engineer.

Mr. Quince made technical explanations. "Steam is a blowin' out of the safety valve. That's where yer air losin' power. I cal'late the old flat iron is er slippin'. I'll fix 'er."

The shuffling of feet sounded.

"How kin you tell where you are a-puttin' that flat iron?" protested Sim. "You're a goin' to bust the darned oil biler a foolin' with that valve in the dark. You can't see what you're doin' no more than a mole."

"I hain't slipped 'er out er notch. She's where she orter be. This biler hain't er goin' to blow up. What's it to yer any way; it hain't your biler."

"Ain't I got to stand by the blame thing?"

"What's eatin' on yer?" asked Mr. Quince, a trifle obscurely. "Yer know dern well you're too blame lazy to shovel enough coal under the old wash biler to git her het up none before we git home."

This struck Sim as reasonable. He changed the subject and inquired, "Where are we?"

A voice remarkably like that of Mr. Quince, although it could not have been that experienced river man, responded, "I dunno."

Leaves rustled along the roof, and the skipper departed hurriedly for his post or, more accurately, his pole. For a time he wielded it energetically. The current was a.s.sisting the engine and so they moved fairly rapidly. The glow of South Ridgefield showed above the trees, and, with ever greater frequency, the lights of scattered houses gleamed upon either bank. They pa.s.sed the suburbs. Upon either sh.o.r.e lay dark ma.s.ses of manufacturing plants lighted by isolated electric lights. They were abreast of Obadiah Dale's mill now, while a short block away stretched the ghostly fabric of the highway bridge, dimly traced by its own arch of lights. Beneath it was their landing place; so the mothers began to prepare to land and to thank Virginia for their pleasant day.

Mr. Quince, of course, was at his post. Resting himself upon his pole, he was enjoying that satisfaction over duty well performed which abides in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of ships' captains and locomotive engineers when they bring their pa.s.sengers to a safe journey's end.

Suddenly the bow of the _Nancy Jane_ rose slowly and imperceptibly. There was a sizzling, grinding sound, and the boat stopped abruptly but softly as against a cushion, aground on a sand bar. As the craft struck there was a forward movement upon her deck, and a shifting of pa.s.sengers and freight. A resounding splash sounded in front of the wrecked vessel.

Mr. Quince, resting meditatively upon the pole, had been, sad to relate, hove over the bow of his own ship. At the moment of his departure he gave a diabolical yell.

A scene of terror ensued. Mothers sending forth wild screams hugged their babes to their bosoms as they faced the unknown perils of the night. They were not made calmer by a rhythmic heaving of the deck, accompanied by a mighty boiling and beating of the water astern, as the paddle wheel exerted itself against the sand bar. Perhaps Sim wished to emulate "Jim Bludso" of heroic fame, and, in the absence of his pilot, keep the engine going "to hold her nozzle agin the bank."

With soothing and calming words, Kelly and Dr. Jackson finally brought a partial calm when panic seemed a.s.sured.

At the first alarm, Ike had leaped up from a box upon which he had been resting from the labors of the day. With rare presence of mind, Mr.

Jones seized it for personal use as a life preserver in case of need.

Rea.s.sured by the remoteness of danger, Ike endeavored to sit where no seat was, and, with a crash, measured his length upon the deck. This episode did not tend to allay the nervousness of female minds.

From the shadows of the night, a dripping figure scrambled over the bow of the ship. It was Mr. Quince returning from whence he had been hove. He rea.s.sumed command. "Stop the engine!" he squeaked, in a voice made husky by too much moisture. "Want to burn all the coal up for nothin'?" Obediently the engine slowed and stopped. Again the voice of the skipper sang out, "Better fix that old safety valve. I mought a shoved 'er too far in the dark." Suddenly a tremendous hissing of steam arose and then died softly away. Mr. Quince hurried to the engine room and addressed Sim at close quarters. "Yer dern fool, what made yer let all the steam outer the biler. We hain't got no power now.

How're we goin' to git 'er off?"

"You ain't goin' to git 'er off. She's stuck for good," prophesied Sim.

It is not easy to discourage great spirits. "Ef I can't git 'er off now, I kin wait for high water. The old tub hain't hurt none," Mr.

Quince made answer.

Basing the duration of their experience as castaways upon these remarks, the mothers gave away to tears. Babies awakened and wept also. A chorus of woe swept sh.o.r.eward.

"Who knows how to swim?" Dr. Jackson asked in a sharp voice.

The ladies construed this remark as implying an early necessity for this accomplishment. The resulting increase in grief was with difficulty subdued.

From the information educed, it was clear that Sim was among the most experienced swimmer among those present. Being untrammeled by the mandates of fearful females, he had since his early youth spent much of the summer season in the water.

"Sim, you swim ash.o.r.e and get help," ordered the doctor.

A difficulty arose, "I ain't a goin' to swim with my clothes on,"

objected Sim. "Maybe I only have to wade, but I might get into a hole and have to swim. Clothes drag a feller down."

"Very sensible," agreed the physician. "Take them off."

"I ain't no heathen. I ain't agoin' to take my clothes off before all of these womenfolks."

"Don't be silly," urged the doctor. "We will turn our heads."

"Take 'em off behind the biler," suggested Mr. Quince.