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CHAPTER XIV

Within the cabin, so zealously watched by the detective prior to the journey of Thorpe and Sam across the island, were the occupants – Jack Shore and his little captive, Dorothy Thorpe. The child was carefully and secretly guarded, and at the same time made as comfortable as the limited quarters of her captor would permit.

Jack Shore was kind to the child, and though fully conscious of the severe penalty of his desperate undertaking should he be discovered, he nevertheless allowed her a certain freedom of the abode in which he had placed her, of course always providing for securely bolted outer doors.

During the preceding night she had been secretly and quietly removed from her first hiding place to the cabin. Her silence was obtained by the promise of being taken home should she be a good little girl, and not make a disturbance. But as a precaution she had been wrapped up in a manner so as completely to blindfold her, and in her childish confidence was conveyed without any trouble, in the dead hour of night, to the cabin.

The interior of the cabin was divided into two rooms. The small one was used as a sleeping apartment, having two roughly-constructed bunks, one above the other. On one wall was a small four-paned window that gave light to the room. A small mirror, and a man’s clothing hung on the wall, and a short, well-worn strip of carpet covered the floor. The large room served the purpose of a kitchen, dining room, pantry, laundry and general utility combined. There was a small cook stove in the corner near the dividing partition. One dishcloth and a couple of towels hung on a line across the corner of the room over the stove. A shallow box about three feet square, and nailed to the wall beside the window, served as a cupboard for provisions. A table, an old chair, a three-legged stool and a box constituted the remaining furniture.

At night a lighted lamp rested on a bracket above the table, and on this particular night Jack’s coat hung beside the lamp.

The main entrance door of the cabin was at the kitchen end, and opened inward. There was also a door at the bedroom end of the cabin, securely locked and bolted. The door in the partition between the two rooms was in line with the other doors, and had a small pane of glass, six by six inches, in the upper panel.

On this eventful night Dorothy was seated on the chair, her head resting on her arms on the end of the table, indifferently watching Jack. He, with a cigar in his mouth and in his gray shirtsleeves, was standing in front of the table wiping a dishpan, the last of the evening cleanup. Putting the pan away under the shelf, he hung the dishcloth beside its mate on the line, and carefully stretched it out to dry. Then, as he sat down on the stool at the end of the table opposite Dorothy, a smile of satisfaction stole over his dark, swarthy face when he surveyed the result of his work – a clean and tidy appearing room.

“Eesa be so nice-a da clean. So bute-a da corner. Eesa like-a da fine-a house. Tar-rah-rah! Tink-a eesa get-a da fote-da-graph of eet a made. Put eem in-a Sunny da paper. Eh-a da Daize! What a use-a da tink? Eh!”

Dorothy raised her head and looked at him in offended, childish dignity.

“My name is not A da Daize; it is Dorothy!”

“Eesa like-a da Daize a bet! What youse-a tink? Eesa nicey da room, eh Daize?”

Then the child indifferently looked at the corner with its stove and adjuncts. She had been detained in his company now – for four days, and, childlike, was intuitively quick in interpreting the broken, stumbling Dago utterances of Jack.

“It is not so nice as our kitchen,” she naively replied. “But maybe the photo will make people think you are a good cook!”

“A da cook-a! – naw, eesa be damn! Turnoppsis! Carrotsis! Cababbages! Black-a da boots” —

“Well, then,” interrupted the child, pouting, “a rich man if you like; I don’t care.”

“Eesa mores-a da bet,” and he smiled approvingly. “And a Sunny-a da paper print under da fote-da-graph some-a ting like-a deeze – A da corner ova-a da dining room – maybees-a da den wud look-a da bet,” he muttered reflectively. “In deeze-a home ova-a a Signor George-a da Golda – house-a dat, eh, a Daize?”

“Is that your name?” she inquired.

“Eesa good-a da name? A Daize.”

“May I stay in here when the photo man comes?”

“Sure-a Daize!”

“Oh, good!” and the child clapped her little hands and laughed gleefully.

Jack looked at her quizzically, and then, seating himself on the stool, took the child between his knees.

“Tell-a me, da Daize, what-a da for youse-a like-a da picture take-a here, eh?”

“Cause!” she answered shyly.

“Cause-a da what? Speak-a Daize.”

“I don’t like to.”

“A Daize! Youse a know I bees-a da friend, speak-a.”

“Well, then my papa would know where to find me.”

“I deez-a thought so. Daize, youse-a tink I beez a da bad-a man. Eh, why?”

“’Cause you promised to take me home and you have not.”

“Well-a Daize, your-a good-a da girl, and – eef-a da papa donn-a da come bees-a da morn, we’ll-a go for-a da fine him, eh! Now youse-a da like-a me now? Eh, a Daize?”

“Oh, I like you ever so much for that, and we’ll go home tomorrow?

“Sure-a Daize! Now tell-a me some-a ting about a da Virginia.”

“If I do you’ll sure take me home tomorrow?”

“Sure-a Daize! Eesa beez a da good a da woman, eh? Much a da like a you. Eh, a da Daize?”

“Oh, yes; she would do anything for me, and I love my aunt, too.”

“Eesa look a da nicey. Mose a beez a da rich, eh-a Daize?”

“My aunt does oil paintings, too.”

“Eesa got a much a da mon, eh a Daize?”

“Oh, yes; a pocket full,” replied the unsuspecting child.

“Everybody says that she is rich, and I guess that it must be true,” muttered Jack, and he could not suppress a smile of satisfaction the child’s information gave him.

“Eesa time to go a da bed, a Daize. Kiss a me good a da night.”

“If I do, you won’t forget your promise?”

“What a da promise?”

“To take me home tomorrow.”

“Sure a Daize. I donna forget.”

Then the child kissed him, and at the contact of her soft, warm lips with his – like a stream of sunshine, the child innocence of purest lips, pierced his heart with a shaft of kindly sympathy.

“Good a da night, a Daize,” he said in a voice soft and gentle. Then he released the child and arose to his feet. It drew from her a look of steady admiration, and then she replied:

“Good night!” On the threshold of the sleeping apartment she turned and said:

“I shall pray for you tonight, Mister Golda. I shall pray for you not to forget tomorrow.” And she softly closed the door.

As Jack mildly stared at the child, the light in his eyes changed to a look far off, and there gradually stole over his face an aspect of infinite sadness, reminiscent of the days of his childhood.

On resuming his presence of mind, he went to the cupboard and took from there a bottle. After removing the stopper he took a straight draught of liquor, turned low the light and tip-toed to the bedroom door, listened, and heard Dorothy say:

“Oh, dear Jesus, make George Golda good; help him remember his promise to take me home tomorrow.”

Jack was deeply moved by the child’s sweet disposition, and he turned away disgusted at the despicable role he was enacting, and muttered reflectively: “Good God, that I should come to this! From secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment Association to be a kidnapper of babes!

“Jack Shore, the kidnapper! What a fall is here! Yes, I have sunk so low as to abduct from a fond, suffering mother one of the purest gems of flesh and blood that ever blest a home. And for what? The almighty dollar! Only that, and nothing more! Curse the damned dollar that drives men to crime!

“Curse it for cramming hell with lost souls. I’ll wash my hands of this whole business; I’ll have no more of it; I’ll take the child home!”

The resolution was so cheering, so fruitful of kindly intent, and urged on by the “still, small voice” within him to do right, that he decided to fortify himself with a second drink of liquor. Then a contra train of reflection seized him, and he whispered, as one suddenly confronted with an appalling calamity:

“Ah, ah! What am I saying? And I have scarcely a dollar in the world! Have gone hungry for the want of it – and here is twenty thousand of the beautiful golden things actually in sight – almost at my finger tips!” and with the thought blank concern spread over his face, and the kindly purpose, the human compassion for his fellow being in its transient passage to his heart, again took flight and the “still, small voice” within him shrank abashed to silence.

“Out with this sentimental nonsense! The Thorpes can stand the loss of a few thousand without a twitch of an eyelash.”

The sound of a couple of gentle taps on the starboard side of the cabin broke his train of audible thoughts and claimed his quick attention.

The taps were repeated distinctly. He answered them with three light taps on the wall, given by the joint of his finger. Then he quietly opened the door, and Philip Rutley, with the collar of his coat turned up closely about his face, stood in the opening.

“All skookum, Jack?” he questioned, in low tones, on entering.

“All skookum, Phil,” answered Jack, as he locked and bolted the door.

“Good! I love to look at the little darling. Jack, she is a gold mine.” And, so saying, Rutley took the lamp from over the shelf and cautiously opening the door, peered within.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Then he quietly closed the door, replaced the lamp on the shelf, turned down his coat collar and said in a low, pleased voice: “Well, old boy, our troubles are nearly over. Virginia will come tonight.”

“Alone?” queried Jack, in low tones, and he looked significantly at his colleague.

“Yes, and with the ducats! I caused her to be secretly informed that she must meet you here by twelve o’clock this night, and prepared to pay the ransom. Any liquor handy, Jack? I’m feeling a bit nervous after that pull. The boat sogged along as heavy as though a bunch of weeds trailed across her prow.”

Jack smiled, but proceeded to the cupboard and produced a bottle, together with a glass. Removing the cork, he offered both bottle and glass to Rutley with the remark: “Old Kaintuck – dead shot! The best ever. Help yourself!”

“That’s an affectionate beauty spot about your right eye, Jack,” remarked Rutley, taking the bottle and tumbler from him.

“You haven’t told me how it happened.”

“I was out on Corbett street when that damned Irish coachman of Thorpe’s sauntered along as though he had a chip on his shoulder, and he had the nerve to ask me if I had seen the child.”

“Do you think he suspected you?” queried Rutley, pausing with the glass and bottle in his hands.

“No; it was a random shot. But it made me hot, and – well, the long and the short of it was the doctor worked over me an hour before I was able to walk.”

“I see,” commented Rutley, pouring some liquor into the glass and setting the bottle on the table. “A sudden and unexpected attack, eh! May the fickle jade smile on us tonight,” and so saying, he drank the liquor with evident relish, and handed the glass to Jack.

Jack, misunderstanding his quotation of the “fickle jade,” interpreting it as meant for Virginia, at once replied:

“The jade may smile and smile, and be a villain, but she must ‘pungle’ up the ‘dough.’” And pouring some liquor in the glass he drained it.

Jack’s misapplication of the popular quotation caused Phil to smile, then to chuckle. “Ha, ha, ha, ha, the jade!”

Then he produced a couple of cigars from his vest pocket, and offering one to Jack, continued: “She deserves no mercy.”

“None whatever,” replied Jack, as he took the cigar.

“If she had not weakened, we should never have selected her to pay the ransom,” resumed Rutley.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, as he put a match to the cigar. “Her penitent mood makes her an easy mark. The price of her atonement’ll be twenty thousand dollars.”

Again Rutley chuckled, chuckled convivially, for evidently the softening influence of the liquor relaxed his tensely attuned nerves. “Ha, my boy, she shall not enjoy the bliss of restoring the child to her mother. I shall be the hero in this case,” and he lowered his voice. “After Virginia has paid the ransom, I shall take the child to her father.” Then he looked at Jack significantly and laughed – laughed in a singularly sinister, yet highly pitched suppressed key.

Jack penetrated Rutley’s purpose at once and the prodigious nerve of the fellow caused him likewise to laugh. But Jack’s laugh was different from Rutley’s, in so much that it conveyed, though suppressed and soft, an air of rollicking abandon.

“And get the reward of ten thousand dollars offered for the child’s recovery.”

“Precisely,” laughed Rutley.

His laugh seemed infectious, for Jack joined him with a “Ha, ha, ha, ha. And borrow ten thousand more from old Harris for being a Good Samaritan to his nephew, Sam, eh! Have another, Phil,” and again he laughed as he offered the glass.

Rutley took the glass and filled it. “A forty thousand cleanup, Jack, just for a bit of judicious nerve! He, he, he, he,” and then his laughter ceased, for the simple reason that his lips could not perform the act of drinking and laughing at the same time.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, in response. “A damned good thing, eh, Phil?” and he took the glass, filled it, and drank. “Has anybody heard from Corway?”

“Shanghaied,” laconically replied Rutley.

“He’s off on the British bark Lochlobin. No fear of any trouble from him for several months.”

“How, in the name of God, did you do it?” asked Jack, fairly enthralled with Rutley’s nerve.

“Oh, it was easy. Fixed it up with some sailor boarding-house toughs, but I only got $50 out of it all told, including his watch. But, my dear boy, that is not all I have planned in this plunge. You know I am desperately in love with the orphan?”

“Hazel!” exclaimed Jack. “Ho, that was plain long ago,” and he laughed again.

“She’s the sweetest little girl in the world, Jack, and the best part of it is, she has a cool hundred thousand in her own right.”

“Marry her,” promptly advised Jack.

“That is my intention, Jack, and the day after tomorrow I visit Rosemont to persuade her to elope with me. Quite a society thrill – don’t you know?”

“Thrill!” replied Jack, astonished. “You mean sensation. Hazel eloped with me Lord Beauchamp, Knight of the Garter. Have one on that, Phil.”

“Oh, she’s a darling, Jack, and now that Corway is out of the way – I think she’d like – to wear the garter,” and he grinned jovially.

“A garter is fetching, Phil.”

“Success to the garter! May Lady Hazel never let it fall; ha, ha,” and Jack laughed merrily as he filled the glass.

“Evil be to him who evil thinks. My garter, Jack! He, he, he, he.” There was no mistaking the fact that the two men were verging on the hilarious, and though fully aware of the importance of conversing in low tones, they continued, because they felt satisfied the critical period of their operations had passed and success was assured.

Again Rutley laughed. “Jack, I’ve had an itching palm today.”

“So have I. See how red it is with scratching, and the sole of my left foot has been tickled to fits.”

“The signs are right, Jack. I congratulate you on your luck, and if it is as good as your judgment of liquor – it is a damned good thing.” He laughed as he seized the glass. “This is the proof,” and he forthwith tossed it off, and handed the glass to Jack.

Jack’s convivial spirits were quite willing. He took the glass, filled it, and laughingly said: “What is good for the devil, applies to his imp.” Then he drained the glass and again laughed.

Rutley joined in. “You make me blush! Did you say your left foot tickled?”

“Yes!”

“You will change domiciles. What do you say to secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment Association?”

“What? Resurrect the old S. I. A.?” Jack replied, and he stared at Rutley with amazement.

“Yes! Thorpe and Harris put us out of business. Why not use their ‘simoleons’ to start up again?” And he chuckled with evident satisfaction.

“Agreed, Phil! Start her up with a full page ad in a Sunday paper, eh? Ha, ha, ha, ha – a damned good thing.”

“Precisely! Ahem,” coughed Rutley. “We are pleased to announce that our former fellow townsmen, Mr. Philip Rutley and Mr. Jack Shore have returned very wealthy.”

“And were received with open arms,” added Jack, and he laughed. “Damned good joke, Phil; damned good joke. Have one on that!” And he turned and picked up bottle and glass from the table and offered them to his colleague.

Rutley always maintained a dignified bearing, yet his manners were quite unconventional, and suave, and easy, and it must be understood that neither of them on this occasion became boisterous. He took the proffered bottle and glass, poured liquor in the glass, and after setting the bottle on the table, said: “Thirty days later, a-hem! We congratulate the stockholders of the reorganized Securities Investment Association on the able and efficient management of your officers, Manager Philip Rutley and Secretary-Treasurer Jack Shore.” He then drained the glass and handed it to Jack.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, as he took the glass and poured the liquor in it, and pointedly added: “Addenda! It affords us much pleasure to apologize for our former charge of wilful dishonesty against the gentlemen above mentioned. Signed: John Thorpe, James Harris, committee.” And Jack drained the glass.

“He, he, he, he,” softly laughed Rutley. “Very proper, my boy; quite so!”

“It only needs the measly ‘yellow goods’ to make it practical,” suggested Jack.

“My dear, ahem, Mr. Secretary, don’t let that trifle worry you. The ‘yellow goods’ are coming as sure as day follows night.”

“I hope the day will not again plunge us into night,” laughed Jack.

“Oh, don’t put it that way,” testily rejoined Rutley. “Disagreeably suggestive, you know – damned bad taste.”

Rutley’s supersensitiveness, in their present situation, was greeted by Jack with a burst of suppressed laughter. “When Eve tempted and Adam bit, he took his medicine without a fit. Have another, Phil.”

Without accepting the bottle, and seemingly without heeding the remark, Rutley inquired, a bit seriously: “Is the dog on guard?”

“Yes,” replied Jack, standing stock still, with the bottle in one hand and the tumbler in the other. “Tied to a stick of driftwood on shore. No interlopers while Snooks is on watch. Why?” The question was asked rather soberly.

“I received a tip that you are shadowed and trouble may come before dawn. When it comes the little one must not be here.”

“I agree with you,” responded Jack. “I’ve lost that medal somewhere, too.”

“Ye Gods!” gravely replied Rutley, with an alarmed look. “If it falls into the hands of a detective, it may serve as a clue. Curious, too. I recall now that the dog didn’t bark or growl when I approached the cabin.”

“I wonder!” exclaimed Jack. “Maybe Snooks has got loose and is wandering about the island. We had better make sure.”

Setting the bottle and tumbler on the table, he opened the cabin door and stepped somewhat unsteadily on the platform. Closing the door, he peered shoreward, then softly whistled. After listening intently, and hearing nothing, he called, in a low voice:

“Snooks! Snooks!” Receiving no response, and being unable to identify shapeless objects on the shore, through the darkness, he re-entered the cabin, quietly as possible, and with a concerned look on his face.

“I believe the dog has got away. I’ll go ashore and investigate.”

“I’ll go with you,” assured Rutley. “Jack, better see that the child’s asleep.”

Jack took the lamp from the bracket, opened the partition door, looked in at the sleeping child, and closed the door as gently as he had opened it. “Sound asleep,” he whispered. Then he replaced the lamp, blew out the light, and made his way out onto the platform, accompanied by Rutley.

Quietly they stepped into a small boat, fastened to the logs, and pushed off towards the shore.

It was then Jack remembered that he had not locked the door, and wanted to return for that purpose, but Rutley demurred.

“Time is precious,” he murmured, rather thickly. “Besides we shall be gone only a few minutes, and it is unlikely that the child will stir in the darkness.”