Part 3 (1/2)

”Oh, pineapple by all means!” Florence exclaimed.

”Good enough for me,” smiled Lucile.

”All right. Here goes.” Marian stabbed one of the unknown quant.i.ties with the can-opener, then applied her nose to the opening.

”Corn!” she exclaimed in disgust.

”Oh, well,” consoled Florence, ”we can eat corn once. Lucile doesn't care for it, but she can have something else. Here's a bowl; pour it out in that. Then open the loganberries. They'll do.”

Again the can-opener fell. Again came the disgusted exclamation, ”Corn!”

Lucile giggled and Florence danced a hornpipe of joy. ”That's one on you, Marian, old dear,” she shouted. ”Oh, well, just give us plain peaches.

They'll do.”

”Here's one that has a real gurgly sound when you shake it,” said Lucile, holding a can to her ear and shaking hard. ”I think it's strawberries.”

When Marian opened that can and had peered into it, she said never a word but, walking to the cabin door, pitched it, contents and all, over the rail and down to the crusted snow twenty feet below. There it bounced about for a time, spilled its contents upon the ground, then lay quite still, a new tin can glistening in the moonlight. But watch that can. It is connected with some further adventure.

”Corn! Corn! Corn!” chanted Marian in a shrill voice breaking with laughter. ”And what a bargain.”

”But look what I drew!” exclaimed Lucile, pointing to a can she had just opened.

”Pineapple! Sliced pineapple!” the others cheered in unison. Then the three cans of corn were speedily forgiven. But the empty can lay blinking in the moonlight all the same.

The other affair, which occurred a few days later, might have turned into a rather serious matter had it not been for Lucile's alert mind.

Lucile had what she styled a ”bug” for creating things. ”If only,” she exclaimed again and again, ”I could create something different from anything that has been created before I know I should be supremely happy.

If only I could write a real story that would get into print, or discover some new chemical combination that would do things, that would be glorious.”

From these words one is not long in concluding that Lucile was specializing in English and chemistry.

The yacht afforded her exceptional opportunities to pursue her study of chemistry out of regular school hours, for Dr. Holmes, who devoted much time to delving into the mysteries of organic chemistry, had installed in a triangular s.p.a.ce at the back of the cabin a perfectly equipped laboratory. Here, during the days of the summer tour, he spent much of his time. This laboratory he turned over to Lucile, the only provision being that she replace test-tubes, retorts and other instruments broken during the course of her experiments.

Here on many a stormy afternoon, and often long into the night, she worked over a blue flame, concocting all manner of fluids and gases not required by the courses she was taking.

”If only I could create--_create_!” she whispered to herself over and over. ”Memory work I hate. Imitation I like only because it tells me what has been done and helps me to discover what has not been done. But to create--Oh--Oh!” She would at such times grip at her breast as if her heart were paining her at the very excitement of the thought.

On one particular afternoon, she did create something--in fact she created a great deal of excitement.

She had taken down a formula which Dr. Holmes had left in a notebook.

”Looks interesting,” she whispered to herself. She had worked herself up, that day, to a feverish heat, to a point where she would dare anything.

As she read a closely written notation beneath the formula, her eyes widened. ”It is interesting,” she exclaimed. ”Tremendous! I'll make it.

Wouldn't dare try it on anyone, though.”

”Better have a gas mask,” she told herself after a moment's thought.

Digging about in a deep drawer she at last took out a strange canvas bag with a windpipe-like attachment. This she hung upon a peg while she selected the particular vials needed.