Part 15 (1/2)

CHAPTER XI A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE

There are people who cannot sleep during a storm. It sets their nerves a-tingle, sets wild racing thoughts crowding through their minds and leaves them sleeplessly alert. It is as if a thousand wild witches rode on every mad rush of the wind, their shrill voices screaming in each blast, their fingers rattling at every windowpane and their breath puffing at the flickering light.

Mark Pence could not sleep during that storm. Rocking every schooner, yacht and yawl on its cradle of trestlework, it went racing out over the lake, carrying every movable object with it. After many vain attempts to close his eyes, he at last rose and drawing on his clothes, said to himself:

”I'll go out and fight with it for a time. After that I may be able to sleep.”

”Whew! What a whooper!” he exclaimed as the wind, slamming the door after him, blew him half-way to the beach. Grappling with the wind, as one grapples a wrestling mate, he stooped low, then shot forward.

”Like springing against a volley-ball net.” He shrieked the words in wild defiance of the wind.

Then, steadily, step by step, he fought his way toward the nearest schooner. Having gained the lee of it he paused a moment for breath.

The storm came in gusts. Now in a blinding fury of snow, it blotted out everything about him. Now there was a lull. The wind appeared to pause to regain its breath. At such times as this his eyes penetrated the s.p.a.ce before him.

”Don't look quite right over there,” he grumbled. ”Something the matter with the sky line. Not enough boats, one would say!”

He had regained his breath. For a moment he debated the advisability of venturing further into the storm. Finally he b.u.t.toned his coat collar tighter as he muttered:

”Go over and see.”

As he moved from his position of safety there came another gust. More furious than any that had gone before, it threatened to lift him from the earth and hurl him into the lake. But, stooping low, all but crawling, he made headway and, just as the lull came, gripped the top rail of the trestle on which the O Moo had rested.

Hardly had he seized it than his hand slipped and he went sprawling.

”That's strange!” he muttered, ”Awful slippery!”

Removing one glove, he felt of the other.

”Grease!” he muttered in blank astonishment. ”Somebody's greased that track.”

Then, with the suspicion of treachery dawning upon him, he glanced up at the spot where the O Moo should have been.

”Gone!” he exclaimed. ”The O Moo's gone! And six hours ago, she was here.

I'd swear it. Saw it with my own eyes. Light in the window. Girls there.

Now she's gone and the girls with her. Gone in such a storm! What madness!” Again he thought of the greased track. ”No! No! What treachery!”

From his pocket he drew a flashlight. He meant to examine that track. It had been heavily greased all the way down to the water. That the iron wheels of the car on which the O Moo had rested had pa.s.sed down the track, there could be no doubt. Mingled with the grease there was much iron rust.

Drawing from his pocket a used envelope, he sc.r.a.ped a quant.i.ty of the grease into it, then replaced the envelope.

”Evidence,” he said grimly. ”Might not be worth much; might mean a lot.”

The wind was roaring again. Clinging to the trestle, he waited its pa.s.sing.

”Gone!” he exclaimed. ”Gone out to sea! It's those c.h.i.n.ks. What beasts!

I'll get them! Go after them in just another minute. Then I'll make them help me launch my schooner to go in search of that O Moo. Three girls!