Part 30 (1/2)
Five minutes later he opened Andrew's door and found him standing by the window.
”Come in! I'm thinking about that Canadian boat.”
”So I expected,” Whitney answered meaningly. ”But we'll take the other matter first. Seems to me they're connected.”
”The matchbox matter? I don't know whether it was a clever trick or not, but I'd like to hear your views.”
”Well,” Whitney laughed, ”I'm not so smart as I thought. Elsie soon tripped me up.”
Andrew frowned.
”Then she saw you? She understands?”
”Something. I don't know how much, but I'm free to admit that she's cleverer than either of us. However, one thing's obvious: Williamson took care to have a box that would hold a good many matches and keep them dry. It's curious that he didn't shake it before he said it was empty. Anyhow, he overdid the thing. If he had given me a thick wax match like those we found on board the wreck, it wouldn't have proved much; while his anxiety to show he used the small pine kind strikes me as significant.”
”Elsie must be kept out of all this,” Andrew said firmly.
”Then I guess you'll have to keep her out; I'm not up to Miss Woodhouse's mark. Did you notice Staffer's attempt to learn if you knew much about the North Channel?”
”Yes; but we'll let that go for the present. The A. & P. boat was mined or torpedoed. What are we to do?”
Whitney hesitated.
”To begin with,” he said, ”you must make up your mind right now how far you are willing to go. You're proud of being a Johnstone, and put the good name of the family pretty high.”
”Yes,” answered Andrew slowly; ”that is true. These, however, are personal reasons, and don't come first. You can take it for granted that I'm ready to go as far as is needful for the good of my country, regardless of--of any one at Appleyard.”
”Then we must try to find Rankine and tell him what we suspect.”
”Very well,” said Andrew. ”We'll sail on the ebb in the morning.”
Whitney made a sign of agreement and went away. Andrew had not hesitated about his decision, but Whitney knew it had cost him something.
CHAPTER XVIII
A CONFERENCE AT SEA
North Barrule's blunt cone and the range of Manx hills beyond it cut, harshly blue, against an angry blaze of saffron that had broken out when the rain stopped and was now beginning to fade. The sun had sunk behind the island, and the sky to the northwest was black as ink, but the tall cliffs of the Mull of Galloway were traced across the storm-cloud in a neutral-tinted smear. Between them and the _Rowan_ stretched a belt of lead-colored sea, which, in the foreground, rose in hollow-fronted walls with livid white summits that overweighted them until they curled and broke in cataracts of foam.
It was blowing hard, and threatened to blow harder soon, but Andrew's wet face was tranquil as he sat on the weather coaming, braced against the strain of the helm. Whitney was in the c.o.c.kpit, where he could avoid the worst of the spray, but he was cold and sore from twenty-four hours of savage lurching. Clouds of spray drove across the boat, striking the canvas and blowing out to lee under the boom, but some fell short and splashed upon Whitney's lowered head. The _Rowan_, beating to windward, progressed in jerks and plunges, nearly stopping with a shock now and then as her bows sank into a comber. Whitney thought she could not carry her shortened canvas long; but their port was to windward, and they could not ease her much if they wished to reach it.
”She's ramming them pretty badly,” he remarked, as a white sea boiled across the deck. ”I suppose you'd find her hard to steer if I lowered the staysail?”
”Yes; she makes my arms ache now. Still, if it doesn't blow much worse in the next two hours, we'll find smoother water to lee of the island.” Something on the horizon caught Andrew's eye. ”Get me the gla.s.ses,” he added.
Whitney went below to look for them, and lighted the cabin lamp. The floor and beams were steeply inclined, and he had to brace his feet against the centerboard trunk. The narrow cabin throbbed with a m.u.f.fled uproar, and water trickled in. There was a pool that splashed about where the floor boards met the locker. The leather case of the gla.s.ses had swollen, and he spent a minute or two in opening it, though he made the best speed he could. They had been searching for Rankine's vessel in weather that had tried their nerve and skill. Once or twice it had looked as if they must run for shelter, but the breeze had moderated a trifle, and Andrew had held on. Now, however, he was making for Ramsey, to Whitney's keen satisfaction.
Andrew wound the tiller-line round one hand as he put the gla.s.ses to his eyes. He saw what he had expected: two slender spars and a funnel, both sharply slanted, that rose above the back of a distant sea. Then a patch of dark hull swung into sight, and vanished again.