Part 21 (1/2)

Then, of a sudden, I became terribly uneasy. The thought flashed through my mind, ”Why, here you are, all alone, after ten o'clock at night, in a strange country, going to see a man you never heard of before, in company of an individual whose name you haven't asked, and whose face you have seen only dimly in the dark! You are known to have several hundred dollars in your pocket, and n.o.body under Heaven but yourself and your companion knows where you are, or in what kind of company.” It really seemed time for a diplomatic ”hedge.”

”Where is Captain Maguffy's house?” I inquired as a starter, after we had driven for an overlong time.

”Newark, New Jersey,” was the consoling reply, but soberly made.

”Well--I don't feel equal to a drive that far,” I said dryly. ”I supposed when I accepted this invitation that your captain was living around the corner somewhere.”

”No,” said my companion. ”_He's aboard his boat--the Samuel J. Taylor._”

”His boat?” I cried. ”Oh, come now, my friend--if I'd known that--well, really, I think we'd better turn back.”

”Not now,” said he. ”We're almost there.”

”But why doesn't the captain keep his boat closer to civilization?” I queried. ”Isn't there room for him closer to town?”

”Yes, there's plenty of room closer to town,” replied my strange acquaintance, ”but the captain prefers to be closer to the sea in case he needs to make a quick get-away. He and the government aren't on the best of terms. Between you and me, he's _doing a little stunt in filibustering_, and the folks up at Was.h.i.+ngton are getting suspicious.”

My heart sank into my boots and then rebounded to my throat. ”You should have told me all this before we started,” said I.

”Well, I should have,” said he; ”but--well, I was afraid if I did you wouldn't come, and the captain told me not to come back without you.

What he says goes with me.”

I could think of only one word. The simple term _kidnapped_ flashed across my mind, and then the pleasing little phrase, so nice for a headline, _Held for Ransom_, burned itself into my nerve. The beating of my heart sounded like the m.u.f.fled tread of that invisible steed ahead on the coquina road. I glanced out of the chaise to see what my chances of escape might be in case I made a break for liberty, and saw off to the right of me the lines of a rotting pierhead, and the towering masts of a huge schooner that was moored to its decaying piling. At the inner end of the pier was a white-washed shed. Everything in sight except the driver, the chaise, and my future looked white--a ghastly, ghostly white that made me think of all the tales of horrid spooks I had ever heard.

Here the carriage came to a sudden halt, and a tall black figure loomed up from behind the shed.

”_Did you get him?_” came a deep ba.s.s voice out of the night.

”You betcha!” was the reply from my companion.

I descended from the carriage, and my conductor led the way along the rotting stringpiece of the pier, a little more than a foot wide, the chill waters of St. Simon's Sound lapping about six feet below on each side, and the dark figure from behind the shed immediately to the rear.

I was completely a captive. A moment later we came to a narrow gangplank leading to the broad, holy-stoned deck of the schooner, in the fore part of which was an open hatchway, out of which there streamed a steady shaft of yellow light.

”Down this way, please,” said my companion as we reached the hatchway.

Tremulously I followed him down the steps, and in a moment found myself--in the prettiest, daintiest, little, white and gold parlor one could have hoped to find anywhere outside of a mansion designed for a Marie Antoinette, or a Madame de Maintenon! Everywhere was gold and white--chairs, walls, table--and set in the panels of the walls (built in) were a half-dozen exquisite little water-color paintings, all in most perfect keeping with the general color scheme of the room; and on each side of a door leading to an adjoining apartment, impa.s.sive as two bits of sculpture, stood two negroes of gigantic size, not an inch under six feet in height--two veritable genii out of the pages of the Arabian Nights, but clad in blue flannel coats with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, white duck trousers, and glazed white hats with black vizors.

It was really a wonderful picture; but I had hardly had time to take it in when from behind me again the ba.s.s voice of the figure behind the shed broke upon my hearing.

”Welcome, O Skipper of the Stygian House Boat, to the _Samuel J.

Taylor_!” it said, and quickly turning I found myself gazing into the dark, flas.h.i.+ng eyes of my host. If the white and gold cabin had amazed me, the captain completely took my breath away. He looked as if he had just come in from a five o'clock tea on Fifth avenue--frock coat, dark gray trousers, all of perfect fit, white waistcoat, lavender tie with an exquisite pearl pin stuck carelessly into its soft folds, and in his hand the very latest thing in imported high silk hats! He was the beau ideal of your conventional gentleman of society. As I have said, I was breathless, and consequently speechless, for a moment; but I did manage at the end of a few seconds to blurt out:

”Am I--am I awake, Captain?”

”Well--if you're not, we've plenty of room and time for you to sleep it out,” he replied.

”But this cabin--this saloon--these--these water colors!” I went on.