The Coast of Adventure

They were alongside in a few minutes, and he seized a rope that some one threw him.

"Our gig's hauled up on the beach for painting, and I'm afraid we couldn't reach the landing in the dinghy, now the sea's getting up," he said. "You'd better come on board, and I'll see if Macallister can put your gaff right."

Evelyn hesitated, for she suspected that it would take some time to mend the damaged spar. It was not an adventure her mother would approve of, but as she could see no way of reaching land, she let the man help her through the gangway.

CHAPTER IV

THE "ENCHANTRESS"

On reaching the steamer's deck, Evelyn glanced with curiosity at her rescuer. He was a tall, lightly built man, dressed in an old blue shirt, paint-stained duck trousers, and ragged canvas shoes, but he had an easy manner that was not in harmony with his rough clothes. Evelyn liked his brown face. It had a hint of force in it; though now he was watching her with a half-amused smile. He fell short of being handsome, but, on the whole, his appearance made a good impression on the girl.

Then she looked about the vessel. The deck, finely laid with narrow planks, was littered with odd spars, rusty chain, coal bags, and pieces of greasy machinery, as if repairs and refitting were going on. She was a very small, two-masted steamer, carrying some sail, for smoke-grimed canvas was furled along the booms, and Evelyn thought she had been built for a yacht. Her narrow beam, her graceful sweep of teakwood rail, and the long, tapering counter suggested speed. A low, lead-gray funnel stood just forward of the mainmast, and a teak house, rising three or four feet above the deck, occupied part of her length. The brass boss of the steering wheel bore the name Enchantress. The after end of the house, however, was built of iron, with raised lights in the top, and the hammering and the pointed remarks that came up indicated that somebody below was grappling with refractory metal. After one exclamation, Evelyn's companion walked to the skylights.

"Mack," he said in a warning tone, "there's a lady on board."

"One o' they half-dressed hussies from the hotel? Man, I thought ye had mair taste," a hoarse voice replied.

Evelyn was glad that her boating costume was not in the extreme of fashion, for sleeves and skirts were severely curtailed then, but she waited with some amusement.

"Come up and don't talk!" said the man who had brought her on board. "Here's a job for you."

"That's one thing I'll never die for the want of," the voice below went on. "I've got jobs enough already, and no help wi' them. Ye cannot make a mechanic out o' a dago muleteer, and the gangrel son o' a rich American is no' much better. They're wrecking the bonny mill and when I had them strike at a bit forging the weariful deevils smashed my finger. I telt them – "

"It won't stand for repeating. Let up; you've the voice of a bull," somebody broke in. "Grahame's waiting with a lady. Can't you get a move on?"

"What's the lady wanting – is it her watch mending?" the Scot asked with a hint of eagerness. A passion for tampering with the works of watches not infrequently characterizes the marine engineer.

"Come and see!" called Evelyn's companion; and a few moments later the mechanic appeared.

He was big, rather gaunt, and very dirty; but he carried himself well, and had obviously just put on a smart blue jacket with brass buttons that bore the crest of an English mail line. Evelyn thought his age was between forty and fifty, but his eyes had a humorous twinkle and his air was rakish. Behind him came a much younger man in greasy overalls.

The engineer bowed to Evelyn with some grace.

"Ye'll be Miss Cliffe; I ken ye by sight," he said. "They telt me who ye were in the bar at the hotel."

"Do they talk about me in such places?" Evelyn asked with a touch of haughtiness.

"What would ye expect? When ye're born good-looking, ye must take the consequences. But, as Grahame has nae manners, I'll present myself – Andrew Macallister, extra chief's ticket, and noo, through speaking my mind to a director, engineer o' this barge." He indicated his greasy companion. "Mr. Walthew, who, though ye might not think it by his look, was taught at Harvard. If my temper stands the strain, I may make a useful greaser o' him yet. The other ye nae doot ken."

"No," said Evelyn, half amused. "He kindly came to my help when I was in trouble with my boat."

"Then he's skipper. They call him Grahame, and it's a good Scottish name. But I was hoping ye had maybe some difficulty with your watch."

"Why did you hope so?" Evelyn asked, laughing.

"On no account let him have it," Walthew interposed. "He brought back the last watch a confiding visitor left him with the gold case badly crushed. 'I had to screw her in the vice, but a bit rub with a file will smooth her off,' he told the owner."

"He was a fastidious beast o' a Custom House grafter," Macallister explained. "But if it's no' a watch, what way can I serve ye?"

Grahame took him to the sloop and showed him the gaff, and a few minutes later he came back with the bent jaws.

"It's no' a bad piece o' work; your people have an eye for design, but they make things too light," he said. "Noo I'll cut ye a new grip out o' solid brass, but it will take an hour."

"I suppose I must wait; there's no other way of getting back," Evelyn answered dubiously.

Macallister went below, and Grahame put a deck chair for Evelyn under the awning in the stern, where he sat down on a coil of rope, while Walthew leaned against the rail near by. The girl felt interested in them all. She had heard that Walthew had been to Harvard, and his appearance suggested that he belonged to her own world. If so, what was he doing in the Enchantress's engine room? Then, Macallister's random talk had some piquancy. His manners were not polished, but they were good in their way.

"The steamer is yours, I suppose?" she remarked.

"Yes," said Grahame. "We bought her cheap, and are getting her ready for sea. As I dare say you have noticed, she needs refitting."

"But wouldn't that have been easier at New Orleans or Galveston?"

"Perhaps, if we were able to hire professional assistance, but we have to do the work ourselves, and this place is quiet, and clean for painting."

"Aren't you painting her an unusual color? White would have been prettier than this dingy gray."

"White's conspicuous," Walthew answered, and Evelyn noticed Grahame's warning glance. "A neutral tint stands better, and doesn't show the dirt. You see, we have to think of our pockets."

"Then it isn't to be a pleasure trip. Where are you going?"

"Up the Gulf Stream. To Cuba first, and then south and west; wherever there's a chance of trade."

"But the boat is very small. What do you think of trading in?"

"Anything that comes along," Walthew answered with a thoughtful air. "We might catch turtles, for example."

"One understands that turtles are now farmed for the market."

"It would be cheaper to catch them. We might get mahogany."

"But mahogany logs are big. You couldn't carry many."

"We could tow them in a raft. Then the English and American tourists who come out in the mail boats might charter us for trips."

"I'm afraid you'd find them exacting. They'd expect nice berths and a good table. Do you carry a good cook?"

Grahame chuckled and Walthew grinned.

"Modesty prevents my answering, because my partners leave me to put up the hash. I'll admit it might be better; but our passengers wouldn't find that out until we got them away at sea."

Evelyn was frankly amused. She could not imagine his cooking very well, but she liked his humorous candor.

"Your plans seem rather vague," she said.

"They are, but one doesn't want a cut and dried program for a cruise about the Spanish Main. One takes what comes along; in the old days it used to be rich plate ships and windfalls of that kind, and I guess there's still something to be picked up when you get off the liners' track. One expects to find adventures on the seas that Drake and Frobisher sailed."

Evelyn mused. She was shrewd enough to perceive that the men were hiding something, and they roused her curiosity, but she thought Walthew was right. Romance was not dead, and the Spanish Main was a name to conjure with. It brought one visions of desolate keys where treasure was hidden, the rush of the lukewarm Gulf Stream over coral reefs, of palm-fringed inlets up which the pinnaces had crept to cut out Spanish galleons, and of old white cities that the buccaneers had sacked. Tragic and heroic memories haunted that blue sea, and although luxurious mail boats plowed it now, the passions of the old desperados still burned in the hearts of men.