COINCIDENCE
Whistler kept cool in his mind. As far as his body went, that was icy.
He knew that, after all, he was personally in less danger than those who had been thrown far from the boat. He could hear nothing of what went on outside; the rolling and plunging of the overturned yawl continued.
Where had Torry gone? And the ensign, and the other members of the yawl's crew? Once Whistler had spent a long time in the sea, drifting about on a hatchcover; having been saved from that perilous adventure, he was not likely easily to give up hope now.
There was air enough under the overturned yawl, and he knew her water-tight compartments would keep her afloat indefinitely. But there might be work for him to do outside.
He might help the other members of the shipwrecked crew. Therefore he filled his lungs with air and dived under the side of the yawl.
Just as he came out into the open sea he collided with another person coming down. They seized each others' hands and rose to the surface.
It was Torry! When they popped up and expelled the air from their lungs and blinked the water from their eyes, each boy instantly recognized the other.
"Crickey!" coughed Torrance. "I thought we'd lost you."
"Are you all right?" demanded Morgan.
"Just as all right as a fellow can be when he—he can't walk ashore," chattered Torry.
"Here's the yawl!" cried Whistler. "Where's Mr. MacMasters? And Rosy and Slim? And the others?"
But when his eyes were well cleared of the water he beheld the entire crew of the yawl, including Ensign MacMasters, perched along the yawl's keel like a string of very much bedrabbled crows on a rail fence.
Strangely enough the gale seemed to have lulled for the time. Having done its worst to them, it gave the unfortunate castaways a breathing spell.
With the aid of their mates, Whistler Morgan and Torry were able to reach the keel of the overturned boat. There they perched, too, and, chattering in the cold wind, tried to look about them.
Where was the raft? This question, first and foremost in Whistler's mind, troubled him intensely. It was impossible to see far across the tossing sea; but he was sure that the life raft was nowhere within the range of their vision.
"Poor Frenchy and Ikey!" groaned Whistler.
"That raft can't sink," urged Torry in his ear.
"But they could easily be torn off it by the waves."
"Don't look at it in that way. They may be better off than we are," returned his chum.
"What's that yonder?" shouted Slim suddenly.
"Land!" Mr. MacMasters cried.
"And a lot of good that'll do us," growled Slim. "We'll be dumped ashore, maybe, like a ton of trap-rock."
The sodden boat was drifting steadily toward the island. The surf thundered against its ramparts most threateningly. But the outlook did not seem so serious as that upon the other island they had passed.
Ensign MacMasters, after some fishing, secured the loose end of the broken hawser. With the help of those nearest to him he hauled this out of the water. Then, by his advice, they all lashed themselves to the long rope with their belts or neckerchiefs.
"No matter what happens, we want to hang together," he declared. "No one man can fight this sea alone."
His cheerfulness and optimism raised their spirits. At least they hung on to their insecure refuge with much ardor, and not uncheerfully waited to be cast upon the strand.
A great swell suddenly caught the yawl and drove it shoreward. Mr. MacMasters uttered a warning shout and waved his hand in a gesture of command. They all cast loose from the keel, and the boat was carried high upon the breast of the breaker.
Still fastened together by the rope, the castaways were tumbled over and over in the surf. The yawl was east upon the strand with dreadful force and if they had continued to cling to it their chances of being seriously injured would have been great indeed.
Lightly the men and boys lashed to the rope were tossed by the surf—rolling over and over, but still clinging to each other and to the hawser. Mr. MacMasters at one end and Whistler Morgan at the other managed to obtain a footing on the sand despite the undertow.
They threw themselves upon the beach and clung "tooth and toenail" when the breaker receded. Slim was completely exhausted; but before another comber rolled in those who were strong managed to drag the weaker ones out of the reach of the undertow.
There was only a fitful light on sea and shore. The castaways lay in a panting group, looking at each other dripping with brine, and very miserable.
"Begorra!" exclaimed Irish Jemmy at last, "I broke me poipe. Lend me a cigareet, will you, Rosy?"
Rosy gravely reached into his blouse and brought forth a little package filled with tobacco pulp.
"You're welcome, Jemmy," he said gravely. "Help yourself."
"Begorra!" growled the Irishman, "ye might have kept thim dry."
"That's a good word!" exclaimed Mr. MacMasters, briskly, struggling to rise. "We all need to get dry. I have matches in a bottle in my pocket, and the bottle didn't get broken. Come on and find some dry wood. We'll have a fire. We may have to camp out here till morning."
"Oh, Mr. MacMasters!" urged Whistler, who was loosening himself likewise from the rope. "Let us look for the fellows who were on the raft first."
"Shout for them," advised the ensign. "But don't worry if they do not answer at once. This is a big piece of land, this island."
Whistler and Torry shouted loudly; but after fifteen minutes they were hoarse, and the wind seemed to blow their voices back into their teeth.
"Save your breath to cool your porridge," advised Jemmy. "You're wastin' it. If ye shout from now till doomsday ye won't bring them back if they're drowned. And if they are all right we'll find them safe and sound."
That was sensible; but it did not make Phil and Al any the less anxious regarding Frenchy and Ikey. The younger lads had always been in their care, and the situation looked serious.
Whistler and Torry knew they were expected to help gather wood, and so they gave up shouting and followed Rosy and the others toward the forest. The whole island, as far as they had seen, was forest-covered.
There had been a heavy fall of rain that day, and to find dry fuel was not an easy task. While they were thus engaged the two boys came upon an opening in the trees. In the dusk it seemed that the opening was the beginning of a well-tramped path, leading inland.
Whistler called to Mr. MacMasters to show him this sign of human occupancy of their refuge. Before the ensign arrived at the spot Torry made a second discovery.
"Look who's here!" called the boy in a low voice. "Here's a Man Friday, sure enough!"
There was a light approaching through the forest path. It was a torch, and before long the wavering brand revealed a strange figure—no Man Friday but, as Whistler whispered, a Woman Friday!
She was a peculiar looking being, indeed, dressed in a single loose flowing garment, which covered her from neck to ankles. She was barefooted and bareheaded, her iron-gray hair tossed about her weather-beaten face in wild elflocks.
Her eyes were as brilliant as coals. Either she was not right in her mind or she assumed that manner. At first she merely glowered at the two boys and the Navy officer, and said nothing in reply to the latter's queries.
Her hands and fingers were gnarled from hard work. She looked as tough as bale wire, to quote Torry.
When she finally spoke her voice was as deep and coarse as a man's. She said:
"You-uns was blowed up in yon channel. And you lost your boat, ain't you?"
"Crickey!" gasped Torry to Whistler. "She's a German—a German with a southern accent! What do you know about that?"
Meanwhile Mr. MacMasters was interrogating her to some purpose.
"Have you seen others of our party?" he asked. "There were fourteen men and boys on a raft."
"Ain't seen no stranger befo' to-day, but you-uns," she declared. Her eyes seemed as lidless as a snake's. They did not blink at all.
"Then how did you know that our steamer was blown up?" the ensign queried.
"Old Mag knows a heap other folks don't know," croaked the woman.
The rest of the party came up and heard this statement. Jemmy gave her one look and crossed his fingers.
"She's a witch, and the banshees do her bidding," he whispered hoarsely.
"Well," said Mr. MacMasters, much puzzled, "is there any place where we can get dry—and get some food?"
"I'll take you all to my cabin," she said. "That's what I come for."
She turned around abruptly and strode back along the path. There seemed nothing for the castaways to do but to follow her. But they certainly did discuss the queer woman in whispers while they kept on her trail.
"She's a witch sure enough," repeated Jemmy. "Sure you kin see that easy from the cut of her jib. The ensign had better have no doin's with her. Maybe she'll charm the whole of us with her evil eye."
The island was half a mile or more across. It was almost dark by the time the party of castaways with their strange leader came out upon the other shore.
Here the sound between the islands and the mainland was mist-enshrouded, and it was evident that a nasty night had shut down. Whistler and Torry were terribly anxious about their friends who had been on the life raft.
However, they could not start off alone to hunt for Michael Donahue and Ikey Rosenmeyer. They were just as much under Mr. MacMasters' orders ashore as they were at sea.
They had confidence in the ensign's judgment, too. They believed he would make a search for the rest of their party just as soon as it was practicable.
The cabin to which the woman led them was a large log hut of only one room, but with a number of bunks, built in two tiers, along the walls. At one end was an open hearth and chimney and arrangements for cooking. A long table and some rough-hewn benches were in the middle of the open space.
It was more like a barracks than a home; and from the ancient and fishy smell about the place, the party from the battleship was sure that it had not long since housed fishermen and their nets.
Mr. MacMasters and most of the others turned in at once for a nap; but Whistler Morgan was much too anxious to sleep. The old woman who called herself "Mag" went to work at once to prepare a meal, and the boy offered to help her.
He peeled the vegetables and cut corn from the cob for a sort of Brunswick stew which she prepared. Mag put into it a rabbit, a pair of squirrels and a guinea fowl, the neck of which she wrung and then skinned and cleaned in a most skilful manner.
While she was thus engaged she talked to Whistler. The boy noted, as his chum had, that she arranged her spoken sentences much as Germans do who are not well drilled in English. Yet she had the southern drawl and accent.
"I know whar yo' boys come from," she advanced almost at once. "Yo' are from the Kennebunk battleship—and she's a fur ways from here."
"You have seen the rest of our crowd, then!" cried Whistler earnestly, "haven't you, Missus?"
"No, no!" the old hag said, wagging her head. "Old Mag sees strange sights and knows more'n most folks. Oh, yes! Your little steamboat was blowed up by a big bomb in yon channel."
"It was blown up by a Hun mine," declared Whistler bitterly.
The old woman's eyes flashed at him threateningly. "What yo' mean by 'Hun'? Them that put that bomb there is just as good as yo' folks. I ain't got no use fo' Yankees yet."
"You don't call yourself a Southerner, do you?" asked the boy curiously.
"You're German. At least, your folks were," Whistler declared with conviction.
The woman scowled at him and said nothing more. When Whistler had finished helping her he moved his chair back from the fireplace, for the heat from the live coals was intense. He saw a scrap of torn paper upon the earth floor, near his foot.
His suspicions had been aroused now and he covered the paper with his foot until he could get a chance to pick it up without the old woman observing him. Having secured it he moved still farther back to the table. There was a smoky hanging-lamp over the board which gave him light enough to see by. Secretly he examined the torn paper.
It seemed to be part of a letter, and was closely written on both sides of the scrap. On one side was the beginning of the missive, and after a minute Whistler realized that it was written in German script.
At the head of the letter was a line that not alone amazed, but startled the boy. Coincidence often has a long arm, and in this case the adage proved true. The letter was addressed to