XXVII
We had little time to speculate on the problem of the Wanderer’s disappearance. After the first moment of stunned silence Chanler broke down, promptly and completely.
“Hang it, hang it!” he cried, striking the bow of the canoe with his paddle. “This is too much. Your fault, too, Gardy. Now find the yacht.”
“Steady, George!” I warned, as the light craft rocked dangerously. “You’re in a canoe, remember. Keep still.”
“Keep still, keep still! How d’you expect me to keep still? Isn’t this enough to make a man nervous. Hang it! I can’t keep still, I tell you. This is too much.”
“It nearly was,” I agreed. “A little more that time and we’d have been in the water.”
“Then do something! Say something!” he commanded. “Where’s the yacht? What are we going to do?”
“First of all, if you’ll please sit still for a minute or two, we’re going to get to land without tipping over. Will you sit still that long?”
“Go ahead! You’ve got me into this mess; now get me out.”
“Only sit still,” I pleaded and carefully guided the canoe towards the nearest land. This was the little out-jutting point of the island from which I had swum to the Wanderer that afternoon, and I did not breathe fully until I had beached the canoe solidly and the danger of capsizing from George’s jerky movements was over. He stepped out hurriedly.
“My God! This is awful, awful!” he said hoarsely, looking around in the dark. “This is terrible! A fine mess you’ve got me into, Gardy.”
“Why, George, it can’t be so bad,” said Betty cheerily, stepping out beside him. “The yacht’s been moved that’s all. We’ll only have to find her new anchorage. It will be all right.”
“All right? All right! Hang it, Betty; I’m in no shape to stand this sort of thing. It’s Gardy’s fault. He got me into it. Now what are you going to do, Gardy? Eh?”
“Look around for the yacht’s new anchorage, as Miss Baldwin says,” I replied. “She can’t be far off.”
“Can’t be far off! Can you see her? Is she anywhere around? Don’t you suppose we’d see the lights if she was near?”
“Not if they had no outside lights and the curtains in the cabin were down,” said Betty soothingly.
“Rot, rot, rot! Didn’t they know I was coming back? Weren’t they expecting me? Wouldn’t they have the lights out so we could see’em? Rot! They’ve gone. The yacht’s gone. What are we going to do?”
“If you will just sit here quietly with Miss Baldwin,” I said, “I’ll take a look around. The yacht must be near, of course, and we can’t help finding it.”
The first part of this statement I felt to be true: the yacht must be near, for no stretch of imagination could picture Riordan putting to sea. On the other hand I recalled the countless crooked indentations of the fiord and knew there were a score of places where the Wanderer, with lights out, might be hidden. We might even have passed it without being aware of its nearness.
I pulled the canoe safely from the water and made my way in the darkness around the island to the open sea. But the sea was only a noisy waste with no light upon it. I went around the island, returning to my starting point, and no glimpse of the yacht or her lights did I have.
Betty now was sitting beside George, who had slumped down against a boulder, and was patting his hand and talking to him assuringly.
“I told you so,” he whined when I made my report. “Nothing doing. She’s gone. Now what in the world are we going to do? Eh?”
“The yacht must be somewhere in the bay. You mustn’t worry so, George; it will all come out all right.” Betty was speaking to him as one might to a frightened child. “Mr. Pitt has only started on his hunt, haven’t you, Mr. Pitt?”
“Of course,” I said, “I’ll take the canoe and run up some of these inlets. She’ll probably be there.”
I paddled away from the island with an appearance of confidence that I did not feel. By this time I had begun to appreciate the ironic humor with which Brack had warned us not to go too far. This was his work, and as I recalled the sly certainty of his smile, such hope as I had of finding the yacht dwindled to a minimum. Nevertheless I searched the inlets on both sides of the bay for the matter of half a mile before I returned to the island with my admission of failure.
Chanler by this time had passed into the furious stage of nervousness. He was pacing swiftly up and down the beach, clenching and unclenching his hands and breathing heavily.
“I don’t care—I don’t care where you did look and where you didn’t look!” he burst out as I stepped from the canoe. “You didn’t find the yacht, and you’ve got me into this, and I can’t stand it much longer; that’s all.”
He swung away and I followed and caught his arm savagely.
“If you would think of Miss Baldwin a little you might forget your nerves,” I whispered.
I found myself repeating Wilson’s words—
“These things aren’t so bad for men, but there’s the girl.”
“I know, I know, Gardy,” he replied hoarsely. “I—I can’t help it. Don’t throw me down, Gardy; don’t ball me out. I’m shaky. I can’t help anything else. You’ve got to get me to that yacht where my dope is, or—or you’ve got to get me back to Doc’ Olson.”
“What!”
“You have. I can’t stand it much longer.” His voice was raised, regardless of Betty. “I won’t, you hear? I won’t stand it any longer.”
He turned and rushed back to Betty, holding out his hands.
“You know how I feel, don’t you Betty? You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, George,” she said, taking his hands in hers, “I understand. But can’t you sit down and quiet yourself a little?”
“No, no, no! I can’t. Gardy, you’ve got to get me to the doctor at once. You understand, don’t you, Betty?”
“Yes, George. You shall go to the doctor at once.”
“What!” I cried. “Go back there now, when we’re so well rid of Brack?”
“What else is there to do?” she said. “Can we do anything but help him? Please don’t think of me. There isn’t the least bit of need of that.”
“I will do as you say,” I said. “Is it your wish we go back there?”
“We must. You can see there’s nothing else to do.
“You’ll stay here——”
“Certainly not!” cried George. “Takes two to paddle; I’m in no shape am I, Betty?”
I could have struck him for that, but Betty said soothingly—
“No, George, you’re not.”
She was right. Chanler was in no shape to paddle any more, so Betty took his place in the bow, and, with George crouched in the middle, the journey up the fiord began. Save for an occasional groan or exclamation from George and a soothing response from Betty, we spoke but little.
I was lost in admiration of the manner in which Betty tackled the task before us. She sat up, slim and straight, bending but little to her paddle, but by our progress I knew the force which her young arms placed behind each stroke. There was no hesitation, no faltering, though I knew that she, too, dreaded returning to Brack in this fashion. She seemed to have forgotten herself in the need to help George; and the Spring-like youth of her reached back to me, putting new life into my tiring arms, new confidence in my troubled thoughts. I had for the moment almost fallen into despair, accepting Brack’s will with us as invincible. Without Betty I would have felt that we were beaten. But there was the indomitable confidence of youth in the poise of her little head, there was inspiration in the swing of her young-woman body, and as we paddled on into the darkness my heart cried out:
“Bravo, Betty! Bravo, brave girl! We’ll beat him yet.”