The Island of Appledore

by Cornelia Meigs

Captain Saulsby did not seem in the least sleepy, but talked on and on, the thread of his conversation becoming ever more difficult to follow. His mind had dropped away entirely into the past; he talked of Singapore now, and of hot still nights on the Indian ocean, or of the restless, choppy tossing of the China Sea. Billy’s own thoughts wandered farther and farther away, pondering on questions of his own, the sound of the Captain’s voice becoming vague in his ears. He wondered dimly why the bluejackets had not come back; perhaps they had been picked up at the other landing place and had returned to the ship. He had assured them so earnestly that he could get assistance at Sally’s house that probably they had not thought of him again. When he found that the Shutes were away maybe he ought to have gone off at once by the road to get help. But no, that would have left Sally there alone for too long; it would not have been safe, especially with that possibility of something or somebody upstairs. Why, oh, why, had he slept through the ebb tide? That was what had caused all the trouble. His mind drifted further, to his mother and father in South America, and how much he would have to tell them when they got home. It would be more interesting to relate his tale to them than to Aunt Mattie, although she was proving to be rather a good sort, too. He liked Aunt Mattie; he would not have called her “an old-maid aunt” again for anything. How lucky it was she had gone to Boston and was not aware of any of his adventures. He watched the faint moonlight move across the floor, disappear and come into view again; he thought of Johann Happs and his broken clock, and wondered again about the man who had frightened him so. Dear, dear, but this was a long night; would it ever end? He rose at last, walked stiffly over to mend the dying fire and then, going to the door, stood for a little peering out.

A heavy fog was rolling in from the sea, but it seemed to cling to the ground and not to be able to rise very high. The trees and bushes stood knee deep in the thick white mist, with the moonlight still turning the topmost branches to silver. He felt sure that some hours must have gone by, that it must be after midnight, perhaps nearly morning. A light touch on his arm told him that Sally was awake and had come to stand beside him.

“I am so stiff,” he whispered softly, “that I will have to go out and walk up and down a little or I will never be able to move again.” Sally nodded.

“It will do you good,” she answered, also in a whisper, “and the Captain is quiet now.” Billy glanced toward the old sailor and somehow felt more alarmed about him than ever before. He was silent, but not asleep; his eyes were half-closed and he seemed quite unconscious of their presence. His breathing had grown weak and uneven. Sally went over to him; if she felt the same anxiety that Billy did, she managed not to show it.

“Go on,” she ordered, under her breath; “it will be good for you.”

He wondered if perhaps the tide were not down now and the water shallow enough for him to cross the stepping stones. Once beyond the mill creek he could get help so quickly that perhaps his two companions might not even know that he had gone.

To spend such a night as he had, to follow it by sleeping all afternoon on a bare floor, and then sit up on a three-legged stool for half the next night, seemed to make one feel a little queer. He tramped down the path briskly to get the stiffness out of his legs, then turned to look back at the mill to make sure Sally was safe. There was a feeble, flickering light in the lower windows, that was from their fire, and the candle that burned on the mantel shelf. But—

“Is that moonlight?” wondered Billy, as he caught a faint glimmer from one of the panes in a window above.

It might have been moonlight reflected on the glass but he could not be sure. He went back to make certain but could not for the life of him decide. There were outside stairs, so steep as to be practically a ladder, that went up to the top of the mill. The steps led very close past the window at which he was looking and at which he continued to stare for some minutes while he made up his mind to something.

“After all,” he concluded at last, almost speaking his thought aloud, “there is not the least harm in going up to see.”