“I don't want to put you in bad with anybody after this, Captain Mayo. I need to keep away for a time where I won't be in danger of seeing Fletcher Fogg. If I meet him while I'm frothing like this, I'll kill him, even if it means the chair. Give me a lay aboard that steamer, no matter how bad your prospects are, and I'll be square with you. That's my man's word to you. I realize it isn't much of a word in your estimation—but there are some promises I can keep. I propose to help you get back at Fogg and his gang. That's reason enough for what I'm doing,” he pleaded, earnestly. “You ought to see that yourself. I'm just as good a man with machinery as I am in the pilot-house. I won't set you back any!”
“All right, Mr. Burkett, come along,” agreed Mayo, curtly, without enthusiasm.
There was a fair wind for their departure and Mayo headed the schooner for Maquoit. The few words which Captain Candage had dropped in regard to Rowley's state of mind worried Mayo. His little edifice of hope was tottering to a fall, but the loss of the Ethel and May meant the last push and utter ruin. He decided that he was in honor bound to preserve the schooner for the uses of the men of Hue and Cry, even if it meant abandonment of the Conomo and going back to fishing. Without that craft they would be paupers once more.
The Ethel and May sneaked her way into Maquoit harbor—if a schooner can be said to sneak. A breeze at nightfall fanned her along, and when her killick went down, the rusty chain groaned querulously from her hawse-hole.
Mayo rowed ashore and toiled his way up the little street to the widow's cottage. He was ashamed to meet Polly Candage—ashamed with the feelings of a strong man who has put out every effort and has failed. But, somehow, he wanted to feel that sisterly grip of her hand and look down into those encouraging gray eyes. He remembered that in times past she had soothed and stimulated him. This time he did not come to her expecting to get new courage for further effort; he had exhausted all resources, he told himself. But in his bitter humiliation he needed the companionship of a true friend—yes, he felt, almost, that she was now the only friend he had left. His experiences with those whom he had before looked on as friends had made him feel that he stood alone.
She came running to him in the little parlor, her hands outstretched and her face alight.
He felt at first sight of her, and his face flushed at thought of his weakness, that he wanted to put his head on her shoulder and weep.
“You poor boy, things have not been going well!”
He choked, for the caress in her tones touched his heart. He patted her hands, and she sat down beside him on the old haircloth sofa.
“I've had a terrible week of it, Polly.”