Larry never forgot that long, dismal walk. When he had passed the locomotive, at which the fireman and engineer, with flickering lanterns, were tinkering, and got beyond the rays of the headlight, it seemed as if he had been plunged into a damp pit of blackness. Off to the left the waves rolled and thundered on the sand, and overhead was the rain, while the wind blew with increasing violence. Larry kept to the railroad track, the walking being better there than on the sand.
“Whew! This is fierce!” he exclaimed, as a gust, stronger than any of the preceding ones, nearly tore the umbrella from his grasp. “This is the worst I’ve struck in a long time. But I’ve got to keep on. If Witherby hasn’t skipped out yet, this storm may keep him back.”
Larry trudged on. He was almost wet through, and he was beginning to feel chilly though it was summer. But he knew that his tramp must soon end and, a little later, he saw the dim outlines of the few houses that composed the little hamlet where Bailey, the fisherman, lived.
“I hope he has a fire, and can give me some hot coffee,” mused Larry, as he stumbled on in the darkness. “This place has not changed much since I was here before. I don’t see any sky-scrapers,” he added, “and the taxicab service seems to be put out of commission by the rain.”
He swung away from the track now, and cut across the sands toward the fisherman’s cabin. He looked, but could make out no light in it.
“He’s gone to bed I guess,” thought the reporter. “Well, I’ll have to rouse him. I suppose I should have sent him a message saying I was coming, but I didn’t have time.”
He knocked on the door, and waited. There was no response.
“Jove! I hope he isn’t away from home,” thought Larry. “I don’t know where else I could stay to-night.” He looked around on the storm-swept waste of sand, and knocked again. This time a voice called:
“Who’s there?”
“Larry Dexter,” was the answer. “I came down after I got your telegram, Mr. Bailey. Where’s the queer man with the money?”