Captain Ichabod had no time for further musing. His attention was attracted by a crackling of twigs in the small brush on the side of the dune. As he looked in the direction of the sound he saw hurtling toward him the barrel of molasses. The two beach-combers had succeeded in topping the rise with their burden; then, suddenly excited and confused by the approach of the coast-guard men, they had turned it loose with a violent push. It shot downward at speed, nor did it stop until it had reached the very edge of the water of Core Sound, almost at Ichabod's feet. After the heavy barrel came the two plunderers, running rapidly. One of them was a mere lad, certainly not more than nineteen years of age, while the other was of advanced years as was proclaimed by his deeply lined face and gray hair.
As the two drew near, Captain Ichabod quickly concealed himself behind a haw bush, there to await developments. He had a particular reason for not wishing to be recognized by these men—at least not until he should have had time to get his bearings and to decide what course it were best to pursue in this unexpected situation. For that matter, he was half tempted to leave the place without showing himself and without denouncing the paltry thieves.
Ichabod's indecision was not of long duration. His course of action was decided more quickly than he had anticipated by the arrival of the coast-guard men. They had hurried after the fugitives with some apprehension lest the old fisherman might be roughly handled. Now the men descended the slope with a cheer, and in another moment had pounced on the two cringing wretches, who were eagerly clutching their ill-gotten barrel of "long sweet'nin'," as if loath to give it up.
This was not the first time that old Sandy Mason, for such was the name of the gray-haired man, had been driven away from his nefarious work by the boys from the station. Hitherto, he had been let off with a reprimand. He was sure that such would now be the case. Nevertheless, his heart was sore within him, for he knew that the coming of these servants of Uncle Sam must prevent him from taking away in his sharpie a whole winter's supply, and more, of fine old Porto Rico molasses—a treasure trove indeed. For the dwellers on the banks have little butter, and molasses, when it is to be had, serves in a measure as a substitute, at every meal.
There was only a short struggle, for the beach-combers offered no resistance, except at being separated from the precious barrel. The capture was chiefly an affair for merriment to the men of the coast guard, and, when they finally loosened their hold of Sandy and the lad, his son, they were laughing boisterously at the despair on the countenance of the father and the youngster's look of chagrin.
Then, before a word was spoken and while the men were still roaring with mirth, Captain Ichabod stepped forth from the shelter of the haw tree. He seemed to stand a little more erect than was his wont. There was a twinkle of delight in those kindly eyes, a little dimmed by age. He bore himself with an air of impressive manliness, despite the burden of his years. He passed around the group until he stood directly in front of the beach-comber with the gray hair. For a moment he did not speak, but stood motionless, gazing steadily at the fellow before him. But, presently, he raised his hand in a gesture commanding silence. The laughter of the coast guard ceased on the instant, and the fisherman spoke:
"Men," he said in a steady voice, evidently weighing each word, "as I clim over the top o' yonder dune an' come down the slope to the shore I saw that sharpie with her nose snug-up to the shore. As I came on further I saw an' read aloud her name—Roxana Lee. Right then was the fust time that name had passed my lips in twenty year. It hurt me to speak it, fer 'twas that o' the only woman I have ever loved—or ever lost until just lately. The words was on my lips afore I knowed it. That woman did not die, pass away like an honest woman, but she ran off with a low-down beach-comber, whose thieving face I hain't looked upon—like the name on the stern rail o' yonder boat—fer twenty year, until to-day. Neither have I spoke his name. Seein' as how so many things has been a-happenin' here lately that is a-changin' things with me, I will say to you men—that varmint, that low-down robber o' the dead an' o' the livin' whose clawlike hands you have unhooked from the chymes o' the barrel containin' the stolen 'lasses that he hoped to get home fer Roxana Lee to wallop her dodgers in, is no less or no other than Sandy Mason, the thief who stole my gal twenty year ago, an' if I hain't plumb wrong on family favorin', that striplin' is their son."
To all outward appearance, old Ichabod was perfectly calm. The men from the station regarded the speaker with faces grown suddenly stern as they realized the nature of the wrong done him. Neither Sandy Mason nor his son ventured to utter a syllable, as the fisherman continued:
"Sandy, you may think as how tain't none o' my affair, an' that I'd look a heap better to keep my lip out o' it. Maybe as how that's a fact, but God knows when I'll ever get another chance to rub it in hard on the likes o' you. I've heard, year after year, that you was still at the old tricks—too lazy to work, with your eye always turned to the sea hoping that some poor devil would misread his reckonin' an' put his ship where you can ransack its vitals fer an easy livin' fer you and yours. I'll lay my all agin a two pence that that wife o' your'n has wished many's the time that she had married an honest man an' not a thief. Judging from what I knew o' her years ago, I'll allow that it mighty nigh breaks her heart to see the man that infatuated her as a gal a-takin' her child an' a-bringin' him up in the ways o' a thief. Shame on ye, Sandy Mason! I'm goin' to ask the boys to turn ye loose, an' I hope to God that this will be a lesson that ye'll not soon forget, an' that ye'll straighten up an' be a man afore it's too late. If so be you an' the woman are past redemption, quit your thievin' an' beach-combin' for the sake o' the boy."
Ichabod then turned to the lad, and addressed him in a kindly voice.