Billy’s passage over the causeway was a hasty and somewhat perilous one, for the rocks were overgrown with thick, brown seaweed and still wet from the falling tide. Considering what a hurry he was in and how many times he looked back over his shoulder, it was quite remarkable that he made the crossing without mishap. He walked up a strip of sandy beach, climbed a steep bank and came into the cool, dark pine woods. The faint marks of an old road showed before him, covered with a rusty-brown carpet of fallen needles and leading past the big, grey empty mill of which the Captain had spoken. He followed along it, turned down the lane as directed and tramped some distance straight through the forest, the tall black trees towering above him and the partridge berries, trailing ground pine and slender swinging Indian pines growing thick beneath his feet.

It was more than a mile, perhaps nearly two, that he covered before he observed a clearing ahead of him, and then came suddenly to the edge of the woods and to the shore again. A very neat, brown cottage stood in the open space, with a garden around it, a fence of white palings and a green gate at the end of the lane. Beyond the house he could see grey rocks, a little pier stretching out into the water, a fishing boat at anchor and, as a background to everything, the bright, sunlit sea. He opened the gate and came slowly through the garden.

A little girl was stooping over one of the round flowerbeds, picking pansies into her white apron. She was a short and solid little person, with thick yellow braids, very round pink cheeks and, as she looked up at him, a most cordial welcoming smile.

“I’m Sally Shute,” she announced somewhat abruptly and without a particle of shyness; then, as Billy hesitated, “I believe I would like to know who you are.”

“I’m Billy Wentworth, and I brought these strawberries from Captain Saulsby,” the boy answered, a little abashed at this sudden plunge into the business of getting acquainted.

“The Captain said he was sorry not to send them sooner.”

He could not seem to think of anything else to say, that was of especial importance, so turned to go.

“Wait,” Sally commanded, in the tone of one who is used to having her orders obeyed. “I must take the berries to my mother and have her empty them out, because Captain Saulsby will want his boxes back again. And I think,”—here she looked him over solemnly from head to foot—“I think that you look thirsty.”

Billy grinned and admitted that there might be some reason for that appearance.

Getting acquainted with Sally was as rapid a process as had been getting acquainted with Captain Saulsby. The tall glass of cold milk and the plate of fresh gingerbread certainly put an end to any formalities between them, and the expedition down to the hen-house to see the new brood of deliciously round, fat ducklings carried them far on the road toward friendship. Billy thought that the ducks looked rather like Sally herself, they were so small and fat and yellow and so very sure of themselves, but he did not summon courage to say so. Next, they went down to the pier to see, “the biggest big fish you ever saw, that my father brought in last night.”

This, Billy felt, was more worth showing him than were mere ducklings, but he did not admit being impressed by the size of the fish, although in truth it was a monster, nearly as long as the dory that held it. He stood passing his hand over the slippery surface of its silver scales and listening to the thrilling tale of its capture, recounted by Sally with as much spirit as though she herself had been present. She broke off in the middle of her story, however, to exclaim:

“Gracious, I’m keeping you here until maybe the tide will be over the causeway and you can’t get back. That would never do!” They hurried up to the house, gathered the berry boxes together in haste, and went toward the gate.

“I’ll not forgive myself if I have made you miss the tide,” Sally said. “I think I will walk with you as far as the creek to make sure.”

She chattered continuously as they went down the wooded lane, telling him what the different flowers and birds were, what games she and her brother played there among the trees, where her father’s land ended, and where Captain Saulsby’s began.

“The Captain owns almost all of this end of the Island,” she said. “His father or maybe his grandfather built the mill and used to run it. There were grain fields over most of Appledore then, and people farmed more and fished less. Captain Saulsby doesn’t do anything with the land except the little piece his house is on; he has not really lived here a great many years. He ran away when he was a boy and sailed all over the world, and only came back to settle down when he got too old to go to sea.”

Her talk did not remain long on the subject of the Captain, however, but presently, in response to a question of Billy’s, wandered away to Johann Happs.

“Yes, I know him, and I like him too. He comes every so often to fix our clocks, mend the locks and things that won’t work, sharpen up the tools and put us in order generally. He’s so cheerful and honest: there’s not a person on the Island that doesn’t admire Joe and trust him.”

Billy shook his head silently; he could make nothing, so far, of this strange affair of Johann Happs. He had not time to reflect on the puzzle long, for presently they met some one coming down the lane toward them.

“He’s queerer than the Captain or Johann too,” thought Billy, and with some reason. The man who approached was as unusual as were the old sailor and Johann Happs, with one variation. Those two, one liked at once; this person it was impossible not to detest the moment one laid eyes upon him.

He was small and pinched-looking, with greyish sandy hair and a sallow face. His eyes were light-coloured and shifty, seeming to have a rooted objection to looking straight at any one. He wore white shoes that were very shabby and checked clothes of a cut that was meant to be extremely fashionable—and was not. His straw hat was put on at a jaunty, youthful angle, but, when he took it off to greet Sally with a flourish, he betrayed the fact that he was growing bald and a little wrinkled.

“Very pretty woods you have here, very pretty,” he observed, holding out a hand which obstinate Miss Sally pretended not to notice.

“They aren’t our woods; they are Captain Saulsby’s,” she replied ungraciously. “His land begins back there.”

“Ah, very true, Miss Shute,” the man went on. “He’s rather a queer one, our friend the Captain, now isn’t he? He hardly seems to remember the place is his, I think. Doesn’t come here very often and look after his boundary fences and all that, does he?”

Even Billy could see that the man’s eagerness betrayed him and that he asked the last question a shade too anxiously. Sally observed it as plain as day and had no hesitation about saying so.

“If you want to find out all that so much, you had better ask Captain Saulsby himself,” she told him emphatically. “I really think he knows best about his own affairs.”

“You are right,” the other agreed instantly, “and I will ask him. But you see,”—here he dropped his voice to a very confidential tone—“the old Captain is a hard man to do business with, very hard. I am trying to buy this land of him, not for myself, you understand, but for a friend, a man who is a stranger in these parts, and immensely wealthy. He has taken a fancy to Appledore Island and wants to build a summer home here, and an elegant place it is to be; he has actually shown me the plans. It seems he has set his heart on buying the mill-creek property from the Captain, but, dear, dear, what an obstinate creature the old fellow is! We have offered him a good price and of course he is only holding out for more money; but he has tried my patience almost to its end. I am wondering if he has a clear title to all these acres he owns. You never heard your father say anything to that effect, did you, my dear?”

He bent forward and his hard little eyes fairly glittered as he put the question. Sally, however, as a source of information, was quite as disappointing as Captain Saulsby.

“Harvey Jarreth,” she announced firmly, “you are always going round asking questions about other people’s business, but I, for one, won’t answer them. And my father won’t either, and besides, he’s not at home.”

“Very well,” returned Jarreth cheerfully, “very well.”

It was evidently no new thing to him to receive replies as tart as Sally’s. He turned on his heel and marched away down the lane before them, swinging his shoulders and his cane, yet somehow not giving the careless effect that he so plainly wished.

“Everybody hates Harvey Jarreth,” Sally explained when he was out of hearing. “I know it was not polite to talk to him so, but he makes me so angry that I never can help it. He is always getting the best of people and boasting about it, making money on sharp bargains, finding out things that aren’t his concern and then profiting by them. No one can trust him and no one can like him.”

“Does he really want to buy Captain Saulsby’s land, do you think?” Billy asked.

“He says so. My father thinks it would be a good thing for the Captain if he could sell it and if there really is such a person as Harvey Jarreth tells about who wants to buy it for a house. None of us has ever seen any such friend of his. And Captain Saulsby is a queer old man; he is dreadfully poor, yet you can’t possibly tell whether he will agree or not. It would be like Mr. Jarreth to get the land from him some other way, if he can’t buy it. He is so sharp at such things and the Captain is so careless!”

They had come to the mill-creek road by now, and were passing the door of the mill itself.

“That’s a funny old place,” Billy observed. “Does any one live there?”

“People lived in it a good while after it had stopped being used as a mill,” Sally said, “but it is empty now. Would you like to look in?”

The big timbered door was fastened only by an iron latch, so there was no difficulty about pushing it open and peeping in. The whole of the lower floor was one great room, with a crooked flight of rickety stairs at the back, leading up to the second story. The windows were small, making the interior full of shadows and very cool and dark after the hot sunshine outside. There was a big fireplace of rough stones, a bench near it, a table and a broken chair or two, with a three-legged stool in the chimney corner.

“Jacky and I come here to play sometimes,” said Sally, “although he doesn’t like it much. People used to say it was haunted, but of course that’s nonsense. Still it is pretty dark and queer and rather too full of strange creakings when you are alone.”

They closed the door again, went down the steps and along the road and parted on the beach.

“I’m glad you came,” said Sally; “you must come again. Now hurry, or the tide will catch you. I think Harvey Jarreth has gone on to Captain Saulsby’s ahead of you. Good-bye.”

As Billy hastened across the stepping-stones and through the meadow, he looked very sharply and very often down toward the rocks, but could see no signs of any one’s presence. Sally was right; Harvey Jarreth had gone ahead of him and was standing now by the bench near the hedge, in hot dispute with the old Captain.

“I never saw a man so blind to his own interests,” he was saying. “I believe you are out of your senses. Come now, say what figure you will really take.”

“You could cover the land with gold pieces for me and I wouldn’t sell,” returned the old sailor with determination. “I’m not saying that it isn’t a good offer for me in some ways, but I will part with no property to a man who won’t give his name or state his business. If I’m to take his money, I must know where it comes from.”

“It is perfectly natural that my friend should ask me not to give his name,” Jarreth insisted. “And as for the money, what do you care where it comes from, just so you make something? What do you want with all those acres your father left you, when you only can dig up one corner of it to plant a few miserable poppies in?”

“What does your friend want of it?” retorted the Captain; “and by the way, how does it happen you have such a friend? How long have you known him?”

“Why—why, not long,” admitted Jarreth, “but he’s all right, I know that, and able to buy the whole of Appledore Island twice over. Well, I suppose you are standing out for a bigger price and I will just have to tell him so.”

“I’m standing out for nothing of the sort, you everlasting lunkhead,” roared the old man, completely exasperated, “and I’ll waste no more time talking to you.”

“I’ll just step up to the house and rest a little there in the shade,” Jarreth said. “I have a long walk home, so I might as well give you time first to think this well over. You will see reason in the end.”

The Captain made no reply, but deliberately turned his back upon Jarreth as he walked away, and began puffing furiously at his pipe.

“Well, Billy Wentworth,” he said, taking his first notice of the boy, who had stood waiting until the altercation should end, “how did you like Sally Shute?”

“I liked her lots,” Billy replied with enthusiasm, “and I am glad I went. Here are your boxes: I will carry them up to the house.”

“Sit down a bit until I finish my pipe,” the Captain said. “That persistent cuss is waiting up there at the cottage and we may as well let him cool his heels a while. His time isn’t worth anything except to think up mischief.”

Billy took his place on the bench beside the old sailor and sat staring out to sea.

“What is Johann Happs doing out there in his boat?” he inquired at last. “Is he going to sail her?”

“I think not today,” Captain Saulsby answered. “He is always working out there at something or other. He is as fond of her as though she were his own kin. He hasn’t any one belonging to him, maybe that is why he loves her so.”

Just at this moment a small boy came lounging down the path with as little hurry as though all the world were waiting for him. He was short and fat and looked so much like a lesser edition of Sally that there could be no doubt of his being Jacky Shute.

“I’m just a-goin’ to weed those onions, Captain Saulsby,” he said hastily, to prevent the old sailor’s speaking first. “I stayed down by the wharf a little late, fishing, but there’s plenty of time yet. It’s not five o’clock.”

He scurried away across the garden, leaving the Captain sputtering with helpless indignation.

“That’s the kind of helper I have,” he exclaimed. “Comes when he likes, goes when he likes, does what he likes. His mother and Sally can’t do a thing with him. And stupid! Why, there’s nothing you can teach him, no matter how you try. He has fished and paddied along this shore all his life, but he doesn’t know a thing about boats; he can’t tell the difference between a sloop and a knockabout. And what’s more,—” here the old man turned full upon Billy and dropped his voice as though he hated to speak so dreadful a thing aloud—“what’s more, he says he doesn’t want to know.”

Billy opened his mouth to say something in reply, and then shut it again. He realized that the ignorance of which the Captain spoke was as great as would be the inability to distinguish between a dog and a cat, but he was unwilling to betray the fact that he was as much in the dark as Jacky Shute. A few hours ago he would have been quite scornful of any such knowledge; now he felt a strong desire to hide his ignorance, a desire which, in turn, gave way to an even greater wish. He fought against it, reminded himself over and over again how determined he was to despise everything that had to do with the sea, how he hated Appledore and would have no interest in it. But there was something about the rough old sailor’s bent figure, broken by a hundred tempests yet strong and determined still, there was something about the tossing blue water, about the wide, unbroken horizon, about the fresh, sharp, salt air that made him feel—well, different in a most indefinable way.

They sat in silence for a little while until the old man’s pipe was smoked out, and Billy felt that it was time for him to go. He rose, held out his hand to say good-bye, and then suddenly felt his wish so strong within him that it broke forth into words.

“Captain Saulsby,” he said, “I don’t know the difference between a sloop and a knockabout, either. I don’t know anything about the sea or about boats. I wish you would teach me.”

The sailor’s gnarled old brown hand was laid very gently on his shoulder.

“Bless you, how should you know,” he answered; “you that never saw salt water before today? Sure, I’ll teach you anything I know; sit right down again and listen.”

Miss Mattie Pearson, up at the hotel, must have rocked and knitted and knitted and rocked a long, long time that day as she watched for her nephew’s return. The bright red sock that she was making for the Belgians grew several inches, the other guests went in to dinner, but still she waited, nor did she seem impatient. She was spare and elderly and beginning to be white-haired; she might have answered well enough to Billy’s description of her as an “old maid aunt” but she had keen grey eyes that had been able to look pretty deeply into her nephew’s rebellious young soul. He had been sullen and discontented ever since his arrival that morning and, if he had made any efforts to conceal his state of mind, they had not been successful ones. So she had sent him off in the direction of Captain Saulsby’s house and seemed not in the least surprised or displeased that he was so long in coming back. Old maid aunts sometimes have a way of knowing things, just from the fact that they have lived so long.

Meanwhile Billy was still sitting on the bench listening, entranced, to details of full-rigged ships, schooners, yawls, raceabouts and dories. His head began to reel under the weight of all the knowledge poured out upon him, so that, finally, it was only with mighty effort that he followed what the Captain was saying. Even the old sailor realized this at length and decided to have mercy.

“I will tell you what we can do,” he said. “We will make you a model; schooner-rigged, we will have her, with everything complete and shipshape, so that you can learn the ropes too well ever to forget them. No,” as Billy tried to remonstrate, “of course I will have time. What is an old man good for, when he can’t follow the sea any longer, but to hand on what he knows to some one who will do him credit some day? Yes, we will build you a model and she shall be called the Josephine, after the first ship I ever sailed in; the finest one that ever crossed the seas.”

As Billy finally took his way homeward, his mind was a seething mass of nautical terms which he vainly tried to set in order.

“The gaff holds the top of the mainsail,” he was saying to himself, “and the jib-boom—”

Here he was obliged to interrupt the repetition of his lesson by laughing aloud at the memory of his last view of Captain Saulsby. Harvey Jarreth had been waiting at the cottage, true to his word, so that Billy’s final sight of the two had shown him the little eager man still pouring out a flood of argument, while the Captain sat unconcernedly darning his blue sock once more, and whistling as gaily as though Jarreth and his real-estate project were a thousand miles away.

However, just before Billy passed out through the gap in the wall, he saw something that drove both lesson and laughter completely from his mind. He had stopped to take one more look at the little house, the sloping garden, the steep rocks running out into the foaming surf and at Johann Happs’ trim little boat riding at anchor just inside the harbour. One glance showed him clearly that the vessel was in distress, but how or why he could not tell. She seemed to be settling slowly in the water, indeed had already sunk so deep that the waves were breaking over her. And, strangest of all, Johann Happs was standing, with folded arms, upon the beach, staring at her but quite unmoving, never lifting a hand to rescue his beloved boat.