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CHAPTER I
SAM, THE BOAT PERSON
Miss Chalmers stood on the wharf at Clayton, poised upon one foot, while she employed the other in executing alternate tap-taps, denoting impatience, and vigorous stamping, by which she registered rage. Even the half-grown boy who had volunteered to find her a boatman knew that she was angry.
Her free foot beat upon the rough flooring of the wharf with increasing vigor. The wharf did not care; it was old and stout, and did not pretend to be ornamental.
Miss Chalmers's shoe might have protested, had it possessed a voice, for it was new and spotless, and of delicate constitution. With its mate, it had cost Miss Chalmers twenty dollars, a fact which is set down to obviate the necessity of describing what else the lady wore. Her whole costume was in complete financial and artistic harmony with its twenty-dollar-shoe foundation.
It was dark and clear and warm—somewhat after nine o'clock of an August night. There were gleams of light upon the St. Lawrence, some in motion, some merely shimmering restlessly as they lay fixed upon the rippling surface. It was an evening for poetry and romance and beauty—if only the last steamer had not departed.
The boy came back and confirmed his previous impression that no other boat would stop that night at Witherbee's Island.
"It's absurd—inexcusable!" exclaimed Miss Chalmers sharply.
"Yes, ma'am," said the boy.
"How am I to get there, then? Well? Answer!"
"I got a man who'll take you."
"Where is he?"
"Down that way," replied the boy, nodding his head toward the end of the wharf.
"A reliable man?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You know him?"
"No, ma'am."
Miss Chalmers stamped her foot again.
"How can you say he's reliable if you don't know him?" she demanded so imperatively that the boy winced and shuffled his feet.
"Well, he's got a power-boat, and his name's Sam," said the boy defensively. "He ain't ever been wrecked 's fur as I know."
Miss Chalmers made an eloquent and helpless gesture with both arms, then surveyed her light field-equipment—six trunks and a grip.
"Show me the man," she spoke abruptly.
The boy made off in haste, with Miss Chalmers at his heels. He led the way among bales and boxes and barrels, stopping presently under a dim oil lantern set upon a post.
On the string-piece of the wharf sat a man, smoking a pipe. He looked up at Miss Chalmers casually, yet speculatively, then arose and nodded amicably.
"Looking for me?" he asked.
Miss Chalmers was annoyed at the phrasing; never yet had she "looked for" a man. But she swallowed her annoyance.
"I must go to Mr. Stephen Witherbee's island—to-night," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You know where it is?"
"Oh, yes!"
"How far is it?"
"Something like fifteen miles."
"Can you take me there at once?"
"Well," said the man, removing his pipe from his mouth and regarding Miss Chalmers with solemn interest, "it all depends on what you call 'at once.' I can take you there, but I'm no speed-king."
"Take me, then!" exclaimed Miss Chalmers. "And get my trunks."
The man went up the wharf at a leisurely gait, accompanied by the boy. Almost immediately the boy came back.
"He says he can't take all them trunks, and for you to pick out two."
Miss Chalmers strode back to her trunks with no improvement of temper. She found the boatman surveying them placidly.
"Which is the emergency-kit?" he asked pleasantly. "I'm not running a freighter, ma'am."
"They've all got to go—every one!"

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