Tish’s fury knew no bounds, for there we were
marooned and two of us wet to the skin. I must
say for Hutchins, however, that when she learned about
Aggie she was bitterly repentant, and insisted on putting
her own sweater on her. But there we were and
there we should likely stay.
It was quite dark by that time, and we sat in the
launch, rocking gently. The canoeing party had
lighted a large fire on the beach, using the driftwood
we had so painfully accumulated.
We sat in silence, except that Tish, who was watching
our camp, said once bitterly that she was glad there
were three beds in the tent. The girls of the
canoeing party would be comfortable.
After a time Tish turned on Mr. McDonald sharply.
“Since you claim to be no spy,” she said,
“perhaps you will tell us what brings you alone
to this place? Don’t tell me it’s
fish—I’ve seen you reading, with a
line out. You’re no fisherman.”
He hesitated. “No,” he admitted.
“I’ll be frank, Miss Carberry. I did
not come to fish.”
“What brought you?”
“Love,” he said, in a low tone. “I
don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s
the honest truth.”
“Love!” Tish scoffed.
“Perhaps I’d better tell you the story,”
he said. “It’s long and—and
rather sad.”
“Love stories,” Hutchins put in coldly,
“are terribly stupid, except to those concerned.”
“That,” he retorted, “is because
you have never been in love. You are young and—you
will pardon the liberty?—attractive; but
you are totally prosaic and unromantic.”
“Indeed!” she said, and relapsed into
silence.
“These other ladies,” Mr. McDonald went
on, “will understand the strangeness of my situation
when I explain that the—the young lady I
care for is very near; is, in fact, within sight.”
“Good gracious!” said Aggie. “Where?”
“It is a long story, but it may help to while
away the long night hours; for I dare say we are here
for the night. Did any one happen to notice the
young lady in the first canoe, in the pink tam-o’-shanter?”
We said we had—all except Hutchins, who,
of course, had not seen her. Mr. McDonald got
a wet cigarette from his pocket and, finding a box
of matches on the seat, made an attempt to dry it
over the flames; so his story was told in the flickering
light of one match after another.
“I am,” Mr. McDonald said, as the cigarette
steamed, “the son of poor but honest parents.
All my life I have been obliged to labor. You
may say that my English is surprisingly pure, under
such conditions. As a matter of fact, I educated
myself at night, using a lantern in the top of my
father’s stable.”
“I thought you said he was poor,” Hutchins
put in nastily. “How did he have a stable?”
“He kept a livery stable. Any points that
are not clear I will explain afterward. Once
the thread of a narrative is broken, it is difficult
to resume, Miss Hutchins. Near us, in a large
house, lived the lady of my heart.”
