"'I'm a gallant lass as ever you see,
And the roving sailor winked at me.'
"Bill was allus feelin' that way when half full 'n' now jist happy 'n' comfortable like. There was a new moon that sorter lit up the path, 'n' jist as he got to where it made a turn, 'bout ten feet from the shanty, I made a signal by squeakin' like a gull, an' the boys begun workin' the lines, 'n' 'bout two dozen white figgers rose up from behind the rocks or stepped out o' the cabin. I never knew which skeered Bill the worst, the awful critter snappin' at him thar in the path, or the ghosts, for Bill gave one screech that could a' been heard five mile, 'n' ye never seen a man run the way he did. He didn't stop ter keep in the path either, but jist went right over the rocks anywhere. He tumbled two or three times 'fore he got out o' sight, 'n' you'd a-thought he was made o' rubber, the way he got up 'n' yelled, 'Help, help, O Lord,' all the time. I'll 'low it was the fust time he'd ever called on the Lord fer help, but it wa'n't the last, fer he made straight fer the parson's house 'n' begun pummellin' on the door.
"'O Lord, take me in,' he said when the parson opened it, 'I'm come fer at last 'n' the divil's arter me. Pray fer me, parson, an' for God's sake, do it quick!' An' then he went down on his knees, 'n' sayin', 'Lordy, Lordy, I'll never drink 'nother drop's long's I live!' Parson Bush was a good deal took back, fer he didn't know the joke, 'n' 'lowed Bill had the tremens. 'Better go back to yer shanty, ye sot,' he said, 'an' when you git sober come here 'n' I'll talk with ye,' an' with that he shet the door 'n' Bill jist laid down 'n' bellowed like a calf. 'N' he didn't go back to his shanty, either, that night, not by a jugful; he'd seen 'nough o' that spot ter last him quite a spell. 'N' when he did thar warn't nuthin' out o' ordinary, fer we'd chucked the hogfish off the rocks, 'n' 'twas more 'n a year 'fore Bill found out the trick we played, 'n' in all that time he kept sober. He did find out arter a spell, fer a joke like that can't be kept allus, 'n' when Bill did, he took ter drink agin, 'n' finally jumped off the dock one night in a fit o' the jims 'n' that was the last o' him. It's hard to larn an old dog new tricks."
For an hour the little crowd of Jess Hutton's friends lingered, wondering and speculating on what the outcome of this investment in a granite ledge would be. To most it seemed a piece of folly or the act of a madman. These worthless rocks had stared them in the face so many years, had so interfered with house building, or the convenient placing of fish racks, or road making, that they had one and all come to hate their very sight. In their estimation they were a nuisance and a curse, and for any sane man to buy twenty acres of ledge to quarry and transport five hundred miles, seemed worse than folly.
Then, having given due expression to this common sentiment, and congratulating Jess upon his good luck, they shook hands with him and went their way. And when the sound of their footsteps upon the one narrow plank walk of Rockhaven had ceased, and only the murmur of the near-by ocean was heard, Jess, as was his wont when lonesome, drew his old brown fiddle from its hiding place and sought consolation from its strings. And also, as usual, the melodies were the songs of Bonnie Scotland.
CHAPTER II
WINN HARDY
Winn Hardy, born and reared where the tinkle of the cow bells on the hillside pastures, or the call of the village church bell on Sunday was the most exciting incident, and a crossroads schoolhouse the only temple of learning, reached the age of fourteen as utterly untainted by knowledge of the world as the birds that annually visited the old farm orchards. And then came a catastrophe in his life which ended in two freshly made graves in the village cemetery, and he was thrust into the whirl of city life, to make his home with a widowed aunt, a Mrs. Converse, who felt it her duty to complete his education by a two years' course at a business college.
It was a scant educational outfit with which to carve his way to fame and fortune, but many a man succeeds who has less, and Winn might have been worse off.
He had one unfortunate and serious fact to contend with, however, and that was a mercurial disposition. When the world and his associates seemed to smile, he soared amid the rosy clouds of optimism, and when things went wrong, he lost his courage.
His first step in wage-earning (a menial position in a store, with scanty pay which scarce sufficed to clothe him) soon convinced him how hard a task earning a livelihood was, and that no one obtained a penny unless he fought for it. Then through the influence of his aunt, he obtained an easier berth as copy clerk in the office of Weston & Hill, whose business was the investing of other people's money, and while his hours of service were less, his pay was no better. Three years of this resulted in slow advancement to a junior bookkeeper's desk and better pay. It also broadened his list of acquaintances, for he joined a club, the membership of which was decidedly mixed, and not all of the best kind of associates for Winn.
His aunt, a shallow though well-meaning woman, devoted to church work, gossip, and her pet poodle, considering Winn an unfortunate addition to her cares, held but scant influence over him. She furnished him a home to sleep and eat in without cost, urged him to attend church with her, cautioned him against evil associates; but beyond that she could not and did not go. So Winn drifted. He saved a little money, realizing that he must, or be forever helpless and dependent; he learned the slang of the town and its ways, and forgot for a time the wholesome lessons of his early life. He also grew more mercurial, and, worse than that, he grew cynical.
On all sides, and go where he would, the arrogance of wealth seemed to hedge him about and force upon him the realization that he was but a poorly paid bookkeeper, and not likely to become aught else. And then a worse mishap befell him—he met and became attached to Jack Nickerson.
There is in every club, and in every walk in life, wherever a young man's feet may stray, some one it were better he never met—a Mephistopheles in male garb, whose wit and ways of pleasure-taking are alluring, whose manners are perfect, whose pockets are well filled; and alas,