Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 176, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 July 1912 — The Tide of Terror [ARTICLE]

The Tide of Terror

A Weird Yarn of the Wide Waters That Went Wild

Copyright, The Frank Ar Munsey Co. CHAPTER TIL The Reparation. One evening, ten days later, Captain Glenney sat at the door of his boathouse, a changed and broken man. His shoulders were bowed, his eyes, once so hotly blue, were dim and faded, hip face had taken on ten added years of age. Since the arrival of the famous message, no word has come from McAllister or from Minna, and the captain’s soul was sick with anxiety and suspense. He had written and cabled to every address where he thought McAllister might be found, but each answer received was to the same effect —that McAllister and the child were not there, and their whereabouts were unknown. So Pa p tnln heart out in waiting, half believing that after all the two had perished in the flood, and that all his life remorse must be his portion. IHe seldom went fishing now; to his nostrils the salt sea had lost its savor, for it was the sepulcher of all he loved best on earth. The Soosun-Ann no longer pottered around the nets outside the bay, or scraped her fat sides against the sunken Porpoise. Her owner spent all day sitting in the doorway of the boat house, reading over and over the story of the damage brought on the other side of the world, and especially in Scotland. That story was an old one now; the new tales coming in told of the resurrection of life after what had seemed death, the herculean efforts of a people to turn defeat into victory, and the success which was crowning their efforts. 7 ——y - - i.-. - --.--i.-.-.

But always before, the captain’s eye there danced in letters of flame the words—“McAllister ruined.” No word was spoken of McAllister ''among all the heroic men who were building sip their country’s fortunes and their own once more; the tides of life had

closed over him, and his place knew him no more. *■ Soon the flood would be but a memory; its scars healed. But Sandy—poor old Sandy, who was net- recovering, who never would recover from the blow, who was down and beaten at the moment when he thought that fortune was within his grasp—always at this point the captain’s conscience got the better of him and pricked until he writhed in torment. But Sandy could not be found, and nothing could be done to make amends. The captain let down the legs bf his chair with a thump and rose stif.fly —Jto.reason..o£..thp. atnnn which had become habitual to him, his once erect figure seemed to have lost inches of its former height He had grown thin, and his clothes hurtg upon him loosely. He kicked aside the newspapers lying scattered upon the floor, and went to the cupboard for his tin of Black Jack. From this he loaded his short black pipe, carefully packing the tobacco well down with a stubby forefinger; lighted It, and sucked at it until it glowed like a steamer’s light unde* his nose. He replaced the tin and lox of matches with the old-maid-ish precision born of years of living in the cramped quarters of a ship’s cabin, and turned toward the door, and stopped short with a chocked gasp of amazement.

• A tall stood on the threshold, half blocking out the light, holding by the hand a small girl, shawled and hooded. ’ {i “Hi, Billy, boy," said the tall man mildly, “were ye no’ expectin’ veesitors?” , “My God! Sandy! Minna!” said the captain. His pipe dropped upon the floor and broke into fragements; .he staggered and clutched at the. back of a chair. >. The little girl ran to him, crying: “Gran’pa!” The captain caught her in his arms and hid his face in her fluffy curls. “I thought you wereh dead—l thought you were dead!" he said brokenly. Sandy put his arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Dead! Hoot, mon, wha would we be dead fpr?" he demanded, but his own voice was not quite steady. “Sit ye doon, and listen to the tale of our wanderin’s. We’ve had a gay time, eh, little lassie?” But the captain, holding his recov-

ered treasure with one arm, laid his other hand on his friend's sleeve. Twice he tried to speak and his voice failed him; he looked from the child to the man, with tears streaming down his weather-beaten face. “O, you—you freckle-faced walrus, yoifve nigh been the death of me!” he said huskily, whereat Sandy beamed entire delight. “It's all my fault, Sandy, man, and it’s many a day I’ve longed to see you and tell you so. Sit you down and let me >3ll ’’ “Is the mon daffy?” said Sandy, but his face sobered, and all the light went but of it. He sat down; the captain went back to his own seat, leaning across the box that served as table, with the baby on his knee. “I’ve heard all that’s happened,” the captain said, choosing .his speech with some difficulty.' “But I want to hear it from yourself—all of it. I’ve got d’ve got reasons enough for wanting to know! ” “There’s not so much to tell,” said Sandy slowly, and the captain hung upon his every word. “I had barely landed when the waters rose; in fact, I wasna in Scotland at all. I landed at Liverpool, and, thinks I, ‘before I go up to Scotland, I’ll stop at Lancaster and see how Bill’s bit lassie is getting on.’ ” The captain held the little one tighter. . ' “Thank God you did,” he said in a low voice, “or it’s a broken-hearted man Bill Glenney would have been this night.” “And then everything happened,” said Sandy with a gesture of his great hands. “All at once yo could’na tell which end came first. But little enough that mattered, for it was the end o’ me. It was hell, Billy, just plain hell. Along the waterfronts everybody and everything was wiped off as clean as your hand. And to see the waves as big as mountains towerin’ over the church steeples, and to see the men and women folks rinnin’, wi’out carin’ whether they was stylish or “Your shipyards are gone?” said th. captain, breaking in on Sandy’s dissertation. “They’re gone,” said Sandy, \ and his voice changed. “And it’s all my fault that you’ve lost them,” said the captain. “My fault!” he repeated doggedly, catching Sandy’s stare of amazement. “The night you left I cursed you—do you remember that? You and your yards and docks, and all that belonged to you. And the curse was fulfilled—l say it was! D’you think I don’t know what I’m talking about? And I’ve been ha|inted by ten thousand devils ever siflfce. You’re ruined, and I’m responsible. Now, I want to know what yu’re going to do.”

“I’ve coom over to bide awhile wit my son,” said Sandy. “I’m old, and I’m getting tired. He’ll give his old feyther a fresh start. Andrew will give me what he’s got, but it’ll need mair than that. My credit’s good, but I’m too old to be layin’ up for myself debts upon airth and trouble in

“I’ve got thirty thousand,” Captain Glenney announced. “Now, what are you lookin’ amazed at? I’m going to make It over to you, an’ you can do as you please with it. It ought to build one or two of that mile of docks.” “Man dear, you’re fey!” gasped Sandy, astounded. “Why for should I take your money?” “Because I say so,” said Captain Glenney, with a flash of his old temper. “You can’t help it." Sandy shook with suppressed laughter. “It’s like ye, Bill, to help a friend out of trouble,” he was beginning, when the captain put up a hand. “See here, Sandy, if ever you want to call me friend again, you’ll take that money. Man, it’s all I’ve lived for these last weeks—hoping that you would come back so that I could make it up to you. Sandy, for God’s sake take it! Can’t you see how I’jn feelin’ about it?” His voice shook; the tears gathered in his eyes. Sandy reached across the table and gripped his hand. . “Ye idiot! Ye blooming old idiot!” he said huskily. “No, I’ll not take your money, but I’ll take you into partnership. Yohr cash, and what I’ve got, and my experience—we may start small, but we’ll Be doing finely before the year’s over. “Very good!” said Captain Glenney, much relieved. “I’ll be as many partners as you like so long as you get the money. Well have two miles of docks before we’re through!” He set the baby on the table, and dived into his cupboard for the square black bottle and the two tin cups. “It was this that did all the business before," he said with a sort of tremulous eagerness which showed how keenly and genuinely he felt the relief of Sandy’s acquiescence. “Never a drop I’ve touched since the night you left, and after we've pledged the new concern, never a drop will I touch again. I want no more floods upon my conscience!” He set the bottle down with a thump. “Oh, I see you grinning, but just listen to reason. I said J hoped your

docks would go to the devil, didn't I? They went, didn’t they? What more proof do you want? But it’s been a lesson to me, that’s what it’s been!” His hand that held the tin cups shook; his voice was tragically earnest. '

“I hope the good Lord will strike me deaf and dumb and blind if ever I swear again or let out another cussword. I’m damned if I won’t deserve it. Now, we’ll drink to Us!” Sandy suppressed a chuckle and raised his glass. THE END.