# Silver Shoal Light/Chapter 1

SILVER SHOAL LIGHT
CHAPTER I
WHICH BEGINS WITH THE END OF A JOURNEY
Joan Kirkland stood gazing absently across the bay from the deck of the old steamer Pettasantuck. She hardly saw the loveliness of the distant shore; the russet hayricks, green orderly meadow-patches, round, tufted trees, all mellowed by the afternoon haze of late June. She did not hear the gulls screaming defiance to the upper winds nor smell the ever-strengthening salt in the air. She was wondering whether her trunk lay safe in the throbbing depths of the Pettasantuck after the complicated transfer at Tewksville Junction.
The tarnished sign above the waiting-room door had proclaimed the place Tewksville Junction. It was there that Joan had eaten lunch, a thick ham-sandwich and a cup of lukewarm coffee, consumed from her perch on a high stool. The Pettasantuck was at least an improvement on the tedious train of the morning, ​which had stopped every few minutes at stations with unintelligible names and had sometimes expired altogether for no apparent reason. These vagaries had made Joan lose the boat-train, and the discomfort of the trip was increased by a two hours' wait at Tewksville.
The steamer proved less erratic than the train, for she plodded steadily and conscientiously down the bay, the winds of the Atlantic growing fresh and more fresh about her broad bows and fluttering her pennants gallantly. Joan clutched her hat and wished that her coat were thicker.
Somewhere on the misty, unknown shore lay Joan's destination—Quimpaug and the Harbor View House. Rather unwillingly she reviewed for the hundredth time the cause of her ill-considered journey. Mr. Robert Sinclair had told her that she was unsympathetic, intolerant, and unimaginative. Those were not the exact words he had used, to be sure, but it amounted to that in the end, Joan reflected with a frown, as she recalled his grave and earnest phrases. She liked Mr. Sinclair immensely, besides thinking him a very clever portrait-painter; and she ought to have seen that he liked her immensely, also. Otherwise he would never have told her ​such disagreeable things about herself in such a sober fashion. As it was, Joan had brought the conversation to a close by saying:
"At least you'll not have to tolerate these qualities long. I'm leaving town to-morrow for the summer."
As a matter of fact she had had absolutely no intention of going anywhere until that moment; so, when Mr. Sinclair had departed, she was left to make good her words.
"I shall go to the first summer hotel I see advertised, no matter where or what it is!" had been her rash decision.
A short search through a newspaper had revealed these significant words:
"The Harbor View House is the Ideal Spot for your Summer Outing. Situated on the Verdant Shores of Beautiful Pettasantuck Bay, it commands an Unequalled Prospect of Quimpaug Harbor and Surrounding Landscape. Boating, Sea-bathing, Fishing, Tennis, and Other Invigorating Sports. Two Minutes' Walk from Boat-Landing and Post-Office. Every Convenience for Our Guests."
Joan, a little obstinate, as well as all those other things, had tossed the newspaper away and turned her attention to packing.
​Now that the journey was almost at an end, Joan began to realize the foolish haste of her plan. But if she repented at all of her rashness, she did not consciously confess it, although she was now far angrier with herself than with Mr. Sinclair. As the Pettasantuck gradually left mid-channel and swung landward, Joan crossed the deck and found that the boat had entered Quimpaug Harbor. Under a sheltering hillside the little village lay huddled on the shore. The sprinkling of gray roofs straggled down to the very edge of the water, where a few weather-beaten piers reached out like gaunt old arms. Skiffs and sail-boats, moored close in, curtsied merrily to the steamer as they caught the waves of her wake.
Aboard the boat an engine-room bell sounded once. The Pettasantuck slid silently toward the boat-landing. Twice, and her paddle-wheels thrashed distractedly and sent a lather of foam churning in among the green piles of the wharf. Once again, and she lay panting and motionless, while men ran with hawsers and the gang-plank went out with a clatter.
The Harbor View House, as its advertisement had truthfully stated, was but two minutes' walk from the landing. It stood at the ​head of a short steep hill and commanded—besides the "Unequalled Prospect of Quimpang Harbor"—an unobstructed view of the dilapidated wharf. Included, also, were piles of reeking lobster-pots and barrels of fish and a fringe of dirty power-boats just come in, whose laboring engines choked and spat viciously through rusty exhaust-pipes. The hotel itself was a barnlike building with a wide echoing piazza where weathered rocking-chairs stood ranged in meek rows. A dingy flag snapped its tattered length above the cupola, and from somewhere within doors came the jingle of a patient piano giving forth popular airs under the nimble fingers of a summer girl.
It was late in the afternoon, and little groups of people were climbing up from the shingly beach and strolling in from the tennis court as Joan entered the hotel.
"I'd like a good room, please," she said, putting down her bag at the desk.
"Very sorry, ma'am," said the youthful clerk; "we're full to capacity this week. Turned away a couple of gentlemen just before you came in."
Joan stared; she had not reckoned with this possibility. She had supposed that in a place ​so out-of-the-way as this, an additional guest would be eagerly welcomed.
"Then where can I go?" she asked. "When does the boat go back?"
"The boat she stays here all night, ma'am. First trip to-morrow morning, 6:37 A.M."
The youth began to sharpen a pencil as though he had dismissed Joan's case completely.
"But I must sleep somewhere!" she expostulated. "Do you know of any boarding-house in the village, any place where they might take me in?"
The clerk sighed and let himself out of his enclosure. He led the way to the door and pointed down the wharf.
"See that old feller sitting on them boxes, ma'am?" he said. "Well, that's 'Bijah Dawson. He knows everything about everybody in town, and if there's a place where you could sleep, he'd know it. Call him Captain and he'll do anything for you. You're welcome, ma'am."
Joan caught up her bag and went down the pier again.
"Is this Captain Dawson?" she inquired of a brown and grizzled old skipper who sat ​watching the unloading of the Pettasantuck.
The old man slid from his perch with alacrity, and emerging from a cloud of strong tobacco smoke touched his battered yachting cap.
"Dawson's the name, ma'am," he affirmed heartily, "an' Cap'n 's the title! Cap'n 'Bijah Dawson, lately master o' the Bella S., as trim a schooner as ever slipped her moorin's. An' 't ain't that I'm too old to be master of her now, ma'am—I be as rugged as ever—but them sneakin' fellers upped an'—"
"Excuse me," Joan broke in; "the clerk at the hotel told me that you might know of some place where I could stay to-night. I've just come, but the hotel is full and I find that the boat does n't go out until to-morrow. I've nowhere to sleep."
"'Shaw!" said Cap'n 'Bijah. "You don't say! Thet's shorely too bad. Lemme see, now," he continued, scratching his chin. "Mis' Beckly, she's got two school teachers from the city; an' Mis' Collins, she's full up with comp'ny; an' the Larkinses, they ain't got no room this year. I dunno, ma'am, as I know any place."
Joan stared rather gloomily at the lobster-pots, and Cap'n 'Bijah pondered silently.
​"'Less," he said presently, "Mis' Bassett might hev room fer ye. Jest two lone women—her an' her daughter—they'd ought to. We could shack along up thar an' see, anyhow. Ye never can tell till ye try, hey? That's what I allus say. Now lemme get a heft of thet air valise, ma'am, an' we'll be goin' along."
The Cap'n took Joan's bag as he spoke and led the way up the hilly street into the village. There were no sidewalks; the neat gateways, arched with honeysuckle, opened straight upon the dusty road. There seemed to be a great deal of honeysuckle in Quimpaug, and there were many clumps of phlox poking bright flowers between the fence-palings. Trim, straight little paths, bordered with whitewashed stones or curly conch-shells, led to the steps of vine-covered porches. At one of these paths Cap'n 'Bijah turned in, clicking the gate carefully behind him. He rapped on the house-door with his knuckles, and it was presently opened by a flurried, middle-aged woman hastily wiping her hands on her apron.
"My land, if it ain't Cap'n 'Bijah!" she cried, peering out. "What brings you up this way?"
"I got a young lady here from the city," ​explained the Cap'n. "The hotel's full up, an' she ain't got nowhars to sleep. I thought mebbe you an' your mother'd let her hev your spare-room."
"Oh, my!" cried Miss Bassett. "I'm just real vexed that we can't! You know we would if we could, 'Bijah. But my cousin Ben—you know, 'Bijah, he ain't been here for five years—him an' his folks come unexpected to-day. They got a machine now, an' they come all the ways from Milltown. We got to let one of his boys sleep on the sofy in the parlor, as 't is. An' would you believe it, 'Bijah, I sent for a mess of spinidge from Schmidt, an' more 'n the half of it wa'n't no good. Seems to me he ain't near 's uppin' as he used to be. He's one of them dretful Germans, anyways, an' I never did—"
"Wal, thank you kindly," said Captain Dawson. "Guess we'll be goin' along. Tell my regards to Ben."
"I'm real sorry," said Miss Bassett, and the door closed, shutting in with it the savoury smell of roasting chicken and frying potatoes.
"Wal, Miss Kirkman," said the Cap'n, "I allus say, 'While thar's life thar's hope still.' We ain't tried Mis' Fisher yet. I'm gettin' ​real interested in findin' you somewhars to sleep. You know how the Scriptures says that the birds o' the air has nests, an' the beasts has holes, but it seems to me you ain't even as well off as they be."
"You're very, very kind," said Joan. She was wishing that the advertisement of the Harbor View House had never been printed, wishing still more that she had not obeyed her hasty impulse.
Mrs. Fisher opened her door only a few inches when the Captain knocked.
"I'm sorry I can't let you in, 'Bijah," she said. "Georgie was took sick last night—terrible bad—and Doctor says maybe 't is the scarlet fever. My, it was something awful the way he— There! I hear him a-hollerin' for me now!" she cried, and shut the door. They heard her footsteps ﬂying up the stairs.
"Wal, Miss Kirkan," Cap'n 'Bijah said, as they stood beside the white paling fence, "I own I'm stumped. I dunno who else I can ask. 'Less—I guess mebbe Mis' Driscoll might pull one o' the mattresses offen the chil'ren's bed an' let you hev that in the parlor."
Somehow this idea did not appeal to Joan, ​although it was obvious that she must go somewhere.
"Oh, what shall I do?" she cried. "Is there no other place?" She looked about her desperately. "How could I have been so silly as to rush off without planning ahead!" she thought.
"I got another idee, Miss Kirkson!" exclaimed the Captain suddenly. "What I allus says is, 'Better late than never at all.' Thar's one place they might take ye—I ain't makin' no promises, mind—but they jest might. An' that's out to the Light."
"The Light?" Joan echoed blankly.
"Yas, Silver Shoal Light. It's out that beyond the Reef; ye can't see it from here 'count o' that high ol' p'int in thar. I can get ye out thar in less 'n no time with my little boat. Jest say the word, ma'am, an' we're off."
"Well," said Joan dubiously, "I can't sleep in the middle of the road. If you think that there's any hope, let's try, Captain Dawson."