CHAPTER V
TRAPS AND TRAPPER
To south and to southeast, the green-blue transparent sea.Within sight of the land, the purple-blue Gulf Stream,--amystic warm river a half mile deep, thousands of miles long,traveling ever at a speed of eighty miles a day through thedepth of the ocean, as distinct and as unswerving from itschosen course as though it flowed through land instead ofthrough shifting water.
Studded in the milk-tepid nearer waters, innumerable coralislets and keys and ridges. Then the coral-built tongue ofland running north without so much as a respectably largehillock to break its flatness. Along the coast the tawnybeaches, the mangrove-swamps, the rich farms, the groves, thetowns, the villages, the estates, snow-white Miami, thenation's southernmost big city.
Back of this foreshore, countless miles of waving grass,rooted in water, and with a stray clump of low trees, dottedhere and there, the Everglades, a vast marsh that runs northto the inland sea known as Lake Okeechobee. Then the solidsandy ground of the main State.
Along the foreshore, and running inland, miles of sand-barrenscattered with gaunt pines and floored with harshpalmetto-scrub. Strewn here and there through this sandyexpanse lovely oases, locally known as "hammocks", usually inhollows, and consisting of several acres of rich soil wheretropic and sub-tropic trees grow as luxuriantly as in ajungle, where undergrowth and vine run riot, where orchid andairplant and wondrous-hued flowers blaze through the greengloom of interlaced foliage.
This, roughly, is a bird's-eye glimpse of the southeasternstretch of Florida, a region of glory and glow and fortunesand mystery. (Which is perhaps a momentary digression fromour story, but will serve, for all that to fix its settingmore vividly in the eyes of the mind.)
When Milo Standish came back from Miami that noon he professedmuch loud-voiced joy at seeing his guest so well recoveredfrom the night's mishaps. At lunch, he suggested:
"I am running across to Roustabout Key this afternoon, in thelaunch. It's an island I bought a few years ago. I keep ahandful of men there to work a grapefruit grove and a mangoorchard and some other stuff I've planted. I go over to itevery week or so. Would you care to come along?"
He spoke with elaborate carelessness, and looked anywhereexcept at his guest. Gavin, not appearing to note theconcealed nervousness of his host's voice and manner, gaveeager consent. And at two o'clock they set forth.
They drove in Milo's car a half-mile or more to southwestwardalong the road which fronted the house. Then turning into asand byway which ran crookedly at right angles to it and whichskirted the southern end of the mangrove-swamp, they headedfor the sea. Another half-mile brought them to ahandkerchief-sized beach, much like that on the other side ofthe swamp, where Gavin had found the hidden path. Here, onmangrove-wood piles, was a short pier with a boathouse at itsfar end.
"I keep my launch and my fishing-boats in there," explainedMilo, as he climbed out of the car. "If it wasn't for thatpesky swamp. I could have had this pier directly back of myhouse, and saved a lot of distance."
"Why not cut a road through the swamp?" suggested Brice,following him along the pier.
Again Standish gave vent to that great laugh of his--a laughoutwardly jovial, but as hollow as a shell.
"Young man," said he, "if ever you try to cut your waythrough an East Coast mangrove-swamp you'll find out just howsilly that question is. A swamp like that might as well be aquick-sand, for all the chance a mortal has of travelingthrough it."
Gavin made no reply. Again, he was visualizing the cleverlyengineered path from the beach-edge to Milo's lawn. And herecalled Claire's unspoken plea that he say nothing toStandish about his chance discovery of it. He remembered,too, the night-song of the mocking bird from the direction ofthat path, and the advent of Rodney Hade from it.
Milo had unlocked the boat-house, and was at work over afifteen-foot steel motorboat which was slung on chains abovethe water. A winch and well-constructed pulleys-and-chainsmade simple the labor of launching it in so quiet a sea.
Out they fared into the gleaming sunlit waters of the bay.Far to eastward gleamed the white city of Miami, and nearer,across the bay from it the emerald stretch of key with CapeFlorida and the old Spanish Light on its southern point andthe exquisite "golden house" of Mashta shining midway down itsshoreline. Miles to eastward gleamed the gray viaduct, thegrain elevator outlines of the Flamingo rising yellow above afire-blue sea.
"I used to hear great stories about this region years ago,"volunteered Brice as the launch danced over the transparentwater past Ragged Keys and bore southward. "I heard them froma chap who used to winter hereabouts. It was he who firstinterested me in Florida. He says these keys and inlets andchanging channels used to be the haunts of Spanish Mainpirates."
"They were," said Milo. "The pirates knew these waters. Theaverage merchant skipper didn't. They'd build signal flareson the keys to lure ships onto the rocks, and then loot them.At least that was the everyday (or everynight) amusement oftheir less venturesome members and their women and children.The more adventurous used to overhaul vessels skirting thecoast to and from Cuba and Central America. They'd sally outfrom their hiding-places among the keys and lie in wait forthe merchant-ships. If the prey was weak enough they'd boardand ransack her and make her crew walk the plank,--(that's howAaron Burr's beautiful daughter is supposed to have died onher way North, you know,)--and if the ship showed fight orseemed too tough a handful the pirates hit on a surer way ofcapture. They'd turn tail and run. The merchant ship wouldgive chase, for there were fat rewards out for the capture ofthe sea rovers, you know. The pirates would head for somestrip of water that seemed perfectly navigable. The shipwould follow, and would pile up on a sunken reef that thepirates had just steered around."
"Clever work!"
"They were a thrifty and shrewd crowd those old-timeblack-flaggers. After they were wiped out the wreckers stillreaped their fine harvest by signaling ships onto reefs atnight. Their descendants live down among some of the keysstill. We call them 'conchs,' around here. They're anilliterate, uncivilized, furtive, eccentric lot. And theypick up some sort of living off wrecked ships and off whatcargo washes ashore from the wrecks. A missionary went downthere and tried to convert them. He found the 'conch'children already had religion enough to pray every night.'Lord, send a wreck!' The conchs gather a lot of plunderevery year. They--"
"Do they sell it or claim salvage on it, or--?"
"Not they. That would call for too much brain and educationand for mixing with civilization. They wear it, or put it toany crazy use they can think of. For instance fiftysewing-machines were in the cargo of a tramp steamer boundfrom Charleston to Brazil one winter. She ran ashore a fewmiles south of here. The conchs got busy with the plunder.The cargo was a veritable godsend to them. They used thesewing machines as anchors for their boats. Another time abox of shoes washed ashore. They were left-hand shoes, allof them. The right-hand box must have landed somewhere else.And a hundred conchs blossomed forth with brand new shoes.They could wear the left shoe, of course, with no specialbother. And they slit down the vamp of the shoe they put onthe right foot, so their toes could stick out and not becramped. A good many people think they still lure shipsashore by flares. But the lighthouse service has pretty wellput a stop to that."
"This chap I was speaking about,--the fellow who told me somuch about this region," said Gavin, "told me there issupposed to be pirate gold buried in more than one of thesekeys."
"Rot!" snorted Milo with needless vehemence. "All poppycock!Look at it sanely for a minute, and you'll see that all theyarns of pirate gold-including Captain Kidd's--are rankidiocy. In the first place, the pirates never seized anysuch fabulous sums of money as they were credited with. Thebullion ships always went under heavy man-o'-war escort. Whenpirates looted some fairly rich merchant ship there weredozens of men to divide the plunder among. And they sailed tothe nearest safe port to blow it all on an orgy. Of course,once in a blue moon they buried
or hid the valuables they gotfrom one ship while they went after another. And if theychanced to sink or be captured and hanged during such a raidthe treasure remained hidden. If they survived, they blew it.That's the one off-chance of there ever being any buriedpirate treasure. And there would be precious little of it.at that. A few hundred dollars worth at most. No, Brice.this everlasting legend of buried treasure is fine in asea-yarn. But in real life it's buncombe."
"But this same man told me there were stories of bullion shipsand even more modern vessels carrying a money cargo that sankin these waters, during storms or from running into reefs,"pursued Brice, with no great show of interest, as he leanedfar overside for a second glimpse at a school of five-footbaracuda which lay basking on the snowy surface of the sand.two fathoms below the boat. "That, at least, sounds probable.doesn't it?"
"No," snapped Milo flushing angrily and his brow creasing, "itdoesn't. These water are traversed every year by thousandsof craft of all sizes. The water is crystal clear. Anywrecked ship could be seen at the bottom. Why, everybody hasseen the hull of that old tramp steamer a few miles abovehere. It's in deep water, at that. What chance--?"
"Yet there are hundreds of such stories afloat," persistedBrice. "And there are more yarns of buried treasure among thekeys than there are keys. For instance didn't old Caesar, thenegro pirate, hang out here, somewhere?"
Milo laughed again, this time with a maddening tolerance.
"Oh, Caesar?" said he. "To be sure. He's as much a legend ofthese keys as Lafitte is of New Orleans. He was an escapedslave, who scraped together a dozen fellow-ruffians, black andwhite and yellow--mostly yellow--about a century ago, andstole a long boat or a broken-down sloop, and started in atthe trade of pirate. He didn't last long. And there's noproof he ever had any special success. But he's the sea-heroof the conchs. They've named a key and a so-called creekafter him, and in my father's time there used to be an oldiron ring in a bowlder known as 'Caesar's Rock.' The ring wasprobably put there by oystermen. But the conchs insistedCaesar used to tie up there. Then there's the 'Pirates'Punchbowl,' off Coconut Grove. Caesar is supposed to have dugthat. He--"
An enormous sailfish--dazzlingly metallic blue and silver--brokefrom the calm water just ahead, and whirled high in air,smiting the bay again with a splash that sounded like agunshot.
"That fellow must have been close to seven feet long,"commented Milo as the two men watched the churned water wherethe fish had struck. "He's the kind you see when you aren'ttrolling. He's after a school of ballyhoos or mossbunkers.... There's Roustabout Key just ahead," he finished astheir launch rounded an outcrop of rock and came in view of amile-long wooded island a bare thousand yards off the weatherbow.
A mangrove fringe covered the shoreline, two thirds of the wayaround the key. At the eastern end was a strip of snowy beachbacked by an irregular line of coconut palms, and with a veryrespectable dock in the foreground. From the pier a woodenpath led upward through the scattering double row of palms toa corrugated iron hut, with smaller huts and outbuildings halfseen through the foliage-vistas beyond.
"I've some fairly good mango trees back yonder," said Standishas he brought the launch alongside the dock's wabbly float,"and grapefruit that is paying big dividends at last. Themangoes won't be ripe till June, of course. But they're soldalready, to the last half-bushel of them."
"'Futures,' eh?" suggested Gavin.
"'Futures,'" assented Milo. "And 'futures' in farming arejust about as certain as in Wall Street. There's a mightygamble to this farm-game."
"How long have--?" began Gavin, then stopped short andstared.
One or two negro laborers had drifted down toward the dock, asthe boat warped in at the float. Now, from the corrugatediron hut appeared a white man, who, at sight of the boat,broke into a limping run and was in time to catch the linewhich Milo flung at him.
The man was sparsely and sketchily clad. At first, histanned face seemed to be of several different colors and tohave been modeled by some bungling caricaturist. Yet, despitethis eccentricity of aspect, something about the obsequiouslyhurrying man struck Brice as familiar. And, all at once, herecognized him.
This was the big beach comber with whom Gavin had foughtbarely twenty-four hours earlier. The man bore bruises andswellings a-plenty on his rugged features, where Brice'swhalebone blows had crashed. And they had distorted his facealmost past recognition. He moved, too, with manifestdiscomfort, as if all his huge body were as sore as hisvisage.
"Hello, Roke!!" hailed Milo genially, then in amaze, "what inthunder have you been doing to yourself? Been trying to stopthe East Coast Flyer? Or did you just get into an argumentwith one of the channel dredges?"
"Fell," said Roke, succinctly, jerking his thumb back towardthe corrugated iron hut. "Climbed my roof to mend a leak.Fell. My face hit every bump. Then I landed on a pile ofcoconuts. I'm sore all over. I--"
He gurgled, mouthingly, as his swollen eyes chanced to lighton Gavin Brice, who was just following Milo from the launchto the float. And his discolored and unshaven jaw went slack.
"Oh, Brice," said Standish carelessly. "This is my foremanhere, Perry Roke. As a rule he looks like other people,except that he's bigger, just now his cravings for falling offcorrugated roofs have done things to his face. Shake handswith him. If you like the job I'm going to offer you he andyou will be side-partners over here."
Gavin faced his recent adversary, grinning pleasantly up atthe battered and scowling face, and noting that the knifesheath at Roke's hip was still empty.
"Hello!" he said civilly, offering his hand.
Roke gulped again, went purple, and, with sudden furiousvehemence, grabbed at the proffered hand, enfolding it in hisown monstrous grip in an industrious attempt to smash itsevery bone.
But reading the intent with perfect ease. Brice shifted hisown hand ever so little and with nimbly practised fingerseluded the crushing clasp, at the same time slipping his thumbover the heel of Roke's clutching right hand and letting histhree middle fingers meet at the exact center of that hand'sback. Then, tightening his hold, he gave an almostimperceptible twist. It was one of the first and the simplestof the tricks his jiu-jutsu instructor had taught him. And,as ever with an opponent not prepared for it, the grip served.
To the heedlessly watching Standish he seemed merely to beaccepting the invitation to shake hands with Roke. But thenext instant, under the apparently harmless contact, Roke'sbig body veered sharply to one side, from the hips upward,and a bellow of raging pain broke from his puffed lips.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Brice in quick contrition: "Youmust have hurt your hand when you fell off that roof. I'msorry if I made it worse."
Nursing his wrenched wrist. Roke glowered hideously at thesmiling Gavin. Brice could feel no compunction for his ownbehavior. For he remembered the hurled knife and the brutalkicking of the dog. Yet he repented him of the hand-twistingtrick. For if he and Roke were expected to work together asMilo had said, he had certainly made a most unfortunatebeginning to their acquaintanceship, and just now he had addednew and painful aggravation to his earlier offense.
Milo was surveying the sufferer with no great pity, as Rokebent over his hurt wrist.
"Too bad!" commented Standish. "I suppose that will put acrimp in your violin-playing for a while."
Turning to Gavin who looked in new surprise at the giant onhearing of this unexpected accomplishment. Milo explained:
"I hired Roke to run this key for me and keep the conchs and thecoons at work. But I've got a pretty straight tip that, as soonas my back is turned, he cuts indoors and spends most of his daywhanging at that disreputable old violin of his. And when RodneyHade comes over here. I can't get a lick of work out of Roke,for love or money. Hade is one of the best amateur violinistsin America, and he's daft on playing. He drops in here, everynow and then--he has an interest with me in the groves--and assoon as he catches sight of Roke's violin, he starts playing it.That
means no more work out of Roke till Hade chooses to stop.He just stands, with his mouth wide open, hypnotized. Can'tdrag him away for a second. Hey, Roke?"
Roke had ceased nursing his wrist and had listenedwith sheepish amusement to his employer's guying. But at thisquestion, he made answer:
"I'm here now."
He jerked the thumb of his uninjured hand toward a spic-and-spanlaunch which lay moored between two sodden scows, andthen nodded in the direction of the corrugated iron hut amongthe trees.
Listening--though the wind set the wrong way for it--Bricecould hear faintly the strains of a violin, played ever sosoftly and with a golden wealth of sweetness. Even at thatdistance, by listening closely, he could make out a phrase orso of Dvorak's "Hiawatha" music from the "New World Symphony."Milo's loud laugh broke in on his audition and on the suddenlyrapt look upon Roke's bruised face.
"Come along!" said Standish, leading the way toward the house."Music's a fine thing, I'm told. But it doesn't spray agrapefruit orchard or keep the scale off of mango trees. Comeup to the house. I want to show you over the island and havea chat with you about the job I have in mind."
As Milo strode on the two others fell in step behind him.Brice lowered his voice and said to the sulking Roke:
"That collie belongs to Mr. Standish. I did you a good turnit seems by keeping you from stealing him. You'd have been ina worse fix than you are now, if Mr. Standish had come overhere to-day and found him on the island."
Roke did not deign to reply, but moved a little farther fromthe speaker.
"At this rate," said Brice pleasantly, "you and I are likelyto have a jolly time together, out here. I can't imagine amerrier chum for a desert island visit. I only hope I won'tneglect my work chatting with you all day."
Roke eyed him obliquely as he plodded on, and his batteredlip-corner lifted a little in what looked like a beast snarl.But he said nothing.
Then they were at the shallow porch of the hut and MiloStandish had thrown open its iron door letting out a gush ofgolden melody from the violin. At his hail, the musicceased. And Rodney Hade, fiddle in hand, appeared in thedoorway.
"You're late," said the violinist, speaking to Milo with thatever-smiling suavity which Gavin recalled from the nightbefore, and ignoring Gavin entirely "You've kept me waiting."
Despite the smooth voice and the eternal smile there was anundernote of rebuke in the words, as of a teacher who reprovesa child for tardiness. And, meekly, Standish replied:
"I'm sorry. I was detained at Miami. And lunch was late. Igot here as soon as I could. I--"
With an impatient little wave of one white hand. Hade checkedhis excuses and dismissed the subject. In the same moment hissnakelike black eyes fixed themselves on Brice whom he seemedto notice for the first time. The eyes were smiling. But hegranted the guest no further form of salutation, as he askedabruptly:
"Where have I seen you before?"
"You saw me last night," returned Gavin, still wondering atthis man's dictatorial attitude toward the aggressive MiloStandish and at Milo's almost cringing acceptance of it. "Iwas at the Standishes. I was just starting for bed when youdropped in. Miss Standish introduced--"
"I'm not speaking about last night," curtly interrupted Hade,though his voice was as soft as ever and his masklike face wasset in its everlasting smile. "I mean, where did I run acrossyou before last night?"
"Well. Mr. Bones," answered Gavin with flippant insolence,"Dat am de question propounded. Where did you-all run acrostme befo' las' night?"
Milo and Roke stirred convulsively, as if scandalized that anyone should dare speak with such impudence to Hade. Rodneyhimself all but lost the eternal smile from his thin lips: andhis voice was less suave than usual as he said:
"I don't care for impertinence, especially from employees.You will bear that in mind. Now you will answer my question.Where did I see you?"
"If you can't remember," countered Gavin, "you can hardlyexpect me to. I live in New York. I have lived there orthereabouts for a number of years. I was overseas--stationedat Bordeaux and then at Brest--for a few months in 1918. As aboy I lived on my father's farm in northern New York State,near Manlius. That's the best answer I can give you. If itwill make you recall where you've seen me--all right. If notI'm afraid I can't help you out. In any case what does itmatter? I don't claim to be anybody especial. I have noreferences. Mr. Standish knows that. If he's willing to giveme some sort of job in spite of such drawbacks, it seems tobe entirely his affair."
"The job I had--have--in mind for you," spoke up Milo, at aglance from Hade, "is on this key, here. I need an extra manin the main storehouse to oversee the roustabouts there. Atthis season Roke is too busy outdoors to keep the right kindof eye on them. The pay won't be large to start with. But ifyou make good at it. I may have something better to offer youon the mainland. Or I may not. In any case. I understandthis is only a stopgap for you, and that you are down here foryour health. If you are interested in the idea, well andgood. If not--"
He paused and glanced at Hade as if for prompting. Throughouthis harangue Standish had given Brice the impression of a manwho recites a lesson taught him by another. Now Hade took upthe tale.
"I think," said he smilingly--his momentary impatience gone--"Ithink, before answering--in fact before coming down toterms and other details--you might perhaps care to strollaround the island a little, and get an idea of it foryourself. It may be you won't care to stay here. It may beyou will like it very much. Mr. Standish and I have someroutine business to talk over with Roke. Suppose you take awalk over the place? Roke, assign one of the men to go withhim and show him around."
With instant obedience. Roke started for the door. Indeed, hehad almost reached it before Hade ceased speaking. Gavin raisedhis brows at this swift anticipation of orders. And into hismind came an odd thought.
"You seemed surprised to see me this afternoon," said he as hefollowed Roke to the porch and closed the door behind them."Yet Mr. Hade had told you I was coming here. He had toldyou, and he had told you to have some one ready to show meover the island."
As he spoke Gavin indicated with a nod a man who was trottingacross the sandy clearing toward them.
"Didn't know it was you!" grunted Roke, too surprised by thedirect assertion to fence. "Said some feller would come withMr. Standish. He--. How'd you know he told me?" he demandedin sudden angry bewilderment.
"There!" exclaimed Gavin admiringly. "I knew we'd chat alongas lovingly as two turtle-doves when once we'd get reallystarted. You're quite a talker when you want to be, Rokie mylad! If only you didn't speak as if you were trying to savewords on a telegram. Here's the chap you'd ordered to becruising in the offing as my escort, eh?" as the barefootroustabout reached the porch. "All right. Good-by."
Leaving the grumbling and muttering Roke scowling after him.Brice stepped out onto the sand to meet the newcomer. Theroustabout apparently belonged to the conch tribe of whichMilo had spoken. Thin, undersized, swarthy, with featuresthat showed a trace of negro and perhaps of Indian blood aswell, he had a furtive manner and seemed to cringe away fromthe Northerner as they set off across the clearing, toward thedistant huts and still more distant orchards.
He was bareheaded and stoop-shouldered. Beyond a ragged pairof drill trousers--indescribably dirty--his only garment was astill dirtier and raggeder undershirt. His naked feet flappedawkwardly, like a turtle's. He was not a pretty orprepossessing sight.
Across the clearing he pattered, head down, still cringingaway from the visitor. As the two entered the shadows of thenearest grove Gavin Brice glanced quickly around him on allsides. The conch did the same. Then the two moved on withthe same distance between them as before.
And as they went Gavin spoke. He spoke in a low tone, notmoving his lips or looking directly toward the other man.
"Good boy, Davy!" he said, approvingly. "How did you get thejob of taking me around? I was afraid I'd have to look foryou
."
"Two other men were picked out to do it sir," said the conchwithout slackening his pace or turning his head. "One afterthe other. One was a nigger. One was a conch. Both of 'emgot sick. I paid 'em to. And I paid the nigger an extra fiveto tell Roke I'd be the best man to steer you. He said he'dbeen on jobs with me before. He and the conch are malingeringin the sick shed. Ipecac. I gave it to 'em."
"Good!" repeated Gavin. "Mighty good. Now what's the idea?"
"You're to be kept over here, sir," said the conch. "I don'tknow why. Roke told me you're a chum of Hade's, and thatHade's doing it to have a bit of fun with you. So I'm to leadyou around awhile, showing you the plant and such. Then I'mto take you to the second storage hut and tell you we've got anew kind of avocado stored in there, and let you go in aheadof me, and I'm to slam the spring-lock door on you."
"Hm! That all, Davy?"
"Yes, sir. Except of course that it's a lie. Hade don't playjokes or have fun with any one. If he's trying to keep youlocked up here a while it's most likely a sign he don't wantyou on the mainland for some reason. Maybe that soundsfoolish. But it's all the head or tail I can make out of it,sir."
"It doesn't 'sound foolish,'" contradicted Brice. "As ithappens it's just what he wants to do. I don't know just why.But I mean to find out. He wants me away from a house overthere. A house I had a lot of trouble in getting a footholdin. It's taken me the best part of a month. And now I don'tmean to spend another month in getting back there."
"No, sir," said Davy, respectfully, still plodding on infront with head and shoulders bent. "No, sir. Of course.But--if you'll let me ask, sir--does Hade know? Does hesuspicion you? If that's why he's framed this then RoustaboutKey is no place for you. No more is Dade County. He--"
"No," returned Gavin, smiling at the real terror that hadcrept into the other's tone. "He doesn't know. And I'm surehe doesn't suspect. But he has a notion he's seen mesomewhere. And he's a man who doesn't take chances. Besideshe wants me away from the Standish house. He wants everyoutsider away from it. And I knew this would be the likeliestplace for him to maroon me. That's why I sent you word ....I'm a bit wobbly in my beliefs about the Standishes,--one ofthem anyhow. Now, where's this storehouse prison of mine?"
"Over there, sir, to the right. But--"
"Take me over there. And walk slowly. I've some things tosay to you on the way, and I want you to get them straight inyour memory."
"Yes, sir," answered the conch, shifting his course, so as tobring his steps in a roundabout way toward the squatstoreroom. "And before you begin there's an extra key to theroom under the second packing box to the right. I made itfrom Roke's own key when I made duplicates of all the keyshere. I put it there this morning. In case you should wantto get out, you can say you found it lying on the floor there.I rusted all the keys I made so they look old. He'll likelythink it's an extra key that was lost somewhere in there."
"Thanks," said Gavin. "You're a good boy. And you've gotsense. Now listen:--"
Talking swiftly and earnestly, he followed Davy toward thesquare little iron building, the conch outwardly making nosign that he heard. For, not many yards away, a handful ofconchs and negroes were at work on a half-completed shed.
Davy came to the store-room door, and opened it. Then,turning to Brice he said aloud in the wretched dialect of hisclass:
"Funny avocado fruits all pile up in yon. Mighty funny. Makeyo' laugh. Want to go see? Look!"
He swung wide the iron door and pointed to the almost totallydark interior.
"Funny to see in yon," he said invitingly. "Never see anylike 'em befo'. I strike light for you. Arter you, my boss."
One or two men working on the nearby shed had stopped theirlabor and were glancing covertly toward them.
"Oh, all right!" agreed Brice, his uninterested voicecarrying well though it was not noticeably raised. "It seemsa stuffy sort of hole. But I'll take a look at it if youlike. Where's that light you're going to strike? It--"
As he spoke he sauntered into the storeroom. His lazy speechwas cut short by the clangorous slamming of the iron doorbehind him. Conscientiously he pounded on the iron and yelledwrathful commands to Davy to open. Then when he thought hehad made noise enough to add verity to his role and to freethe conch from any onlooker's suspicion he desisted.
Groping his way through the dimness to the nearest box, hesat down, philosophically, to wait.
"Well," he mused sniffing in no approval at all at the mustyair of the place and peering up at the single eight-inchbarred window that served more for ventilation than for light."Well, here we are. And here, presumably, we stay tillStandish and Hade go back to the mainland. Then I'm to be letout by Roke, with many apologies for Davy's mistake. There'llbe no way of getting back. The boats will be hidden orpadlocked. And here I'll stay, with Roke for a chum, tillwhatever is going on at Standish's house is safely finishedwith. It's a pretty program. If I can get away to-nightwithout Roke's finding it out till morning--"
His eyes were beginning to accustom themselves to the room.Its corners and farther reaches and most of its floor werestill invisible. But, by straining his gaze, he could justmake out the shapes of a crate or two and several packingboxes close to the wall. The central space was clear. Inspite of the stuffiness, there was a damp chill to the gloomyplace, by contrast to the vivid sunlight and the sweep of thetrade-winds, outside.
Gavin stretched himself out at full length on the long box,and prepared to take a nap. First he reached toward the nextbox--the one under which Davy had told him the key was hidden--andmoved it an inch or so to make certain it was not fullenough to cause him any especial effort in case he should notbe released until next day and should have need of the key.Then he shut his eyes, and let himself drift toward slumber.
It was perhaps two hours later when he was roused from a lightdoze by hearing something strike the concrete floor of hisprison, not six feet from his head. The thing had fallenwith a slithering, uneven sound, such as might be made by thedropping of a short length of rope.
Brice sat up. He noted that the room was no longer lightenough to see across. And he glanced in the direction of thewindow. Its narrow space was blocked by something. And as helooked he heard a second object slither to the floor.
"Some one's dropping things down here through thatventilator," he conjectured.
And at the same moment a third fall sounded, followed almostat once by a fourth. Then, for a second, the window space wasclear, only to be blocked again as the person outside returnedto his post. And in quick succession three more objects weresent slithering down to the floor. After which the window wascleared once more, and Brice could hear receding steps.
But he gave no heed to the steps. For as the last of theunseen things had been slid through the aperture, anothersound had focused all his attention, and had sent queer littlequivers up his spine.
The sound had been a long-drawn hiss.
And Gavin Brice understood. Now he knew why the softlyfalling bodies had slithered so oddly down the short distancebetween window and floor. And he read aright the slipperycrawling little noises that had been assailing his ears.
The unseen man outside had thrust through the ventilator notless than seven or eight snakes, carried thither, presumably,in bags.
Crouching on his long box Gavin peered about him. Faintlyagainst the dense gray of the shadowy floor, he could seethick ropelike forms twisting sinuously to and fro, as ifexploring their new quarters or seeking exit. More than once,as these chanced to cross one another's path, that samelong-drawn hiss quavered out into the dark silences.
And now Brice's nostrils were assailed by a sickening smell asof crushed cucumbers. And at the odor his fists tightened innew fear. For no serpents give off that peculiar odor,except members of the pit-viper family.
"They're not rattlesnakes," he told himself. "For a scared orangry rattler would have this room vibrating with his whirr.We're too far s
outh for copperheads. The--the only otherpit-viper I ever heard of in Florida is the--cotton-mouthmoccasin!"
At the realization he was aware of a wave of physical terrorthat swept him like a breath of ice.
Without restoratives at hand the moccasin's bite is certaindeath. The plan had been well thought out. At the very firststep the frantic prisoner might reasonably be relied on toencounter one or more of the crawling horrors. The box onwhich he crouched was barely eighteen inches high. The nextbox--under which rested the key--was several feet away. Thedoor was still farther off.
Truly Standish and Hade appeared to have hit on an excellentplan for getting rid of the man they wanted out of the way!It would be so easy for Roke to explain to possible inquirersthat Brice had chanced to tread on a poisonous snake in hiswanderings about the key!
The slightest motion might well be enough to stir to activehostility the swarm of serpents already angered by theirsudden dumping into this clammy den.
Weaponless, helpless, the trapped man crouchedthere and waited.