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Orde leaped blindly for the rail, where he was seized and dragged aboard by the Rough Red; the axes fell, Marsh whirled over the wheel, Harvey threw open his throttle. The tug sprang from its leash like a hound. And behind the barrier the logs, tossing and tumbling, the white spray flying before their onslaught, beat in vain against the barrier, like raging wild beasts whose prey has escaped.
Morning found no change in the situation. The water rose steadily; the logs grew more and more restive; the defences weaker and more inadequate. Orde brought out steaming pails of coffee which the men gulped down between moments. No one thought of quitting. They were afire with the flame of combat, and were set obstinately on winning even in the face of odds.
Captain Marsh reached up to shake the hand which Orde, stooping, offered him. "I'll try to bring her back all right, sir," said he. "To hell with the tug!" cried Orde, impatient at this insistence on the mere property aspect. "Bring yourself back." Captain Marsh deliberately lit another cigar and entered the pilot-house with the other men.
"No, I won't," she said, more than half to herself. She sat brooding for a moment; then suddenly her mood changed. She sprang up, shook her skirts free, and seated herself at the piano. To Orde, who had also arisen, she made a quaint grimace over her shoulder. "Admire your handiwork!" she told him.
Orde was apparently more at ease than any of the rest, but each instant he expected to hear the premonitory CRACK that would sound the end of everything. Finally he yawned, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and got to his feet. "Now," said he, a new ring in his voice, "come on and let's get something DONE!" They responded to a man. By midnight the water seemed to have gone down slightly.
A clatter of hoofs was heard, and Orde looked up with vexation, but his brow cleared as a horseman halted under the porch. "Hellin Orde! just looked in to ask if you are coming to polo on Tuesday: we want you badly to help to crumple up the Krab Bokbar team." "Quite a little thoroughbred in all other respects," said the M.P., and Orde presented Mr.
As he bore down on the intruders with tremendous, nervous strides, they perceived him to be an old man, white of hair, cadaverous of countenance, with thin, straight lips, and burning, fanatic eyes beneath stiff and bushy brows. "Good-morning, Mr. Reed," shouted Orde above the noise of the water. "Good-morning, gentlemen," replied the apparition. "Nice dam you got here," went on Orde.
A breath of suspicion would destroy his plans. If the smallest untoward incident should ever bring it clearly before Orde that Newmark might have an interest in reducing profits, he could not fail to tread out the logic of the latter's devious ways. For this reason Newmark could not as yet fight even in the twilight. He did not dare make bad sales, awkward transactions.
Orde sat down, once more master of himself, but still inclined to devour her with his gaze. She was dressed in a morning gown, all laces and ribbons and long, flowing lines. Her hair was done low on the back of her head and on the nape of her neck. The blood ebbed and flowed beneath her clear skin. A faint fragrance of cleanliness diffused itself about her the cool, sweet fragrance of daintiness.
To Orde she seemed fragile, aloof, enshrined among her laces and dainty ribbons. Hardly dared he touch her when she held her hand out to him weakly, but fell on his knees beside the bed and buried his face in the clothes. She placed a gentle hand caressingly on his head. So they remained for some time. Finally he raised his eyes. She held her lips to him. He kissed them.
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