Black Cat Weekly #8

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7The Man On The Beach

BACK on the roof, Steven went to work again mechanically, his mind on Linda’s question. “Maybe I’m a drifter,” he muttered. He planned to do his hitch of service in the Navy like brother Tom. He did not even have to stop to think about that. But what came later bothered him, and he had to decide soon if he wanted to gear his work at Bowdoin to the future. Neither of his brothers had had any struggle. They both had one-track minds like Linda. Bob was a blue-water man and always would be. The Coast Guard was a natural for him. And Tom still thought anyone who didn’t want to build boats had a screw loose. Listening to his plans for expanding the family boat yard, you could take it for granted that Purchas ships would make yachting history yet.

I guess I’m nuts, Steve thought impatiently. He knew that he wanted to stay around salt water and he was bone proud of the work his father turned out. He’d have to settle for the boat yard in the end. Why couldn’t he have said so instead of hedging? Neither the Coast Guard nor the Merchant Marine actually made sense for him. Underneath, he knew he was no blue-water man. He liked the Bay where he could drift along the ledges in a skiff watching sand dollars on the bottoms, or stop and explore a tide pool.

The afternoon wore on slowly. Steve felt as if his hands went on prying and tossing almost of their own volition, but down on the ground the piles of old shingles grew impressive. By four-thirty the roof was nearly clear. He wedged himself tight behind the seaward chimney to finish the last patch and tackled it with revived energy. He probably had housemaid’s knee, but he’d be through in another fifteen minutes. And right on the nose, too, he thought with satisfaction when he chucked the last broken shingles over the gutter and looked at his watch again. Now all he had to worry about was unlimbering enough to make it down the ladder.

He hooked an arm over the chimney brace for support and stood a minute looking out across the Head. The tide had turned, and a swim before supper would be an idea if he could make Juniper Point in time. He had promised to whistle for Linda before he left, of course, but she had probably grown tired of hanging around long ago. He would see her later anyway; they were all having supper aboard the Delight.

Loosing his hold on the chimney rod, he was ready to slide for his ladder when Linda suddenly popped into sight on the beach. The tangled shrubbery in the old Farr graveyard had hidden her before, but now he could see her clearly, running like a rabbit. The Harpswell Harbor side of the Head was all sand and clam flats. Anybody could tear along that. Linda, though, was heading down the Merriconeag shore where the going got worse every minute. Steve was furious. Even a girl born in a city ought to have wits enough not to try to sprint over a beach that could give a mountain goat the jitters. He stuck a couple of fingers in his mouth and whistled frantically.

Obviously Linda heard him. She threw one arm up in acknowledgment, but she didn’t slow down. She had been running along the upper level of the shore where the rocks were comparatively small and sand lay between them. Now she began to swerve toward the water. Out there the rocks gave way to boulders and corrugated ledges covered with slippery rockweed.

Somehow, without shooting on over the gutter, Steve managed to skid to the top of his ladder and twist around, his feet feeling automatically for the rungs. He hated to turn his head away from the girl jumping from ledge to ledge on the beach, but he needed his eyes himself. In a minute, though, he was looking shoreward again, and in that minute Linda had slowed down. She was moving almost cautiously, testing each foothold before she trusted her weight on the treacherous weed. Apparently she did have a little sense left after all.

Steve drew a quick breath of relief. But what Linda had seen to make her run that way, he couldn’t figure out. Hanging on by one hand, Steve let himself swing as far out from the ladder as he could. He seemed to have a clear enough view; he could even see the lower reaches of the shore, and still there was nothing except the usual kelp and driftwood around. Puzzled, he pulled himself back against the ladder, dropped down another half-dozen rungs, and swung out once more. This time he saw what he had missed before—a group of huge granite boulders above a long line of ledges and at their base, sprawled grotesquely over the weed, the body of a man. For a split second he hung there horrified. Then, as he watched, the figure pushed to its hands and knees and crawled forward a foot or two before it collapsed. Steve’s shoulder began to shake with laughter. Oh no, he thought, not that again!

But he sobered quickly. No wonder Linda was running. He had better get down there after her. Maybe he couldn’t stop her but at least he could pick up the pieces. He practically slid the rest of the way to the ground and ran across the scrubby field behind the house onto the beach, zigzagging in and out to avoid the bigger rocks and the tangles of weed and driftwood. Ahead of him, Linda’s small figure balanced precariously and almost went down. Steve groaned, but, by a miracle, the girl caught herself and jumped safely to another ledge.

Slipping and sliding on the weed, Steve headed diagonally toward the water. He knew that he ought to be watching his own footing more carefully, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off Linda. At every jump she made he held his breath. She wasn’t used to a rugged shore; her shoes were probably slippery. She made a final spring, and Steve set his teeth. She was teetering wildly. Then she shot out of sight. He tried to redouble his own speed, but it was no good. He still had to pick his way.

Working steadily closer, he strained his ears for the sound of voices. Even if Linda were hurt, he ought to hear something besides the mewing of the gulls and the tide sucking at the litter of shells and pebbles. So far there was nothing. Recklessly, he made a last crazy leap and caught himself against the granite boulders. Somewhere beyond them, Linda’s tones blended with a man’s deep rumble. Steve climbed gratefully down. It was all right. She was laughing.

But she looked up, contrite, when he appeared. “I heard you whistle so I kept hoping you’d come,” she told him. “I just didn’t dare wait. Honestly, Steve. First I thought I saw a dead body on the rocks and then it crawled and I decided someone was hurt. After that, I simply ran.”

She looked at the man in the battered dungarees sitting on a rock and began to laugh again. “Oh dear,” she gasped, “did you ever see a healthier corpse? Mr. Wood, this is Steve Purchas.”

Mr. Wood was feeling apologetic over the excitement he had caused, but he couldn’t help smiling. “The first time I met Steve he was exactly the right size to take afternoon naps in a clothesbasket,” he said. “Don’t tell me you were rushing to my rescue, too, Steve—or were you trying to save Linda’s neck? I’m appalled when I realize how easily she might have broken it!”

“It was Linda’s neck that was worrying me,” Steve admitted. He sat down on a ledge and mopped his hot face. “But I was mad enough to wring it until I spotted you doing that backing and filling stunt of yours, painting.”

Mr. Wood nodded ruefully. “I had my paper stretched out on a flat rock. I suppose I do look weird from a distance.” His face was distressed. “The Head’s been deserted so long it never dawned on me anyone might see the performance and get excited.”

“Excited!” Steve said. “I practically had heart failure watching Linda on those ledges. Would you mind hoisting one of those ‘men-at-work’ signs the next time you try that stunt?”

He pushed to his feet and pulled Linda up alongside him. “If we’re going to get back to Juniper Point today, we’d better get started,” he told her. “We’re not traveling this beach again like a couple of express trains. Are you coming our way, Mr. Wood?”

The man in the dungarees shook his head. “I’ll stay a while,” he said. “Mrs. Wood is planning to pick me up at the Ash Point road later.”

He waved his pipe as Steve and Linda started off together; then he dropped out of sight again behind the boulders.

Picking her way carefully from ledge to ledge, Linda kept unusually silent. She was a bit bruised and shaken up, but that didn’t bother her. She was thinking about the man on the beach. She liked these fishing-village people, and the number of things they turned their hands to kept surprising her.

“He’s nice, isn’t he, Steve?” she said as they neared the Farr graveyard. “Mr. Wood, I mean. Tell me about him, will you? I was scared to death when I slammed around those rocks. I never thought to look at what he was doing. Do you suppose he can really paint?”

Steve stopped so short that she nearly fell over him. “Paint?” he asked in amazement. “Of course, he can paint. Linda Cobb, are you trying to be funny?” He was beginning to look almost as puzzled as she did. “Why, you and Dr. Sutton were talking about him the other day. Naturally, I thought you knew. That man is Orrin Wood!”

Linda shook his arm, incredulous. “Oh no, not Orrin Wood,” she whispered. “I thought he was a lobsterman. Steve, what on earth would Orrin Wood be doing in a place like this?”

Steve stared at her, his face suddenly shuttered. So he could chalk up another big-town snob for the record after all.

“Orrin Wood was born and brought up in ‘a place like this,’” he said evenly. “He went to school with Dad. He always spends the summer here.”