The Heart of the Red Firs: A Story of the Pacific NorthwestAnderson, Ada Woodruff
General
The Heart of the Red Firs: A Story of the Pacific Northwest
Anderson, Ada Woodruff
Northwest, Pacific -- Fiction
Kingsley was silent. Presently he went forward into the bows, and stood
looking off to where the silver smoke film met the shining sea. Finally
his lips breathed a whistle. Stratton had taken his place at the
tiller. He lighted a cigar and settled himself comfortably, but his
eyes were fixed watchfully on the man forward. It was the look of a
gambler who has staked high, and is sure, yet not sure of his
antagonist.
At last a shadow cut the Sound far out, northward; the streak broadened,
the mainsail flapped loosely, and the _Phantom_ heeled to the sudden
flaw. Kingsley sprang to the sheets. The gust passed but was followed
by another, veering westerly, and another still, that steadied to a
freshening breeze.
Philip came back to the helm. "Well," he said, "it looks like Seattle
to-night, after all; dinner, perhaps, at the Arlington."
But Stratton, looking in his companion’s face, started a little, and
with his hand still on the tiller, swung the _Phantom_ slowly around,
shaping a course for Victoria.
They did not dine in Seattle that night, but the next evening found them
at _table d’hote_ in the English city. Later, in the long northern
twilight, the little yacht crept out of the winding harbor and coasted
the island northward to an obscure, forest-girt cove, where she came to
anchor.
*CHAPTER XXI*
*HIDE AND SEEK*
An hour after the _Phantom_ left her moorings in Victoria harbor, Bates,
of the United States Customs, reported to his superior officer on board
the cutter at anchor in the stream. When he had finished with the
matter on which he had been detailed, he stopped to state that on his
way through Chinatown he had noticed Stratton entering the house of a
certain merchant and highbinder. "And," he continued, "returning,
probably two hours later, my attention was attracted to a coolie who
came out of the same place. He carried the baskets of a vegetable
vender, suspended from the usual shoulder pole, but it was singular
that, at the close of the day, and so far from the Chinese garden tracts
in the suburbs, from which he must have been supplied,—those baskets
should be full. I was walking in the same direction, and, at the end of
the second block, a second fellow came up the cross street and fell in
behind. His baskets also were heaped, apparently with produce, to the
brim. They moved away in their swinging trot, more and more rapidly,
and so bent on a direct course, that I felt justified in taking a hansom
and following. On the edge of the town they turned out of the main
thoroughfare, which would have led them to the gardens, and entered a
little used trail; what seemed to be a short cut through the forest to
some obscure harbor on the coast. I could go no farther in the cab,
but, coming back by the park road, I saw from a height of Beacon Hill,
which overlooks the channel, a small yacht with the lines and rigging of
the _Phantom_, stealing up the shore."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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