an of the twelve
possessed a fire-arm of one kind or another. Then Bill McKay, Mother
McKay's son, and two others departed in quest of horses and sleds. The
roads were fairly good now, though unpacked. Mother McKay set to work at
the packing of provisions for the expedition. She was heart and soul in
the enterprise, and would have her interests represented by her son
Bill, the worst rascal, hardest fighter and most devoted son in St.
John's. She had a hold on some of the small farmers around--in fact, she
owned several of the farms--so it was not long before Bill and his
companions returned, each in possession of a horse and sled. The
expedition set out at two o'clock of a windless, frosty, star-lit
morning. They travelled the roads which John Darling had followed,
several days before; but now the mud-holes and quaking bogs were frozen
and covered with snow. Bill McKay drove the sled that led the way at a
pace that gave the following teamsters all they could do to keep in
touch; but willing hands manned the whips and hammering sled-stakes.
Now and again one or another of the raiders would fall off a sled and
necessitate a halt; and so the poor horses were given a chance, now and
again, to recover something of their lost wind.

Back in Chance Along things were going briskly. Mary Kavanagh learned
from John Darling something of the history of the diamond and ruby
necklace and made up her mind to return it to the sailor. She wanted to
clean the harbor of everything of the kind--of everything that came up
from the sea in shattered ships, except food. She saw the hands of the
saints in salvaged provisions, but the hand of the devil himself in
wrecked gold and jewels--and wrecked women. She decided to arrange the
recovery of the necklace and the bully, and the escape of the strangers
for that very night; and her decision was sealed, a few hours later, by
the skipper's behavior. It was this way with the skipper. He felt shame
for having kept the girl in the harbor against her prayers, and for the
lies he had told her and the destruction of the letters; but he was
neither humble nor contrite. Shame was a bitter and maddening emotion
for one of his nature. He brooded over this shame, and over that
aroused by the girl's scorn, until his finer feelings toward her were
burned out and blown abroad like ashes. His infatuation lost its fine,
ennobling element of worship, and fell to a red glow of desire of
possession. He forced his wa