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a 30-pound shot by clasping it on top with one hand. And yet neither Farragut nor Porter was a large man. Farragut was not over five feet, six inches in height, and Porter was only five feet, eight and one-half inches. Both, however, were rugged and muscular.

The two admirals were more than fosterbrothers; they were friends. Each was endowed with the same dash, determination, and personal fearlessness. Farragut was lashed in the rigging at Mobile; at Fort Fisher, Porter stood on the paddle-box of the little paper-clad "Malvern" while the fleet ran under the guns. At New Orleans, Farragut, not being satisfied with the man

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COLLECTOR OF THE PORTE.

BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS,

Author of "The Mystery of Choice," "The Red Republic," etc.

"I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace."

N winter the Porte is closed, the population migrates, the Collector of the Porte sails southward. There is nothing left but black rocks sheathed in ice where icy seas clash and splinter and white squalls howl across the headland. When the wind slackens and the inlet freezes, spotted seals swim up and down the ragged edges of the ice, sleek restless heads raised, mild eyes fixed on the turbid shallows. In January, blizzard-driven snowy owls whirl into the pines and sit all day in the demi-twilight, the white ptarmigan covers the softer snow with winding tracks, and the white hare, huddled in his whiter "form," plays hide and seek with his own shadow.

In February the Porte-of-Waves is still untenanted. A few marauders appear, now and then a steel-gray panther from the north frisking over the snow after the white hares, now and then a stub-tailed lynx, mean-faced, famished, snarling up at the white owls who look down and snap their beaks and hiss.

The first bud on the Indian-willow brings the first inhabitant back to the Porte-ofWaves, Francis Lee, Superintendent of the

TENNYSON.

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mica quarry. The quarrymen follow in batches; the willow-tassels see them all there; the wind-flowers witness the defile of the first shift through the pines.

On the last day of May the company's flag was hoisted on the tool-house, the FrenchCanadians came down to repair the rusty narrow-gauge railroad, and Lee, pipe lighted, sea-jacket buttoned to the throat, tramped up and down the track with the lumber detail, chalking and condemning sleepers, blazing spruce and pine, sounding fish-plate and rail, and shouting at intervals until the washouts were shored up, windfalls hacked through, and landslide and boulder no longer biocked the progress of the company's sole locomotive.

The first of June brought sunshine and black flies, but not the Collector of the Porte. The Canadians went back to Sainte Isole across the line, the white-throated sparrow's long, dreary melody broke out in the clearing's edge, but the Collector of the Porte did not return.

That evening, Lee, smoking his pipe on the headland, looked out across the sunsettinted ocean and saw the white gulls settling on the shoals and the fish-hawks soaring overhead with the broad red sun-glint on their wings. The smoke of a moss smudge

the lumber detail, chalking and condemning sleepers.

kept the flies away, his own tobacco smoke drove away care. Incidentally both drove Williams away-a mere lad in baggy bluejeans, smooth-faced, clear-eyed, with seatan on wrist and cheek.

"How did you cut your hand?" asked Lee, turning his head as Williams moved away. "Mica," replied Williams, briefly. After a moment Williams started on again.

"Come back," said Lee; "that wasn't what I had to tell you."

He sat down on the headland, opened a jack-knife, and scraped the ashes out of his pipe. Williams came slowly up and stood a few paces behind his shoulder.

"Sit down," said Lee. Williams did not stir. Lee waited a moment, head slightly turned, but not far enough for him to see the figure motionless behind his shoulder.

"It's none of my business,' began Lee," but perhaps you had better know that you have deceived nobody. Finn came and spoke to me to-day. Dyce knows it, Carrots and Lefty Sawyer know it-I should have known it myself had I looked at you twice."

The June wind blowing over the grass carried two white butterflies over the cliff. Lee watched them struggle back to land again; Williams watched Lee.

"I don't know what to do," said Lee, after a silence; "it is not forbidden for women to work in the quarry as far as I am aware. If you need work and prefer that sort, and if you perform your work properly, shall not interfere with you. And I'll see that the men do not."

Williams stood motionless; the smoke from the smudge shifted west, then south.

"But," continued Lee, "I must enter you properly on the pay-roll; I cannot approve of this masquerade. Finn will see you in the morning; it is unnecessary for me to repeat that you will not be disturbed."

There was no answer. After a silence Lee turned, then rose to his feet. Williams was

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She tightened her hands over her eyes; tears stole between her fingers and dropped, one by one, on the young grass.

"If you need work-if you can find nothing else I-I think, perhaps, I may manage something better," he said. "You must not stand there crying-listen! Here come Finn and Dyce, and I don't want them to talk all over the camp." Finn and Dyce came toiling up the headland with news that the west drain was choked. They glanced askance at Williams, who turned her back. The sea-wind dried her eyes; it stung her

"I pay you to follow my directions."

torn hands, too. She unconsciously placed one aching finger in her mouth and looked out to sea.

"The dreen's bust by the second windfall," said Dyce, with a jerk of his stunted thumb toward the forest. "If them sluice props caves in, the timber's wasted."

Finn proposed new sluice gates; Lee objected, and swore roundly that if the damage was not repaired by next evening he'd hold Finn responsible. He told them he was there to save the company's money, not to experiment with it; he spoke sharply to Finn of last year's extravagance, and warned him not to trifle with orders.

"I pay you to follow my directions," he said; do so, and I'll be responsible to the

66

company; disobey, and I'll hold you to the chalk-mark every time."

Finn sullenly shifted his quid and nodded; Dyce looked rebellious.

66

You might as well know," continued Lee," that I mean what I say. You'll find it out. Do your work, and we'll get on without trouble. You'll find I'm just."

When Dyce and Finn had shuffled away toward the coast, Lee looked at the figure outlined on the cliffs against the sunset sky-a desolate, lonely little figure in truth.

"Come," said Lee; "if you must have work, I will give you enough to keep you busy; not in the quarry, either do you want to cripple yourself in that pit? It's no place for children, anyway. Can you write properly?" The girl nodded, back turned toward him.

"Then you can keep the rolls, duplicates and all. You'll have a room to yourself in my shanty. I'll pay quarry wages."

He did not add that those wages must come out of his own pocket. The company allowed him no secretary, and he was too sensitive to suggest one.

66 'I don't ask you where you come from or why you are here," he said, a little roughly. "If there is gossip, I cannot help it." He walked to the smudge and stood in the smoke, for the wind had died out and the black flies were active.

"Perhaps," he hazarded, "you would like to go back to-to where you came from? I'll send you

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back."

She shook her head.

There may be gossip in camp."

The slightest movement of her shoulders indicated her indifference. Lee relighted his pipe, poked the smudge and piled damp moss on it.

"All right," he said, "don't be unhappy; I'll do what I can to make you comfortable. You had better come into the smudge, to begin with."

She came, touching her eyes with her hands, awkward, hesitating. hesitating. He looked gravely at her clumsy boots, at the loose toil-stained overalls.

"What is your name?" he said without embarrassment.

"My name is Helen Pine." She looked

up at him steadily; after a moment she re-
peated her name, as though expecting him to
recognize it. He did not; he had never be-
fore heard it, as far as he knew. Neither
did he find in her eager, wistful face anything
familiar. How should he remember her?
Why should he remember? It was nearly
six months ago that, snowbound in the little
village on the Mohawk, he and the directors
of his company left their private Pullman car
to amuse themselves at a country dance.
How should he recollect the dark-eyed girl
who had danced the "fireman's quadrille"
with him, who had romped through a reel or
two with him, who had amused him through
a snowy evening? How should he recall the
careless country in-
cident the corn-pop-
ping, the apple race,
the flirtation on the
dark, windy stairway?
Who could expect him
to remember the
laughing kiss, the
meaningless promises
to write, the promises
to return some day
for another dance,
and kiss? A week
later he had forgotten
the village, forgotten
the dance, the pop-
corn, the stairway,
and the kiss. She
never forgot. Had he
told her he loved her?
He forgot it before
she replied. Had he
amused himself?
Passably. But he was
glad that the snow-
cleared the
plows cleared

of such a love. To this end she purchased
some shears to cut her hair with; but the
mental picture she conjured was not im-
proved by such a sacrifice. She recoiled her
hair tightly, and bought a slouch hat, too big.
When, arrived at the quarry, she saw him
again, she nearly fainted from fright. He
met her twice face to face, and she was
astounded that he did not recognize her.
Reflection, however, assured her that her
disguise must be perfect, and she awaited the
dramatic moment when she should reveal
herself—not dying from quarry toil, for she
did not wish to die now that she had seen
him. No-she would live-live to prove to
him how a woman can love-live to confound

him with her constan-
cy.
She had read
many romances. Now,
when he bade her fol-
low him to the head-
land, she knew she
had been discovered;
she was weak with
terror and shame and
hope. She thought
he knew her; when he
spoke so coolly, she
stood dumb with
amazement; when he
spoke of Finn and
Sawyer and Dyce, she
understood he had not
penetrated her dis-
guise, except from
hearsay, and a terror
of loneliness and deso-
lation rushed over
her. Then the im-
pulse came to hide her
identity from him-
why, she did not
know. Again that
vanished when he called her to come into
the smoke. As she looked up at him, her
heart almost stopped; yet he did not recog-
nize her. Then the courage of despair
seized her, and she told her name.
at length she comprehended that he had
entirely forgotten her, forgotten her very
name, fright sealed her lips. All the hope-
lessness and horror of her position dawned
upon her all she had believed, expected,
prayed for, came down with a crash.

The picture she conjured was not improved by
such a sacr fice."

track the next morn-
ing; for there was trouble in Albany and
lobbying to do, and a rival company was
moving wheels within wheels to lubricate
the machinery of honest legislation.

So it meant nothing to him-this episode of a snow blockade; it meant all the world to her. For months she awaited the letter that never came. An Albany journal mentioned his name and profession. She wrote to the company, and learned where the quarry lay. She was young and foolish and nearly broken-hearted; so she ran away. Her first sentimental idea was to work herself to death, disguised, under his very eyes. When she lay dying she would reveal herself to him and he should know too late the value

When

As they stood together in the smoke of the smudge, she mechanically laid her hand on his sleeve, for her knees scarcely supported her.

"What is it; does the smoke make you

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dizzy?" he asked. She nodded; he aided the lumbermen, returning from the forest

her to the cliff's edge, and seated her on a boulder. Under the cliff the sunset light reddened the sea. A quarryman, standing on a rock, looked up at Lee and pointed seaward.

"Hello!" answered Lee," what is it? The Collector of the Porte?" Other quarrymen, grouped on the coast, took up the cry;

along the inlet, paused, axe on shoulder, to stare at the sea. Presently, out in the calm ocean, a black triangle cut the surface, dipped, glided landward, dipped, glided, disappeared. Again the dark point came into view, now close under the cliff where thirty feet of limpid water bathes its base.

"The Collector of the Porte!" shouted Finn from the rocks. Lee bent over the cliff's brink. Far down into the clear water he followed the outline of the cliff. Under it a shadowy bulk floated, a monstrous shark, rubbing its length softly as if in greeting for old acquaintance' sake. The Collector of the Porte had returned from the south.

"Other quarrymen, gro"; e' on the coast, took up the cry."

II.

The Collector of the Porte and the Company were rivals; both killed their men, the one at sea, the other in the quarry. The Company objected to pelagic slaughter, and sent some men with harpoons, bombs, and shark-hooks to the Porte; but the Collector sheered off to sea, and waited for them to go away.

The Company could not keep the quarrymen from bathing; Lee could not keep the Collector from Porte-of- Waves. Every

year two or three quarrymen fell to his share; the Company killed the even half dozen. Years before, the quarrymen had named the shark; the name fascinated everybody with its sinister conventionality. In truth he was Collector of the Porte-an official who took toll of all who ventured from this Porte where nothing entered from the sea save the sea itself, wave on wave and wave after

wave.

In the Superintendent's office there were two rolls of victims-victims of the quarry and victims of the Collector of the Porte. Pensions were not allowed to families of the latter

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