Angel Island | Page 6

finally that he was the man of the hour, the others ended by following his instructions blindly.
Merrill, himself, was no shirk. His strength seemed prodigious. When any of the others attempted to land something too big to handle alone, he was always near to help; and yet, unaided, he accomplished twice as much as the busiest.
Frank Merrill, professor of a small university in the Middle West, was the scholar of the group, a sociologist traveling in the Orient to study conditions. He was not especially popular with his companions, although they admired him and deferred to him. On the other hand, he was not unpopular; it was more that they stood a little in awe of him.
On his mental side, he was a typical academic product. Normally his conversation, both in subject-matter and in verbal form, bore towards pedantry. It was one curious effect of this crisis that he had reverted to the crisp Anglo-Saxon of his farm-nurtured youth.
On his moral side, he was a typical reformer, a man of impeccable private character, solitary, a little austere. He had never married; he had never sought the company of women, and in fact he knew nothing about them. Women had had no more bearing on his life than the fourth dimension.
On his physical side he was a wonder.
Six feet four in height, two hundred and fifty pounds in weight, he looked the viking. He had carried to the verge of middle age the habits of an athletic youth. It was said that half his popularity in his university world was due to the respect he commanded from the students because of his extraordinary feats in walking and lifting. He was impressive, almost handsome. For what of his face his ragged, rusty beard left uncovered was regularly if coldly featured. He was ascetic in type. Moreover, the look of the born disciplinarian lay on him. His blue eyes carried a glacial gleam. Even through his thick mustache, the lines of his mouth showed iron.
After a while, Honey Smith came across a water-tight tin of matches. "Great Scott, fellows!" he exclaimed. "I'm hungry enough to drop. Let's knock off for a while and feed our faces. How about mock turtle, chicken livers, and red-headed duck?"
They built a fire, opened cans of soup and vegetables.
"The Waldorf has nothing on that," Pete Murphy said when they stopped, gorged.
"Say, remember to look for smokes, all of you," Ralph Addington admonished them suddenly.
"You betchu!" groaned Honey Smith, and his look became lugubrious. But his instinct to turn to the humorous side of things immediately crumpled his brown face into its attractive smile. "Say, aren't we going to be the immaculate little lads? I can't think of a single bad habit we can acquire in this place. No smokes, no drinks, few if any eats - and not a chorister in sight. Let's organize the Robinson Crusoe Purity League, Parlor Number One."
"Oh, gee!" Pete Murphy burst out. "It's just struck me. The Wilmington 'Blue,' is lost forever - it must have gone down with everything else."
Nobody spoke. It was an interesting indication of how their sense of values had already shifted that the loss to the world of one of its biggest diamonds seemed the least of their minor disasters.
"Perhaps that's what hoodooed us," Pete went on. "You know they say the Wilmington 'Blue' brought bad luck to everybody who owned it. Anyway, battle, murder, adultery, rape, rapine, and sudden death have followed it right along the line down through history. Oh, it's been a busy cake of ice - take it from muh! Hope the mermaids fight shy of it."
"The Wilmington 'Blue' isn't alone in that," Ralph Addington said. "All big diamonds have raised hell. You ought to hear some of the stories they tell in India about the rajahs' treasures. Some of those briolettes - you listen long enough and you come to the conclusion that the sooner all the big stones are cut up, the better."
"I bet this one isn't gone," said Pete. "Anybody take me? That's the contrariety of the beasts - they won't stay lost. We'll find that stone yet - where among our loot. The first thing we know, we'll be all knifing each other to get it."
"Time's up," called Frank Merrill. "Sorry to drive you, but we've got to keep at it as long as the light lasts. After to-day, though, we need work only at high water. Between times, we can explore the island - " He spoke as if he were wheedling a group of boys with the promise of play.
"Select a site for our capital city" - Honey Smith helped him out facetiously - "lay out streets - begin to excavate for the church, town-hall, schoolhouse, and library."
"The first thing to do now," Frank Merrill went on, as