In Search of the Unknown | Page 5

before
dark, and he very kindly led me along the cliffs and pointed out the
path.
"This man Halyard," he said, "is an invalid. He lives at a cove called
Black Harbor, and all his truck goes through to him over the company's
road. We receive it here, and send a pack-mule through once a month.
I've met him; he's a bad-tempered hypochondriac, a cynic at heart, and
a man whose word is never doubted. If he says he has a great auk, you
may be satisfied he has."
My heart was beating with excitement at the prospect; I looked out
across the wooded headlands and tangled stretches of dune and hollow,
trying to realize what it might mean to me, to Professor Farrago, to the
world, if I should lead back to New York a live auk.
"He's a crank," said Lee; "frankly, I don't like him. If you find it
unpleasant there, come back to us."
"Does Halyard live alone?" I asked.
"Yes--except for a professional trained nurse--poor thing!"
"A man?"
"No," said Lee, disgustedly.
Presently he gave me a peculiar glance; hesitated, and finally said:
"Ask Halyard to tell you about his nurse and--the harbor-master.
Good-bye--I'm due at the quarry. Come and stay with us whenever you
care to; you will find a welcome at Port-of-Waves."
We shook hands and parted on the cliff, he turning back into the forest
along the railway, I starting northward, pack slung, rifle over my
shoulder. Once I met a group of quarrymen, faces burned brick-red,
scarred hands swinging as they walked. And, as I passed them with a
nod, turning, I saw that they also had turned to look after me, and I
caught a word or two of their conversation, whirled back to me on the

sea-wind.
They were speaking of the harbor-master.

III
Towards sunset I came out on a sheer granite cliff where the sea-birds
were whirling and clamoring, and the great breakers dashed, rolling in
double-thundered reverberations on the sun-dyed, crimson sands below
the rock.
Across the half-moon of beach towered another cliff, and, behind this, I
saw a column of smoke rising in the still air. It certainly came from
Halyard's chimney, although the opposite cliff prevented me from
seeing the house itself.
I rested a moment to refill my pipe, then resumed rifle and pack, and
cautiously started to skirt the cliffs. I had descended half-way towards
the beech, and was examining the cliff opposite, when something on
the very top of the rock arrested my attention--a man darkly outlined
against the sky. The next moment, however, I knew it could not be a
man, for the object suddenly glided over the face of the cliff and slid
down the sheer, smooth lace like a lizard. Before I could get a square
look at it, the thing crawled into the surf--or, at least, it seemed to--but
the whole episode occurred so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I was
not sure I had seen anything at all.
However, I was curious enough to climb the cliff on the land side and
make my way towards the spot where I imagined I saw the man. Of
course, there was nothing there--not a trace of a human being, I mean.
Something had been there--a sea-otter, possibly--for the remains of a
freshly killed fish lay on the rock, eaten to the back-bone and tail.
The next moment, below me, I saw the house, a freshly painted, trim,
flimsy structure, modern, and very much out of harmony with the
splendid savagery surrounding it. It struck a nasty, cheap note in the
noble, gray monotony of headland and sea.

The descent was easy enough. I crossed the crescent beach, hard as
pink marble, and found a little trodden path among the rocks, that led to
the front porch of the house.
There were two people on the porch--I heard their voices before I saw
them--and when I set my foot upon the wooden steps, I saw one of
them, a woman, rise from her chair and step hastily towards me.
"Come back!" cried the other, a man with a smooth-shaven, deeply
lined face, and a pair of angry, blue eyes; and the woman stepped back
quietly, acknowledging my lifted hat with a silent inclination.
The man, who was reclining in an invalid's rolling-chair, clapped both
large, pale hands to the wheels and pushed himself out along the porch.
He had shawls pinned about him, an untidy, drab-colored hat on his
head, and, when he looked down at me, he scowled.
"I know who you are," he said, in his acid voice; "you're one of the
Zoological men from Bronx Park. You look like it, anyway."
"It is easy to recognize you from your reputation," I replied, irritated at
his discourtesy.
"Really," he