The Window-Gazer | Page 5

suddenly, as he had hoped it would, the mist
began to lift. Swiftly, before the puff of a warmer breeze, it eddied and
thinned. Its soundless, impalpable pressure lessened. The wharf, the sea,
the city began to steal back, sly, expressionless, pretending that they
had been there all the time. Even Mr. Johnston could be clearly seen

coming down from the boatshed with a curious figure beside him--a
figure so odd and unfamiliar that he might have been part of the
unfamiliar fog itself.
"Well, you've certainly struck it lucky today," called the genial Mr.
Johnston. "This here is Doc. Farr's boy. He's going right back over
there now and he'll take you along--if you want to go."
There was a disturbing cadence of doubt in the latter part of his speech
which affected the professor's always alert curiosity, as did also the
appearance of the "boy" reputed to belong to Dr. Farr. How old he was
no one could have guessed. The yellow parchment of his face was
ageless; ageless also the inscrutable, blank eyes. Only one thing was
certain--he had never been young. For the rest, he was utterly
composed and indifferent, and unmistakably Chinese.
"I hope there is no mistake," said Professor Spence hesitatingly. "Dr.
Farr certainly informed me that this was the wharf at which his launch
usually--er--tied up. But--there could scarcely be two doctors of that
name, I suppose? It's somewhat uncommon."
"Oh, it's him you want," assured Mr. Johnston. "Only man of that name
hereabouts. Lives out across the Narrows somewheres. Used to live
here in Vancouver years ago but now he don't honor us much. Queer
old skate! They say he's got some good Indian things, though-- if it's
them you're after?"
The professor ignored the question but pondered the information.
"I think you are right. It must be the same person," he said. "But he
certainly led me to expect--"
A chuckle from the boat-builder interrupted him. "Ah, he'd do that, all
right," grinned Mr. Johnston. "They do say he has a special gift that
way."
"Well, thank you very much anyway." The professor offered his hand
cordially. "And if we're going, we had better go."

"You'll be a tight fit in the launch," said Mr. Johnston. "Miss Farr's
down 'ere somewhere. I saw her pass."
"Miss Farr!" The professor's ungallant horror was all too patent. He
turned haunted eyes toward the second nail keg, now plainly visible
and unoccupied.
"Missy in boat. She waitee. No likee!" said the Chinaman, speaking for
the first time.
"But," began the professor, and then, seeing the appreciative grin upon
Mr. Johnston's speaking countenance, he continued blandly-- "Very
well, let us not keep the lady waiting. Especially as she doesn't like it.
Take this bag, my man, it's light. I'll carry the other."
With no words, and no apparent effort, the old man picked up both
bags and shuffled off. The professor followed. At the end of the wharf
there were steps and beneath the steps a small floating platform to
which was secured what the professor afterwards described as "a
marine vehicle, classification unknown." Someone, girl or woman,
hidden in a loose, green coat, was already seated there. A pair of dark
eyes looked up impatiently.
"I am afraid you were not expecting me," said the professor. "I am
Hamilton Spence. Your father--"
"You're getting your feet wet," said the person in the coat. "Please jump
in."
The professor jumped. He hadn't jumped since the sciatica and he didn't
do it gracefully. But it landed him in the boat. The Chinaman was
already in his place. A rattle and a roar arose, the air turned suddenly to
gasoline and they were off.
"Has it a name?" asked the professor as soon as he could make himself
heard.
"What?"

The professor was not feeling amiable. "It might be easier to refer to it
in conversation if one knew its name," he remarked, "'Launch' seems a
trifle misleading."
There was a moment's silence. Then, "I suppose 'launch' is what father
called it," said his companion. He could have sworn that there was cool
amusement in her tone. "I see your difficulty," she went on. "But,
fortunately, it has a name of its own. It is called the Tillicum.'"
"As such I salute it!" said Spence, gravely.
The other made no attempt to continue the conversation. She retired
into the fastness of the green cloak, leaving the professor to ponder the
situation. It seemed on the face of it an absurd situation enough, yet
there should certainly be nothing absurd in it. Spence felt a somewhat
bulky package of letters even now in the pocket of his coat. These
letters were real and sensible enough. They comprised his
correspondence with one Dr. Herbert Farr, Vancouver, B. C. As letters
they were