to sell him Cavello Island. With its
fine ramshackle old house and barren
cedar thickets it was all that was left
of my inheritance, and what I could earn
from my profession was hardly enough
to pay the taxes. For two years I had
tried to find a buyer and the Dodsons
were my first nibble. It had seemed a
first rate stroke to bring them down
from New York to live in the place with
me for a month.
And when I joined them on the boat
coming down I first became aware of the
existence of Miss Linda Shannon, social
secretary to Mrs. Thorley -Dodson. Be-
fore we docked at Hamilton I was gloat-
ing over the prospect of a month under
the same roof with her. ;
I don’t know what the Dodsons had
expected Bermuda to be — at any rate
it . was something else. They didn’t
ISLAN
bother to conceal their low opinion of
Cavello Island.
They had brought their own staff of
servants with them, even a gardener,
and had turned off my man Benevides, a
villainous-looking Portugese whom I had
had around the place doing odd jobs when
I could afford to pay him anything.
If only I could turn these people out
and keep it for mys=If. If Linda would—
but it was a foolish impulse, born of
moonshine, If I didn’t sell the place I
couldn’t even keep myself, much less a
wife. I had to sell it. If ghosts and
buried treasure wouldn’t do it I must
think of something else.
WE SAT ON the terrace after dinner
as on the night before. But this time I
had a piece of luck. Mrs. Dodson went
for a walk. Mr. Dodson went inside to
bring himself up to date on the market
reports.
Instantly my deck chair was arm in
arm with Linda’s. It wasn’t long before
I had the conversation at the point of
asking her whether she wouldn’t like %o
go on living on Cavello Island.
“I'd better,” she said, “if the Dodsons
buy it.”
“No, but how about keeping it for
ourselves? How’d you like to stay on
as helpmate to a rising young author?”
She laughed and made a face at me.
“I eat too much, Tommny. What would
we live on? Fish off the reef?”
Just then there was a rattle of stones
on the path and Mrs. Dodson bore down
upon us in a lumbering run. “Noises,”
she gasped when she could get her
breath. “Back there in the dark. Like—
like blows on metal. What kind of
noises,” she whispered, “did you say
that—that Pedro made?”
We didn’t laugh at her. By flashlight
that night and by daylight the next
morning I searched thoroughly along the
path and the cedars that bordered it.
Nothing there, of course.
Mrs. Dodson was indignant. “I heard
it,” she said, “as plain as I hear you
now. Mr. Pavey, there’s something
there.”
It was in the next day’s paper that we
read about the murder in Hamilton. A
Portugese had come home riotous with
rum and, after a quarrel heard by half
the neighborhood, had very thoroughly
and effectively used a knife to make a
widower of himself. He was still at
large. The news startled us at Cavello.
For the murderer was Benevides Vagos.
1 was called upon to tell all I knew
about my odd job man. I had nothing
much to say. I had let him hang around
the Island when he had nothing else to
do, but he had never endeared himself
to me. Before the Dodsons dismissed
him he had helped us once or twice with
the diving helmet that IT had rented for
Linda’s amusement. She used to say
that it added to the thrill of walking
along the ocean floor to have such a
doubtful character as Benevides at the
pump. “Do you suppose he’ll cgme back
to the Island?” she asked excitedly.
I said it was highly improbable. There
was nothing to bring him there. Any-
TOWN WEEKLY MAGAZINE SECTION
how he was sure to be caught soon.
But several days went by and he wasn’t
caught.
Linda horrified the Dodsons by pro-
posing that she and I go on a private
man hunt along the cliffs and caves of
Devonshire Parish, where one of the
rumors had located Benevides.
Later she had an idea that Benevides
might be hiding in the cave on our Island
and we went down together to inves-
tigate.
IT ISN'T MUCH of a cave, but it’s an
interesting spot. Halfway down the
Island is a little dell, shaded by cedars
and bordered on one side by a sloping
bank. In the bank is a hole five or six
feet in diameter. Inside you see that a
flight of a dozen steps has been cut into
the clay and leads down into the eawth.
At their foot you are in an oval cham-
ber, perhaps twenty feet across, ,col-
umned with pink stalactites.
At one side another flight of steps
leads down again. You seem to be de-
scending into another chamber, with a
floor that reflects back the light of your
torch. It is water—a subterranean pool
s0 clear that you might easily walk down
into it without knowing it was there.
With our flashlights” we peered into
SURREAL AER TTie
TOWN COVER:
WINTER CARNIVAL
Chisholm Ski Jump
RUMFORD, MAINE
Outstanding ski jumpers of this country and from
abroad participate in the annual events at the huge jump
of the Chisholm Skiing and Outing Club, at Rumford,
Maine, in conjunction with the annual Winter Carnivals,
this year on February 4 and 5.
The Chisholm jump is one of the largest in the East.
Thousands of sports enthusiasts and competitors from all
parts of New England and the eastern states are attracted
to the various competitions including the championships Sa
of the United States Fastern Amateur Ski Association.
The Winter Carnivals have been sponsored by the
Chisholm club for the past ifteen years.
ski title events, and Class A and Class B jumping are
featured attractions of the carnivals.
The Maine State
every corner, but found no trace of any-
one having been there. Linda was
annoyed. “He ought to be here,” she
-said indignantly.
One morning before my breakfast
swim I was standing on ‘the terrace in
my bathing trunks when I heard running
footsteps, and three men in uniform
appeared around the corner of the house.
“Has anyone come this way?” one of
them called to me, ony as I shook my
head: “It’s Benevides Vagos. He's
the Island.” They separated, skirti
the shore and -stopping every fe
moments -to scan the surface of the
water.
A tip had come to headquarters tha
Benevides had been seen near George's
Bay, not half a mile from the Island
bicycle squad had hurried out there,
Continued On Page 11
TRI 0 0 0 A
ns g ; ;
‘I ansist that good sense is the principal foundation of good manners;
but because the former is a gift which very few among mankind are possessed
of, therefore all the civilized nations of the
world have agreed upon
fixing some rules for common behavior, best suited to their general customs,
or fancies, as a kind of artificial good sense, to supply the defects of reason.
—Jonathan Swift.
"WITH LOVE -- YOUR DAD’
Dear Son:
I’ve just returned from a trip to the
home office at Philadelphia. The Divi-
sion Freight Agent died and seven of us
from different divisions of the road were
called in to serve as pall-bearers. Many
of the higher officials were there and
from all impressions, we were being
scanned up and down and from side to
side as possibilities to fill the division
job. And that’s life, here today and gone
tomorrow. When we die there is a
little commotion like the tossing of a
pebble into a quiet pond. In almost no
time at all the little ringlet disappears,
and we are forgotten. The world goes
on as usual, with some one selected to
fill our shoes, and there is always some
one capable of doing that.
But please, Son, do not tell any one
else of my possibility for the better job.
If it goes through, ‘well—fine; and if it
does not go through, well—what people
don’t know won’t hurt them. Gelett
Burgess in his book “Look 11 Years
Younger’ has a sort of opposite phil-
osophy. He says that if you contem-
plate doing something you should talk
much of it. This, he says, puts you on
the spot, and forces you to go through
with it. Of course, the appointment
at Philadelphia is beyond my control
now. All I have is thirty-five years of
service behind me, as do each of the
other six.
And if I am fortunate enough to get
the division job, should I become con-
ceited and strut around like a peacock
in a barnyard?
tval end spl eg? 2
Nos never that, gion, I
“When we die there is
a little
tossing of a pebble in a quiet pond.
commotion like ‘the
In almost no time
at all the little ringlet disappears, and we are forgotten.”
®
hope. We might have all the confidence
in the world. We might be tickled to
the nth degree about an achievement.
Inwardly we can feel like that. But outs
wardly we must not-brag or crow. If
you deserve praise, the world will give
it to you.
While strolling alone last night about
10:30, I passed by the home of a six-
month bride and groom. You remem-
ber ‘Ducky’ Jones. There was a
vociferous battle ensuing. Above the
tumult I heard Ducky shout, “Why
didn’t you have that $500 operation be-
fore you got married?” And so if you
consider marriage strictly a business
proposition, Son, do not accept a bride
who has not had tonsils, adenoids, ap-
pendix, corns, and nagging removed.
Have her visit the dentist for one final
pre-marriage repair, and do not marry
her until you see all the receipts.
I hope you are not performing in class
as I used to do. Every time the profes-
sor called on me, I became almost as
frustrated as a chicken trying to cross
the highway in front of a speeding aute-
mobile. Either I had no answer or else
I couldn’t determine which one was the
better.
of the road and got my tail feathers
clipped. Hoping to save some of your
down, I suggest that you listen care-
fully to the professors’ questions, and
always give some kind of an answer.
And if you give a foolish answer the
first time, do not be whipped by
laughter. Go right back at your next
; ¥oRy sh IRE
As a result I stood in the center |
by J. NORMAN WEBER
opportunity and be determined to lick
your weakness and turn your last defeat
into victory. In other words, get behind
the throttle every chance you have.
And even though you are young, do
not turn down responsibility and leader-
ship. Develop this in your youth and
you will reap great confidence when you
are again turned loose in the throngs of
humanity.
We were happy to see you home again
after your exams and even more happy
to see that you had not forgotten how t
say Grace at meals. I was just a bit
perturbed when I learned that you had
missed a few Sundays at Church. Isn’t
God worth just forty-five minutes of
your time a week for giving you a good
body and a sound mind, an opportunity
for a good education, clothes to wear,
food to eat, a bed to sleep in, and a
mother who knows how to sew on but-
tons and patch your socks? What good
excuse have you to offer for not visiting
God’s house forty-five minutes every
168 hours?
I must stop here, for the Millers are
coming up the walk for a visit. I know
we are in for a monotonous evening, as
all George talks about concerns himself,
his job, and his accomplishments. And
woe is us, I do believe that is his son
Egbert with his cornet under his arm.
If only Mother would let me wear my
ear muffs I know they would take the
hint.
With love,
Your Dad. }