The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Make-Believe Man, by Richard Harding Davis

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Title: The Make-Believe Man

Author: Richard Harding Davis

Posting Date: October 23, 2008 [EBook #1823]
Release Date: July, 1999
Last Updated: September 26, 2016

Language: English

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Produced by Don Lainson





THE MAKE-BELIEVE MAN

By Richard Harding Davis




I


I had made up my mind that when my vacation came I would spend it
seeking adventures. I have always wished for adventures, but, though
I am old enough--I was twenty-five last October--and have always gone
half-way to meet them, adventures avoid me. Kinney says it is my fault.
He holds that if you want adventures you must go after them.

Kinney sits next to me at Joyce & Carboy’s, the woollen manufacturers,
where I am a stenographer, and Kinney is a clerk, and we both have rooms
at Mrs. Shaw’s boarding-house. Kinney is only a year older than myself,
but he is always meeting with adventures. At night, when I have sat up
late reading law, so that I may fit myself for court reporting, and in
the hope that some day I may become a member of the bar, he will knock
at my door and tell me some surprising thing that has just happened to
him. Sometimes he has followed a fire-engine and helped people from a
fire-escape, or he has pulled the shield off a policeman, or at the bar
of the Hotel Knickerbocker has made friends with a stranger, who turns
out to be no less than a nobleman or an actor. And women, especially
beautiful women, are always pursuing Kinney in taxicabs and calling upon
him for assistance. Just to look at Kinney, without knowing how clever
he is at getting people out of their difficulties, he does not appear
to be a man to whom you would turn in time of trouble. You would think
women in distress would appeal to some one bigger and stronger; would
sooner ask a policeman. But, on the contrary, it is to Kinney that women
always run, especially, as I have said, beautiful women. Nothing of the
sort ever happens to me. I suppose, as Kinney says, it is because he was
born and brought up in New York City and looks and acts like a New York
man, while I, until a year ago, have always lived at Fairport. Fairport
is a very pretty harbor, but it does not train one for adventures. We
arranged to take our vacation at the same time, and together. At least
Kinney so arranged it. I see a good deal of him, and in looking forward
to my vacation, not the least pleasant feature of it was that everything
connected with Joyce & Carboy and Mrs. Shaw’s boarding-house would be
left behind me. But when Kinney proposed we should go together, I could
not see how, without being rude, I could refuse his company, and when
he pointed out that for an expedition in search of adventure I could not
select a better guide, I felt that he was right.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I can see you don’t believe that half the things
I tell you have happened to me, really have happened. Now, isn’t that
so?”

To find the answer that would not hurt his feelings I hesitated, but he
did not wait for my answer. He seldom does.

“Well, on this trip,” he went on, “you will see Kinney on the job. You
won’t have to take my word for it. You will see adventures walk up and
eat out of my hand.”

Our vacation came on the first of September, but we began to plan for
it in April, and up to the night before we left New York we never ceased
planning. Our difficulty was that having been brought up at Fairport,
which is on the Sound, north of New London, I was homesick for a smell
of salt marshes and for the sight of water and ships. Though they
were only schooners carrying cement, I wanted to sit in the sun on
the string-piece of a wharf and watch them. I wanted to beat about the
harbor in a catboat, and feel the tug and pull of the tiller. Kinney
protested that that was no way to spend a vacation or to invite
adventure. His face was set against Fairport. The conversation of
clam-diggers, he said, did not appeal to him; and he complained that at
Fairport our only chance of adventure would be my capsizing the catboat
or robbing a lobster-pot. He insisted we should go to the mountains,
where we would meet what he always calls “our best people.” In
September, he explained, everybody goes to the mountains to recuperate
after the enervating atmosphere of the sea-shore. To this I objected
that the little sea air we had inhaled at Mrs. Shaw’s basement
dining-room and in the subway need cause us no anxiety. And so, along
these lines, throughout the sleepless, sultry nights of June, July,
and August, we fought it out. There was not a summer resort within five
hundred miles of New York City we did not consider. From the information
bureaus and passenger agents of every railroad leaving New York,
Kinney procured a library of timetables, maps, folders, and pamphlets,
illustrated with the most attractive pictures of summer hotels, golf
links, tennis courts, and boat-houses. For two months he carried on a
correspondence with the proprietors of these hotels; and in comparing
the different prices they asked him for suites of rooms and sun parlors
derived constant satisfaction.

“The Outlook House,” he would announce, “wants twenty-four dollars a day
for bedroom, parlor, and private bath. While for the same accommodations
the Carteret Arms asks only twenty. But the Carteret has no tennis
court; and then again, the Outlook has no garage, nor are dogs allowed
in the bedrooms.”

As Kinney could not play lawn tennis, and as neither of us owned an
automobile or a dog, or twenty-four dollars, these details to me seemed
superfluous, but there was no health in pointing that out to Kinney.
Because, as he himself says, he has so vivid an imagination that what
he lacks he can “make believe” he has, and the pleasure of possession is
his.

Kinney gives a great deal of thought to his clothes, and the question
of what he should wear on his vacation was upon his mind. When I said
I thought it was nothing to worry about, he snorted indignantly. “YOU
wouldn’t!” he said. “If I’D been brought up in a catboat, and had a tan
like a red Indian, and hair like a Broadway blonde, I wouldn’t
worry either. Mrs. Shaw says you look exactly like a British peer
in disguise.” I had never seen a British peer, with or without his
disguise, and I admit I was interested.

“Why are the girls in this house,” demanded Kinney, “always running
to your room to borrow matches? Because they admire your CLOTHES? If
they’re crazy about clothes, why don’t they come to ME for matches?”

“You are always out at night,” I said.

“You know that’s not the answer,” he protested. “Why do the type-writer
girls at the office always go to YOU to sharpen their pencils and tell
them how to spell the hard words? Why do the girls in the lunch-rooms
serve you first? Because they’re hypnotized by your clothes? Is THAT
it?”

“Do they?” I asked; “I hadn’t noticed.”

Kinney snorted and tossed up his arms. “He hadn’t noticed!” he kept
repeating. “He hadn’t noticed!” For his vacation Kinney bought a
second-hand suit-case. It was covered with labels of hotels in France
and Switzerland.

“Joe,” I said, “if you carry that bag you will be a walking falsehood.”

Kinney’s name is Joseph Forbes Kinney; he dropped the Joseph because he
said it did not appear often enough in the Social Register, and could be
found only in the Old Testament, and he has asked me to call him Forbes.
Having first known him as “Joe,” I occasionally forget.

“My name is NOT Joe,” he said sternly, “and I have as much right to
carry a second-hand bag as a new one. The bag says IT has been to
Europe. It does not say that I have been there.”

“But, you probably will,” I pointed out, “and then some one who has
really visited those places--”

“Listen!” commanded Kinney. “If you want adventures you must be somebody
of importance. No one will go shares in an adventure with Joe Kinney, a
twenty-dollar-a-week clerk, the human adding machine, the hall-room boy.
But Forbes Kinney, Esq., with a bag from Europe, and a Harvard ribbon
round his hat--”

“Is that a Harvard ribbon round your hat?” I asked.

“It is!” declared Kinney; “and I have a Yale ribbon, and a Turf Club
ribbon, too. They come on hooks, and you hook ‘em on to match your
clothes, or the company you keep. And, what’s more,” he continued, with
some heat, “I’ve borrowed a tennis racket and a golf bag full of sticks,
and you take care you don’t give me away.”

“I see,” I returned, “that you are going to get us into a lot of
trouble.”

“I was thinking,” said Kinney, looking at me rather doubtfully, “it
might help a lot if for the first week you acted as my secretary, and
during the second week I was your secretary.”

Sometimes, when Mr. Joyce goes on a business trip, he takes me with him
as his private stenographer, and the change from office work is very
pleasant; but I could not see why I should spend one week of my holiday
writing letters for Kinney.

“You wouldn’t write any letters,” he explained. “But if I could tell
people you were my private secretary, it would naturally give me a
certain importance.”

“If it will make you any happier,” I said, “you can tell people I am a
British peer in disguise.”

“There is no use in being nasty about it,” protested Kinney. “I am only
trying to show you a way that would lead to adventure.”

“It surely would!” I assented. “It would lead us to jail.”

The last week in August came, and, as to where we were to go we still
were undecided, I suggested we leave it to chance.

“The first thing,” I pointed out, “is to get away from this awful city.
The second thing is to get away cheaply. Let us write down the names
of the summer resorts to which we can travel by rail or by boat for two
dollars and put them in a hat. The name of the place we draw will be the
one for which we start Saturday afternoon. The idea,” I urged, “is in
itself full of adventure.”

Kinney agreed, but reluctantly. What chiefly disturbed him was the
thought that the places near New York to which one could travel for so
little money were not likely to be fashionable.

“I have a terrible fear,” he declared, “that, with this limit of yours,
we will wake up in Asbury Park.”

Friday night came and found us prepared for departure, and at midnight
we held our lottery. In a pillow-case we placed twenty slips of paper,
on each of which was written the name of a summer resort. Ten of these
places were selected by Kinney, and ten by myself. Kinney dramatically
rolled up his sleeve, and, plunging his bared arm into our grab-bag,
drew out a slip of paper and read aloud: “New Bedford, via New Bedford
Steamboat Line.” The choice was one of mine.

“New Bedford!” shouted Kinney. His tone expressed the keenest
disappointment. “It’s a mill town!” he exclaimed. “It’s full of cotton
mills.”

“That may be,” I protested. “But it’s also a most picturesque old
seaport, one of the oldest in America. You can see whaling vessels at
the wharfs there, and wooden figure-heads, and harpoons--”

“Is this an expedition to dig up buried cities,” interrupted Kinney, “or
a pleasure trip? I don’t WANT to see harpoons! I wouldn’t know a harpoon
if you stuck one into me. I prefer to see hatpins.”

The Patience did not sail until six o’clock, but we were so anxious to
put New York behind us that at five we were on board. Our cabin was
an outside one with two berths. After placing our suit-cases in it, we
collected camp-chairs and settled ourselves in a cool place on the boat
deck. Kinney had bought all the afternoon papers, and, as later I had
reason to remember, was greatly interested over the fact that the young
Earl of Ivy had at last arrived in this country. For some weeks the
papers had been giving more space than seemed necessary to that young
Irishman and to the young lady he was coming over to marry. There had
been pictures of his different country houses, pictures of himself;
in uniform, in the robes he wore at the coronation, on a polo pony, as
Master of Fox-hounds. And there had been pictures of Miss Aldrich, and
of HER country places at Newport and on the Hudson. From the afternoon
papers Kinney learned that, having sailed under his family name of
Meehan, the young man and Lady Moya, his sister, had that morning landed
in New York, but before the reporters had discovered them, had escaped
from the wharf and disappeared.

“‘Inquiries at the different hotels,’” read Kinney impressively,
“‘failed to establish the whereabouts of his lordship and Lady Moya, and
it is believed they at once left by train for Newport.’”

With awe Kinney pointed at the red funnels of the Mauretania.

“There is the boat that brought them to America,” he said. “I see,” he
added, “that in this picture of him playing golf he wears one of those
knit jackets the Eiselbaum has just marked down to three dollars and
seventy-five cents. I wish--” he added regretfully.

“You can get one at New Bedford,” I suggested.

“I wish,” he continued, “we had gone to Newport. All of our BEST people
will be there for the wedding. It is the most important social event of
the season. You might almost call it an alliance.”

I went forward to watch them take on the freight, and Kinney stationed
himself at the rail above the passengers gangway where he could see the
other passengers arrive. He had dressed himself with much care, and was
wearing his Yale hat-band, but when a very smart-looking youth came up
the gangplank wearing a Harvard ribbon, Kinney hastily retired to our
cabin and returned with one like it. A few minutes later I found him
and the young man seated in camp-chairs side by side engaged in a
conversation in which Kinney seemed to bear the greater part. Indeed, to
what Kinney was saying the young man paid not the slightest attention.
Instead, his eyes were fastened on the gangplank below, and when a young
man of his own age, accompanied by a girl in a dress of rough tweed,
appeared upon it, he leaped from his seat. Then with a conscious look at
Kinney, sank back.

The girl in the tweed suit was sufficiently beautiful to cause any man
to rise and to remain standing. She was the most beautiful girl I had
ever seen. She had gray eyes and hair like golden-rod, worn in a fashion
with which I was not familiar, and her face was so lovely that in my
surprise at the sight of it, I felt a sudden catch at my throat, and my
heart stopped with awe, and wonder, and gratitude.

After a brief moment the young man in the real Harvard hat-band rose
restlessly and, with a nod to Kinney, went below. I also rose and
followed him. I had an uncontrollable desire to again look at the girl
with the golden-rod hair. I did not mean that she should see me. Never
before had I done such a thing. But never before had I seen any one who
had moved me so strangely. Seeking her, I walked the length of the main
saloon and back again, but could not find her. The delay gave me time
to see that my conduct was impertinent. The very fact that she was so
lovely to look upon should have been her protection. It afforded me no
excuse to follow and spy upon her. With this thought, I hastily returned
to the upper deck to bury myself in my book. If it did not serve to
keep my mind from the young lady, at least I would prevent my eyes from
causing her annoyance.

I was about to take the chair that the young man had left vacant when
Kinney objected.

“He was very much interested in our conversation,” Kinney said, “and he
may return.”

I had not noticed any eagerness on the part of the young man to talk to
Kinney or to listen to him, but I did not sit down.

“I should not be surprised a bit,” said Kinney, “if that young man is
no end of a swell. He is a Harvard man, and his manner was most polite.
That,” explained Kinney, “is one way you can always tell a real swell.
They’re not high and mighty with you. Their social position is so secure
that they can do as they like. For instance, did you notice that he
smoked a pipe?”

I said I had not noticed it.

For his holiday Kinney had purchased a box of cigars of a quality more
expensive than those he can usually afford. He was smoking one of them
at the moment, and, as it grew less, had been carefully moving the gold
band with which it was encircled from the lighted end. But as he spoke
he regarded it apparently with distaste, and then dropped it overboard.

“Keep my chair,” he said, rising. “I am going to my cabin to get my
pipe.” I sat down and fastened my eyes upon my book; but neither did I
understand what I was reading nor see the printed page. Instead, before
my eyes, confusing and blinding me, was the lovely, radiant face of the
beautiful lady. In perplexity I looked up, and found her standing not
two feet from me. Something pulled me out of my chair. Something made me
move it toward her. I lifted my hat and backed away. But the eyes of the
lovely lady halted me.

To my perplexity, her face expressed both surprise and pleasure. It was
as though either she thought she knew me, or that I reminded her of some
man she did know. Were the latter the case, he must have been a friend,
for the way in which she looked at me was kind. And there was, besides,
the expression of surprise and as though something she saw pleased her.
Maybe it was the quickness with which I had offered my chair. Still
looking at me, she pointed to one of the sky-scrapers.

“Could you tell me,” she asked, “the name of that building?” Had her
question not proved it, her voice would have told me not only that she
was a stranger, but that she was Irish. It was particularly soft, low,
and vibrant. It made the commonplace question she asked sound as though
she had sung it. I told her the name of the building, and that farther
uptown, as she would see when we moved into midstream, there was another
still taller. She listened, regarding me brightly, as though interested;
but before her I was embarrassed, and, fearing I intruded, I again made
a movement to go away. With another question she stopped me. I could see
no reason for her doing so, but it was almost as though she had asked
the question only to detain me.

“What is that odd boat,” she said, “pumping water into the river?”

I explained that it was a fire-boat testing her hose-lines, and then as
we moved into the channel I gained courage, and found myself pointing
out the Statue of Liberty, Governors Island, and the Brooklyn Bridge.
The fact that it was a stranger who was talking did not seem to disturb
her. I cannot tell how she conveyed the idea, but I soon felt that she
felt, no matter what unconventional thing she chose to do, people would
not be rude, or misunderstand.

I considered telling her my name. At first it seemed that that would be
more polite. Then I saw to do so would be forcing myself upon her, that
she was interested in me only as a guide to New York Harbor.

When we passed the Brooklyn Navy Yard I talked so much and so eagerly of
the battle-ships at anchor there that the lady must have thought I had
followed the sea, for she asked: “Are you a sailorman?”

It was the first question that was in any way personal.

“I used to sail a catboat,” I said.

My answer seemed to puzzle her, and she frowned. Then she laughed
delightedly, like one having made a discovery.

“You don’t say ‘sailorman,’” she said. “What do you ask, over here, when
you want to know if a man is in the navy?”

She spoke as though we were talking a different language.

“We ask if he is in the navy,” I answered.

She laughed again at that, quite as though I had said something clever.

“And you are not?”

“No,” I said, “I am in Joyce & Carboy’s office. I am a stenographer.”

Again my answer seemed both to puzzle and to surprise her. She regarded
me doubtfully. I could see that she thought, for some reason, I was
misleading her.

“In an office?” she repeated. Then, as though she had caught me, she
said: “How do you keep so fit?” She asked the question directly, as a
man would have asked it, and as she spoke I was conscious that her eyes
were measuring me and my shoulders, as though she were wondering to what
weight I could strip.

“It’s only lately I’ve worked in an office,” I said. “Before that I
always worked out-of-doors; oystering and clamming and, in the fall,
scalloping. And in the summer I played ball on a hotel nine.”

I saw that to the beautiful lady my explanation carried no meaning
whatsoever, but before I could explain, the young man with whom she had
come on board walked toward us.

Neither did he appear to find in her talking to a stranger anything
embarrassing. He halted and smiled. His smile was pleasant, but entirely
vague. In the few minutes I was with him, I learned that it was no sign
that he was secretly pleased. It was merely his expression. It was as
though a photographer had said: “Smile, please,” and he had smiled.

When he joined us, out of deference to the young lady I raised my hat,
but the youth did not seem to think that outward show of respect was
necessary, and kept his hands in his pockets. Neither did he cease
smoking. His first remark to the lovely lady somewhat startled me.

“Have you got a brass bed in your room?” he asked. The beautiful lady
said she had.

“So’ve I,” said the young man. “They do you rather well, don’t they? And
it’s only three dollars. How much is that?”

“Four times three would be twelve,” said the lady. “Twelve shillings.”

The young man was smoking a cigarette in a long amber cigarette-holder.
I never had seen one so long. He examined the end of his
cigarette-holder, and, apparently surprised and relieved at finding a
cigarette there, again smiled contentedly.

The lovely lady pointed at the marble shaft rising above Madison Square.

“That is the tallest sky-scraper,” she said, “in New York.” I had just
informed her of that fact. The young man smiled as though he were being
introduced to the building, but exhibited no interest.

“IS it?” he remarked. His tone seemed to show that had she said, “That
is a rabbit,” he would have been equally gratified.

“Some day,” he stated, with the same startling abruptness with which he
had made his first remark, “our war-ships will lift the roofs off those
sky-scrapers.”

The remark struck me in the wrong place. It was unnecessary. Already I
resented the manner of the young man toward the lovely lady. It seemed
to me lacking in courtesy. He knew her, and yet treated her with no
deference, while I, a stranger, felt so grateful to her for being what I
knew one with such a face must be, that I could have knelt at her feet.
So I rather resented the remark.

“If the war-ships you send over here,” I said doubtfully, “aren’t more
successful in lifting things than your yachts, you’d better keep them at
home and save coal!”

Seldom have I made so long a speech or so rude a speech, and as soon as
I had spoken, on account of the lovely lady, I was sorry.

But after a pause of half a second she laughed delightedly.

“I see,” she cried, as though it were a sort of a game. “He means
Lipton! We can’t lift the cup, we can’t lift the roofs. Don’t you see,
Stumps!” she urged. In spite of my rude remark, the young man she called
Stumps had continued to smile happily. Now his expression changed to one
of discomfort and utter gloom, and then broke out into a radiant smile.

“I say!” he cried. “That’s awfully good: ‘If your war-ships aren’t any
better at lifting things--’ Oh, I say, really,” he protested, “that’s
awfully good.” He seemed to be afraid I would not appreciate the rare
excellence of my speech. “You know, really,” he pleaded, “it is AWFULLY
good!”

We were interrupted by the sudden appearance, in opposite directions, of
Kinney and the young man with the real hat-band. Both were excited and
disturbed. At the sight of the young man, Stumps turned appealingly to
the golden-rod girl. He groaned aloud, and his expression was that of a
boy who had been caught playing truant.

“Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed, “what’s he huffy about now? He TOLD me I could
come on deck as soon as we started.”

The girl turned upon me a sweet and lovely smile and nodded. Then, with
Stumps at her side, she moved to meet the young man. When he saw them
coming he halted, and, when they joined him, began talking earnestly,
almost angrily. As he did so, much to my bewilderment, he glared at me.
At the same moment Kinney grabbed me by the arm.

“Come below!” he commanded. His tone was hoarse and thrilling with
excitement.

“Our adventures,” he whispered, “have begun!”




II


I felt, for me, adventures had already begun, for my meeting with the
beautiful lady was the event of my life, and though Kinney and I had
agreed to share our adventures, of this one I knew I could not even
speak to him. I wanted to be alone, where I could delight in it, where I
could go over what she had said; what I had said. I would share it
with no one. It was too wonderful, too sacred. But Kinney would not be
denied. He led me to our cabin and locked the door.

“I am sorry,” he began, “but this adventure is one I cannot share with
you.” The remark was so in keeping with my own thoughts that with sudden
unhappy doubt I wondered if Kinney, too, had felt the charm of the
beautiful lady. But he quickly undeceived me.

“I have been doing a little detective work,” he said. His voice was
low and sepulchral. “And I have come upon a real adventure. There are
reasons why I cannot share it with you, but as it develops you can
follow it. About half an hour ago,” he explained, “I came here to get my
pipe. The window was open. The lattice was only partly closed. Outside
was that young man from Harvard who tried to make my acquaintance,
and the young Englishman who came on board with that blonde.” Kinney
suddenly interrupted himself. “You were talking to her just now,” he
said. I hated to hear him speak of the Irish lady as “that blonde.” I
hated to hear him speak of her at all. So, to shut him off, I answered
briefly: “She asked me about the Singer Building.”

“I see,” said Kinney. “Well, these two men were just outside my window,
and, while I was searching for my pipe, I heard the American speaking.
He was very excited and angry. ‘I tell you,’ he said, ‘every boat and
railroad station is watched. You won’t be safe till we get away from
New York. You must go to your cabin, and STAY there.’ And the other one
answered: ‘I am sick of hiding and dodging.’”

Kinney paused dramatically and frowned.

“Well,” I asked, “what of it?”

“What of it?” he cried. He exclaimed aloud with pity and impatience.

“No wonder,” he cried, “you never have adventures. Why, it’s plain
as print. They are criminals escaping. The Englishman certainly is
escaping.”

I was concerned only for the lovely lady, but I asked: “You mean the
Irishman called Stumps?”

“Stumps!” exclaimed Kinney. “What a strange name. Too strange to be
true. It’s an alias!” I was incensed that Kinney should charge the
friends of the lovely lady with being criminals. Had it been any one
else I would have at once resented it, but to be angry with Kinney is
difficult. I could not help but remember that he is the slave of his own
imagination. It plays tricks and runs away with him. And if it leads him
to believe innocent people are criminals, it also leads him to believe
that every woman in the Subway to whom he gives his seat is a great
lady, a leader of society on her way to work in the slums.

“Joe!” I protested. “Those men aren’t criminals. I talked to that
Irishman, and he hasn’t sense enough to be a criminal.”

“The railroads are watched,” repeated Kinney. “Do HONEST men care a darn
whether the railroad is watched or not? Do you care? Do I care? And did
you notice how angry the American got when he found Stumps talking with
you?”

I had noticed it; and I also recalled the fact that Stumps had said
to the lovely lady: “He told me I could come on deck as soon as we
started.”

The words seemed to bear out what Kinney claimed he had overheard. But
not wishing to encourage him, of what I had heard I said nothing.

“He may be dodging a summons,” I suggested. “He is wanted, probably,
only as a witness. It might be a civil suit, or his chauffeur may have
hit somebody.”

Kinney shook his head sadly.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I fear you lack imagination. Those men are
rascals, dangerous rascals, and the woman is their accomplice. What they
have done I don’t know, but I have already learned enough to arrest them
as suspicious characters. Listen! Each of them has a separate state-room
forward. The window of the American’s room was open, and his suit-case
was on the bed. On it were the initials H. P. A. The stateroom is number
twenty-four, but when I examined the purser’s list, pretending I wished
to find out if a friend of mine was on board, I found that the man in
twenty-four had given his name as James Preston. Now,” he demanded, “why
should one of them hide under an alias and the other be afraid to show
himself until we leave the wharf?” He did not wait for my answer. “I
have been talking to Mr. H. P. A., ALIAS Preston,” he continued. “I
pretended I was a person of some importance. I hinted I was rich. My
object,” Kinney added hastily, “was to encourage him to try some of
his tricks on ME; to try to rob ME; so that I could obtain evidence.
I also,” he went on, with some embarrassment, “told him that you, too,
were wealthy and of some importance.”

I thought of the lovely lady, and I felt myself blushing indignantly.

“You did very wrong,” I cried; “you had no right! You may involve us
both most unpleasantly.”

“You are not involved in any way,” protested Kinney. “As soon as we
reach New Bedford you can slip on shore and wait for me at the hotel.
When I’ve finished with these gentlemen, I’ll join you.”

“Finished with them!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean to do to them?”

“Arrest them!” cried Kinney sternly, “as soon as they step upon the
wharf!”

“You can’t do it!” I gasped.

“I HAVE done it!” answered Kinney. “It’s good as done. I have notified
the chief of police at New Bedford,” he declared proudly, “to meet me at
the wharf. I used the wireless. Here is my message.”

From his pocket he produced a paper and, with great importance, read
aloud: “Meet me at wharf on arrival steamer Patience. Two well-known
criminals on board escaping New York police. Will personally lay charges
against them.--Forbes Kinney.”

As soon as I could recover from my surprise, I made violent protest. I
pointed out to Kinney that his conduct was outrageous, that in making
such serious charges, on such evidence, he would lay himself open to
punishment.

He was not in the least dismayed.

“I take it then,” he said importantly, “that you do not wish to appear
against them?”

“I don’t wish to appear in it at all!” I cried. “You’ve no right to
annoy that young lady. You must wire the police you are mistaken.”

“I have no desire to arrest the woman,” said Kinney stiffly. “In my
message I did not mention HER. If you want an adventure of your own, you
might help her to escape while I arrest her accomplices.”

“I object,” I cried, “to your applying the word ‘accomplice’ to that
young lady. And suppose they ARE criminals,” I demanded, “how will
arresting them help you?”

Kinney’s eyes flashed with excitement.

“Think of the newspapers,” he cried; “they’ll be full of it!” Already in
imagination he saw the headlines. “‘A Clever Haul!’” he quoted. “‘Noted
band of crooks elude New York police, but are captured by Forbes
Kinney.’” He sighed contentedly. “And they’ll probably print my picture,
too,” he added.

I knew I should be angry with him, but instead I could only feel
sorry. I have known Kinney for a year, and I have learned that his
“make-believe” is always innocent. I suppose that he is what is called
a snob, but with him snobbishness is not an unpleasant weakness. In his
case it takes the form of thinking that people who have certain things
he does not possess are better than himself; and that, therefore, they
must be worth knowing, and he tries to make their acquaintance. But he
does not think that he himself is better than any one. His life is very
bare and narrow. In consequence, on many things he places false values.
As, for example, his desire to see his name in the newspapers even as an
amateur detective. So, while I was indignant I also was sorry.

“Joe,” I said, “you’re going to get yourself into an awful lot of
trouble, and though I am not in this adventure, you know if I can help
you I will.”

He thanked me and we went to the dining-saloon. There, at a table near
ours, we saw the lovely lady and Stumps and the American. She again
smiled at me, but this time, so it seemed, a little doubtfully.

In the mind of the American, on the contrary, there was no doubt. He
glared both at Kinney and myself, as though he would like to boil us in
oil.

After dinner, in spite of my protests, Kinney set forth to interview him
and, as he described it, to “lead him on” to commit himself. I feared
Kinney was much more likely to commit himself than the other, and when I
saw them seated together I watched from a distance with much anxiety.

An hour later, while I was alone, a steward told me the purser would
like to see me. I went to his office, and found gathered there Stumps,
his American friend, the night watchman of the boat, and the purser. As
though inviting him to speak, the purser nodded to the American. That
gentleman addressed me in an excited and belligerent manner.

“My name is Aldrich,” he said; “I want to know what YOUR name is?”

I did not quite like his tone, nor did I like being summoned to the
purser’s office to be questioned by a stranger.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” said Aldrich, “it seems you have SEVERAL names. As one of
them belongs to THIS gentleman”--he pointed at Stumps--“he wants to know
why you are using it.”

I looked at Stumps and he greeted me with the vague and genial smile
that was habitual to him, but on being caught in the act by Aldrich he
hurriedly frowned.

“I have never used any name but my own,” I said; “and,” I added
pleasantly, “if I were choosing a name I wouldn’t choose ‘Stumps.’”

Aldrich fairly gasped.

“His name is not Stumps!” he cried indignantly. “He is the Earl of Ivy!”

He evidently expected me to be surprised at this, and I WAS surprised. I
stared at the much-advertised young Irishman with interest.

Aldrich misunderstood my silence, and in a triumphant tone, which was
far from pleasant, continued: “So you see,” he sneered, “when you chose
to pass yourself off as Ivy you should have picked out another boat.”

The thing was too absurd for me to be angry, and I demanded with
patience: “But why should I pass myself off as Lord Ivy?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” snapped Aldrich. “Anyway, we’ve
stopped your game for to-night, and to-morrow you can explain to the
police! Your pal,” he taunted, “has told every one on this boat that you
are Lord Ivy, and he’s told me lies enough about HIMSELF to prove HE’S
an impostor, too!”

I saw what had happened, and that if I were to protect poor Kinney I
must not, as I felt inclined, use my fists, but my head. I laughed with
apparent unconcern, and turned to the purser.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” I cried. “I might have known it was Kinney; he’s
always playing practical jokes on me.” I turned to Aldrich. “My friend
has been playing a joke on you, too,” I said. “He didn’t know who you
were, but he saw you were an Anglomaniac, and he’s been having fun with
you!”

“Has he?” roared Aldrich. He reached down into his pocket and pulled out
a piece of paper. “This,” he cried, shaking it at me, “is a copy of a
wireless that I’ve just sent to the chief of police at New Bedford.”

With great satisfaction he read it in a loud and threatening voice: “Two
impostors on this boat representing themselves to be Lord Ivy, my future
brother-in-law, and his secretary. Lord Ivy himself on board. Send
police to meet boat. We will make charges.--Henry Philip Aldrich.”

It occurred to me that after receiving two such sensational telegrams,
and getting out of bed to meet the boat at six in the morning, the chief
of police would be in a state of mind to arrest almost anybody, and that
his choice would certainly fall on Kinney and myself. It was ridiculous,
but it also was likely to prove extremely humiliating. So I said,
speaking to Lord Ivy: “There’s been a mistake all around; send for
Mr. Kinney and I will explain it to you.” Lord Ivy, who was looking
extremely bored, smiled and nodded, but young Aldrich laughed
ironically.

“Mr. Kinney is in his state-room,” he said, “with a steward guarding the
door and window. You can explain to-morrow to the police.”

I rounded indignantly upon the purser.

“Are you keeping Mr. Kinney a prisoner in his state-room?” I demanded.
“If you are--”

“He doesn’t have to stay there,” protested the purser sulkily. “When he
found the stewards were following him he went to his cabin.”

“I will see him at once,” I said. “And if I catch any of your stewards
following ME, I’ll drop them overboard.”

No one tried to stop me--indeed, knowing I could not escape, they seemed
pleased at my departure, and I went to my cabin.

Kinney, seated on the edge of the berth, greeted me with a hollow groan.
His expression was one of utter misery. As though begging me not to be
angry, he threw out his arms appealingly.

“How the devil!” he began, “was I to know that a little red-headed
shrimp like that was the Earl of Ivy? And that that tall blonde girl,”
 he added indignantly, “that I thought was an accomplice, is Lady Moya,
his sister?”

“What happened?” I asked.

Kinney was wearing his hat. He took it off and hurled it to the floor.

“It was that damned hat!” he cried. “It’s a Harvard ribbon, all right,
but only men on the crew can wear it! How was I to know THAT? I saw
Aldrich looking at it in a puzzled way, and when he said, ‘I see you
are on the crew,’ I guessed what it meant, and said I was on last year’s
crew. Unfortunately HE was on last year’s crew! That’s what made him
suspect me, and after dinner he put me through a third degree. I must
have given the wrong answers, for suddenly he jumped up and called me a
swindler and an impostor. I got back by telling him he was a crook
and that I was a detective, and that I had sent a wireless to have him
arrested at New Bedford. He challenged me to prove I was a detective,
and, of course, I couldn’t, and he called up two stewards and told
them to watch me while he went after the purser. I didn’t fancy being
watched, so I came here.”

“When did you tell him I was the Earl of Ivy?”

Kinney ran his fingers through his hair and groaned dismally.

“That was before the boat started,” he said; “it was only a joke. He
didn’t seem to be interested in my conversation, so I thought I’d liven
it up a bit by saying I was a friend of Lord Ivy’s. And you happened
to pass, and I happened to remember Mrs. Shaw saying you looked like a
British peer, so I said: ‘That is my friend Lord Ivy.’ I said I was
your secretary, and he seemed greatly interested, and--” Kinney added
dismally, “I talked too much. I am SO sorry,” he begged. “It’s going
to be awful for you!” His eyes suddenly lit with hope. “Unless,” he
whispered, “we can escape!”

The same thought was in my mind, but the idea was absurd, and
impracticable. I knew there was no escape. I knew we were sentenced at
sunrise to a most humiliating and disgraceful experience. The newspapers
would regard anything that concerned Lord Ivy as news. In my turn I also
saw the hideous head-lines. What would my father and mother at Fairport
think; what would my old friends there think; and, what was of even
greater importance, how would Joyce & Carboy act? What chance was
there left me, after I had been arrested as an impostor, to become a
stenographer in the law courts--in time, a member of the bar? But I
found that what, for the moment, distressed me most was that the lovely
lady would consider me a knave or a fool. The thought made me exclaim
with exasperation. Had it been possible to abandon Kinney, I would have
dropped overboard and made for shore. The night was warm and foggy, and
the short journey to land, to one who had been brought up like a duck,
meant nothing more than a wetting. But I did not see how I could desert
Kinney.

“Can you swim?” I asked

“Of course not!” he answered gloomily; “and, besides,” he added, “our
names are on our suitcases. We couldn’t take them with us, and they’d
find out who we are. If we could only steal a boat!” he exclaimed
eagerly--“one of those on the davits,” he urged--“we could put our
suitcases in it and then, after every one is asleep, we could lower it
into the water.”

The smallest boat on board was certified to hold twenty-five persons,
and without waking the entire ship’s company we could as easily have
moved the chart-room. This I pointed out.

“Don’t make objections!” Kinney cried petulantly. He was rapidly
recovering his spirits. The imminence of danger seemed to inspire him.

“Think!” he commanded. “Think of some way by which we can get off this
boat before she reaches New Bedford. We MUST! We must not be arrested!
It would be too awful!” He interrupted himself with an excited
exclamation.

“I have it!” he whispered hoarsely: “I will ring in the fire-alarm! The
crew will run to quarters. The boats will be lowered. We will cut one of
them adrift. In the confusion--”

What was to happen in the confusion that his imagination had conjured
up, I was not to know. For what actually happened was so confused that
of nothing am I quite certain. First, from the water of the Sound, that
was lapping pleasantly against the side, I heard the voice of a man
raised in terror. Then came a rush of feet, oaths, and yells; then a
shock that threw us to our knees, and a crunching, ripping, and tearing
roar like that made by the roof of a burning building when it plunges to
the cellar.

And the next instant a large bowsprit entered our cabin window. There
was left me just space enough to wrench the door open, and grabbing
Kinney, who was still on his knees, I dragged him into the alleyway. He
scrambled upright and clasped his hands to his head.

“Where’s my hat?” he cried.

I could hear the water pouring into the lower deck and sweeping the
freight and trunks before it. A horse in a box stall was squealing like
a human being, and many human beings were screaming and shrieking like
animals. My first intelligent thought was of the lovely lady. I shook
Kinney by the arm. The uproar was so great that to make him hear I was
forced to shout. “Where is Lord Ivy’s cabin?” I cried. “You said it’s
next to his sister’s. Take me there!”

Kinney nodded, and ran down the corridor and into an alleyway on which
opened three cabins. The doors were ajar, and as I looked into each I
saw that the beds had not been touched, and that the cabins were empty.
I knew then that she was still on deck. I felt that I must find her. We
ran toward the companionway.

“Women and children first!” Kinney was yelling. “Women and children
first!” As we raced down the slanting floor of the saloon he kept
repeating this mechanically. At that moment the electric lights went
out, and, except for the oil lamps, the ship was in darkness. Many
of the passengers had already gone to bed. These now burst from the
state-rooms in strange garments, carrying life-preservers, hand-bags,
their arms full of clothing. One man in one hand clutched a sponge,
in the other an umbrella. With this he beat at those who blocked his
flight. He hit a woman over the head, and I hit him and he went down.
Finding himself on his knees, he began to pray volubly.

When we reached the upper deck we pushed out of the crush at the gangway
and, to keep our footing, for there was a strong list to port, clung to
the big flag-staff at the stern. At each rail the crew were swinging
the boats over the side, and around each boat was a crazy, fighting mob.
Above our starboard rail towered the foremast of a schooner. She had
rammed us fair amidships, and in her bows was a hole through which you
could have rowed a boat. Into this the water was rushing and sucking her
down. She was already settling at the stern. By the light of a swinging
lantern I saw three of her crew lift a yawl from her deck and lower it
into the water. Into it they hurled oars and a sail, and one of them
had already started to slide down the painter when the schooner lurched
drunkenly; and in a panic all three of the men ran forward and leaped to
our lower deck. The yawl, abandoned, swung idly between the Patience and
the schooner. Kinney, seeing what I saw, grabbed me by the arm.

“There!” he whispered, pointing; “there’s our chance!” I saw that, with
safety, the yawl could hold a third person, and as to who the third
passenger would be I had already made up my mind.

“Wait here!” I said.

On the Patience there were many immigrants, only that afternoon released
from Ellis Island. They had swarmed into the life-boats even before they
were swung clear, and when the ship’s officers drove them off, the poor
souls, not being able to understand, believed they were being sacrificed
for the safety of the other passengers. So each was fighting, as he
thought, for his life and for the lives of his wife and children. At the
edge of the scrimmage I dragged out two women who had been knocked off
their feet and who were in danger of being trampled. But neither was the
woman I sought. In the half-darkness I saw one of the immigrants, a girl
with a ‘kerchief on her head, struggling with her life-belt. A stoker,
as he raced past, seized it and made for the rail. In my turn I took it
from him, and he fought for it, shouting:

“It’s every man for himself now!”

“All right,” I said, for I was excited and angry, “look out for YOURSELF
then!” I hit him on the chin, and he let go of the life-belt and
dropped.

I heard at my elbow a low, excited laugh, and a voice said: “Well
bowled! You never learned that in an office.” I turned and saw the
lovely lady. I tossed the immigrant girl her life-belt, and as though I
had known Lady Moya all my life I took her by the hand and dragged her
after me down the deck.

“You come with me!” I commanded. I found that I was trembling and that
a weight of anxiety of which I had not been conscious had been lifted.
I found I was still holding her hand and pressing it in my own. “Thank
God!” I said. “I thought I had lost you!”

“Lost me!” repeated Lady Moya. But she made no comment. “I must find my
brother,” she said.

“You must come with me!” I ordered. “Go with Mr. Kinney to the lower
deck. I will bring that rowboat under the stern. You will jump into it.

“I cannot leave my brother!” said Lady Moya.

Upon the word, as though shot from a cannon, the human whirlpool that
was sweeping the deck amidships cast out Stumps and hurled him toward
us. His sister gave a little cry of relief. Stumps recovered his balance
and shook himself like a dog that has been in the water.

“Thought I’d never get out of it alive!” he remarked complacently.
In the darkness I could not see his face, but I was sure he was still
vaguely smiling. “Worse than a foot-ball night!” he exclaimed; “worse
than Mafeking night!”

His sister pointed to the yawl.

“This gentleman is going to bring that boat here and take us away in
it,” she told him. “We had better go when we can!”

“Right ho!” assented Stumps cheerfully. “How about Phil? He’s just
behind me.”

As he spoke, only a few yards from us a peevish voice pierced the
tumult.

“I tell you,” it cried, “you must find Lord Ivy! If Lord Ivy--”

A voice with a strong and brutal American accent yelled in answer: “To
hell with Lord Ivy!”

Lady Moya chuckled.

“Get to the lower deck!” I commanded. “I am going for the yawl.”

As I slipped my leg over the rail I heard Lord Ivy say: “I’ll find Phil
and meet you.”

I dropped and caught the rail of the deck below, and, hanging from it,
shoved with my knees and fell into the water. Two strokes brought me to
the yawl, and, scrambling into her and casting her off, I paddled back
to the steamer. As I lay under the stern I heard from the lower deck the
voice of Kinney raised importantly.

“Ladies first!” he cried. “Her ladyship first, I mean,” he corrected.
Even on leaving what he believed to be a sinking ship, Kinney could not
forget his manners. But Mr. Aldrich had evidently forgotten his. I heard
him shout indignantly: “I’ll be damned if I do!”

The voice of Lady Moya laughed.

“You’ll be drowned if you don’t!” she answered. I saw a black shadow
poised upon the rail. “Steady below there!” her voice called, and the
next moment, as lightly as a squirrel, she dropped to the thwart and
stumbled into my arms.

The voice of Aldrich was again raised in anger. “I’d rather drown!” he
cried.

Lord Ivy responded with unexpected spirit.

“Well, then, drown! The water is warm and it’s a pleasing death.”

At that, with a bump, he fell in a heap at my feet.

“Easy, Kinney!” I shouted. “Don’t swamp us!”

“I’ll be careful!” he called, and the next instant hit my shoulders and
I shook him off on top of Lord Ivy.

“Get off my head!” shouted his lordship.

Kinney apologized to every one profusely. Lady Moya raised her voice.

“For the last time, Phil,” she called, “are you coming or are you not?”

“Not with those swindlers, I’m not!” he shouted. “I think you two are
mad! I prefer to drown!”

There was an uncomfortable silence. My position was a difficult one,
and, not knowing what to say, I said nothing.

“If one must drown!” exclaimed Lady Moya briskly, “I can’t see it
matters who one drowns with.”

In his strangely explosive manner Lord Ivy shouted suddenly: “Phil,
you’re a silly ass.”

“Push off!” commanded Lady Moya.

I think, from her tone, the order was given more for the benefit of
Aldrich than for myself. Certainly it was effective, for on the instant
there was a heavy splash. Lord Ivy sniffed scornfully and manifested no
interest.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “he prefers to drown!”

Sputtering and gasping, Aldrich rose out of the water, and, while we
balanced the boat, climbed over the side.

“Understand!” he cried even while he was still gasping, “I am here under
protest. I am here to protect you and Stumps. I am under obligation to
no one. I’m--”

“Can you row?” I asked.

“Why don’t you ask your pal?” he demanded savagely; “he rowed on last
year’s crew.”

“Phil!” cried Lady Moya. Her voice suggested a temper I had not
suspected. “You will row or you can get out and walk! Take the oars,”
 she commanded, “and be civil!” Lady Moya, with the tiller in her hand,
sat in the stern; Stumps, with Kinney huddled at his knees, was stowed
away forward. I took the stroke and Aldrich the bow oars.

“We will make for the Connecticut shore,” I said, and pulled from under
the stern of the Patience.

In a few minutes we had lost all sight and, except for her whistle, all
sound of her; and we ourselves were lost in the fog. There was another
eloquent and embarrassing silence. Unless, in the panic, they trampled
upon each other, I had no real fear for the safety of those on board
the steamer. Before we had abandoned her I had heard the wireless
frantically sputtering the “standby” call, and I was certain that
already the big boats of the Fall River, Providence, and Joy lines, and
launches from every wireless station between Bridgeport and Newport,
were making toward her. But the margin of safety, which to my thinking
was broad enough for all the other passengers, for the lovely lady was
in no way sufficient. That mob-swept deck was no place for her. I was
happy that, on her account, I had not waited for a possible rescue. In
the yawl she was safe. The water was smooth, and the Connecticut shore
was, I judged, not more than three miles distant. In an hour, unless
the fog confused us, I felt sure the lovely lady would again walk
safely upon dry land. Selfishly, on Kinney’s account and my own, I was
delighted to find myself free of the steamer, and from any chance of her
landing us where police waited with open arms. The avenging angel in the
person of Aldrich was still near us, so near that I could hear the
water dripping from his clothes, but his power to harm was gone. I was
congratulating myself on this when suddenly he undeceived me. Apparently
he had been considering his position toward Kinney and myself, and,
having arrived at a conclusion, was anxious to announce it.

“I wish to repeat,” he exclaimed suddenly, “that I’m under obligations
to nobody. Just because my friends,” he went on defiantly, “choose to
trust themselves with persons who ought to be in jail, I can’t desert
them. It’s all the more reason why I SHOULDN’T desert them. That’s why
I’m here! And I want it understood as soon as I get on shore I’m going
to a police station and have those persons arrested.”


Rising out of the fog that had rendered each of us invisible to the
other, his words sounded fantastic and unreal. In the dripping silence,
broken only by hoarse warnings that came from no direction, and within
the mind of each the conviction that we were lost, police stations did
not immediately concern us. So no one spoke, and in the fog the words
died away and were drowned. But I was glad he had spoken. At least I was
forewarned. I now knew that I had not escaped, that Kinney and I were
still in danger. I determined that so far as it lay with me, our yawl
would be beached at that point on the coast of Connecticut farthest
removed, not only from police stations, but from all human habitation.

As soon as we were out of hearing of the Patience and her whistle, we
completely lost our bearings. It may be that Lady Moya was not a skilled
coxswain, or it may be that Aldrich understands a racing scull better
than a yawl, and pulled too heavily on his right, but whatever the cause
we soon were hopelessly lost. In this predicament we were not alone.
The night was filled with fog-horns, whistles, bells, and the throb of
engines, but we never were near enough to hail the vessels from which
the sounds came, and when we rowed toward them they invariably sank into
silence. After two hours Stumps and Kinney insisted on taking a turn at
the oars, and Lady Moya moved to the bow. We gave her our coats, and,
making cushions of these, she announced that she was going to sleep.
Whether she slept or not, I do not know, but she remained silent. For
three more dreary hours we took turns at the oars or dozed at the bottom
of the boat while we continued aimlessly to drift upon the face of the
waters. It was now five o’clock, and the fog had so far lightened that
we could see each other and a stretch of open water. At intervals the
fog-horns of vessels passing us, but hidden from us, tormented Aldrich
to a state of extreme exasperation. He hailed them with frantic shrieks
and shouts, and Stumps and the Lady Moya shouted with him. I fear Kinney
and myself did not contribute any great volume of sound to the general
chorus. To be “rescued” was the last thing we desired. The yacht or tug
that would receive us on board would also put us on shore, where the
vindictive Aldrich would have us at his mercy. We preferred the freedom
of our yawl and the shelter of the fog. Our silence was not lost upon
Aldrich. For some time he had been crouching in the bow, whispering
indignantly to Lady Moya; now he exclaimed aloud:

“What did I tell you?” he cried contemptuously; “they got away in this
boat because they were afraid of ME, not because they were afraid of
being drowned. If they’ve nothing to be afraid of, why are they so
anxious to keep us drifting around all night in this fog? Why don’t they
help us stop one of those tugs?”

Lord Ivy exploded suddenly.

“Rot!” he exclaimed. “If they’re afraid of you, why did they ask you to
go with them?”

“They didn’t!” cried Aldrich, truthfully and triumphantly. “They
kidnapped you and Moya because they thought they could square themselves
with YOU. But they didn’t want ME!” The issue had been fairly stated,
and no longer with self-respect could I remain silent.

“We don’t want you now!” I said. “Can’t you understand,” I went on with
as much self-restraint as I could muster, “we are willing and anxious
to explain ourselves to Lord Ivy, or even to you, but we don’t want to
explain to the police? My friend thought you and Lord Ivy were crooks,
escaping. You think WE are crooks, escaping. You both--”

Aldrich snorted contemptuously.

“That’s a likely story!” he cried. “No wonder you don’t want to tell
THAT to the police!”

From the bow came an exclamation, and Lady Moya rose to her feet.

“Phil!” she said, “you bore me!” She picked her way across the thwart to
where Kinney sat at the stroke oar.

“My brother and I often row together,” she said; “I will take your
place.”

When she had seated herself we were so near that her eyes looked
directly into mine. Drawing in the oars, she leaned upon them and
smiled.

“Now, then,” she commanded, “tell us all about it.”

Before I could speak there came from behind her a sudden radiance, and
as though a curtain had been snatched aside, the fog flew apart, and the
sun, dripping, crimson, and gorgeous, sprang from the waters. From the
others there was a cry of wonder and delight, and from Lord Ivy a shriek
of incredulous laughter.

Lady Moya clapped her hands joyfully and pointed past me. I turned and
looked. Directly behind me, not fifty feet from us, was a shelving beach
and a stone wharf, and above it a vine-covered cottage, from the chimney
of which smoke curled cheerily. Had the yawl, while Lady Moya was taking
the oars, NOT swung in a circle, and had the sun NOT risen, in
three minutes more we would have bumped ourselves into the State of
Connecticut. The cottage stood on one horn of a tiny harbor. Beyond it,
weather-beaten shingled houses, sail-lofts, and wharfs stretched cosily
in a half-circle. Back of them rose splendid elms and the delicate spire
of a church, and from the unruffled surface of the harbor the masts
of many fishing-boats. Across the water, on a grass-grown point, a
whitewashed light-house blushed in the crimson glory of the sun. Except
for an oyster-man in his boat at the end of the wharf, and the smoke
from the chimney of his cottage, the little village slept, the harbor
slept. It was a picture of perfect content, confidence, and peace. “Oh!”
 cried the Lady Moya, “how pretty, how pretty!”

Lord Ivy swung the bow about and raced toward the wharf. The others
stood up and cheered hysterically.

At the sound and at the sight of us emerging so mysteriously from the
fog, the man in the fishing-boat raised himself to his full height and
stared as incredulously as though he beheld a mermaid. He was an old
man, but straight and tall, and the oysterman’s boots stretching to his
hips made him appear even taller than he was. He had a bristling white
beard and his face was tanned to a fierce copper color, but his eyes
were blue and young and gentle. They lit suddenly with excitement and
sympathy.

“Are you from the Patience?” he shouted. In chorus we answered that we
were, and Ivy pulled the yawl alongside the fisherman’s boat.

But already the old man had turned and, making a megaphone of his hands,
was shouting to the cottage.

“Mother!” he cried, “mother, here are folks from the wreck. Get coffee
and blankets and--and bacon--and eggs!”

“May the Lord bless him!” exclaimed the Lady Moya devoutly.

But Aldrich, excited and eager, pulled out a roll of bills and shook
them at the man.

“Do you want to earn ten dollars?” he demanded; “then chase yourself to
the village and bring the constable.”

Lady Moya exclaimed bitterly, Lord Ivy swore, Kinney in despair uttered
a dismal howl and dropped his head in his hands.

“It’s no use, Mr. Aldrich,” I said. Seated in the stern, the others had
hidden me from the fisherman. Now I stood up and he saw me. I laid one
hand on his, and pointed to the tin badge on his suspender.

“He is the village constable himself,” I explained. I turned to the
lovely lady. “Lady Moya,” I said, “I want to introduce you to my
father!” I pointed to the vine-covered cottage. “That’s my home,”
 I said. I pointed to the sleeping town. “That,” I told her, “is the
village of Fairport. Most of it belongs to father. You are all very
welcome.”





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