them--has ever seen the man. But they have a good description of him,
a very good description. Short inclined to be chubby--though possibly
he’s thinned out some since he became a fugitive--blue eyes, dark
brown hair. Somewhat resourceful, they say. Passed himself as a waiter
and got passage on a government transport to Guam. Pretended to be a
discharged marine at Guam and shipped with a pearl pirate for Yap. At
Yap he became a planter and doubled back to Langar. They don’t know
what he told the trader, but they know this trader never makes anything
but little islands out of touch with the world. They figure that they
have their prize this time. Haven’t seen anybody of his description,
have you?”
Billy came very nearly to saying yes; but what would be the use? In
normal spirits he would have told the Captain that the description
fitted himself--the Captain--pretty closely. But Billy was in no mood
for humor.
“I am telling you all this so that in case you ever run across
the fellow you can send word to Langar. Quite a reward for him, I
understand. The detectives are waiting there. They heard the _Petrel_
was cruising about, and asked the steward to notify everybody on board.
They are very impatient. I am sure if they got wind of where the fellow
was they would hire a schooner and go for him.”
“Can’t arrest him without the consent of German authorities, can they?”
Billy inquired.
“Not properly, of course. But they can smuggle him out. Once they get
their hands on him they will not stop to ask questions until they get
to New York. This fellow is so resourceful and tricky that they won’t
give him half a chance to make trouble for them.”
Billy did not answer. He was beginning to feel a kind of companionable
sympathy for the lizards that he and Tomlin caught and smothered in
chloroform before “picklin’ ’em.” No matter where he went he felt that
he never appreciably increased the distance between himself and 240
Centre Street, New York--Police Headquarters.
But Billy wasn’t the only one who was having troubles. Lorraine and
Tomlin came walking toward the beach, and a blind man could tell that
neither of them was happy. The Captain, not being blind, appeared perky
and pleased.
“Aren’t you coming to see mother?” she asked wistfully as she got into
the boat. Perhaps she was too proud to ask him to come on her own
account.
“To-morrow, Lorraine. To-morrow,” he said in an empty voice that showed
he scarcely knew what he was saying.
“To-morrow!” she said, not without a touch of anger. Then to Billy, “Mr.
Rand, will you come and have dinner with me--now!”
“I sure am delighted!” said Billy, and without looking toward the
reproachful eyes of Tomlin or the glaring eyes of the Captain, he
climbed into the boat, and gave all of his attention to Lorraine’s.
Billy thought the _Petrel_ was about the finest thing imaginable, all
white and shiny, and he thought the dinner was too much for mere words
to describe--with just himself and Lorraine at the table. The mother
was not well, but she looked much worse when Lorraine said that Tomlin
wouldn’t come--until to-morrow.
At dinner Billy got the whole story. Of course Lorraine didn’t intend
to tell it, but she did--at least enough of it for him to understand
that some years before she had loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and
that they were promised, each to the other. But of course she had
loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and that she was rich and he was
poor and had “pride”--also a passion for bugs and things. There isn’t
much money to be made out of that sort of study, and she objected to
being expected to live on what he made from it--when she was rich as an
Indian princess. Her father offered to help Tomlin along in business,
but Tomlin insisted that his career was in studying bugs, and that made
the father peevish and he said that Tomlin didn’t need help. Naturally
Tomlin then grew more peevish and said that the father and his money
could go to the--well, wherever it is that rich men go on Judgment Day
when they fail to get through the eye of the needle. And, of course,
that made Lorraine peevish, and she said that Tomlin didn’t love her.
But he said that he did and always would, but that he had “pride.” So
the engagement was shattered, and Lorraine married a man rich as she
was. But Tomlin had her heart and she couldn’t forget him. Besides,
she felt that maybe after all she was to blame. When her husband died
from overwork of the stomach, she inquired and found that Tomlin had
turned missionary to the Caroline Islands. She talked with her mother,
and the mother, having known all along how Lorraine felt, said to do
it, so Lorraine sent Tomlin a letter (the mail is delivered to stray
missionaries once every three or four years), took the _Petrel_,
engaged Captain Farwell, and set out to locate Tomlin, being aided
thereby through the Board by Foreign Missions which had him down on its
payroll for $35 every three months. But as converting heathens isn’t a
very paying business, there were times when he did not get that.
It was a long trip. And Captain Farwell, being a single man and feeling
himself as attractive as any missionary, continually told her of how
white men degenerated in the tropics and--well, the inference was
that no woman could ask for a better husband than a sailorman of just
his height and age. He might as well have suggested himself as the
consort for the Empress Dowager of China. But the Captain had ideas and
believed himself a very resourceful gentleman.
“And Roscoe,” she said bitterly, “still has that awful ‘pride’ of his!”
“He loves you, don’t he?” Billy demanded.
She looked a little startled, but admitted that Tomlin had said he did
and had never loved any one else; and her eyes seemed to ask Billy what
he thought of a man who would love a girl and not show it.
Billy was a man of some attainment in the use of his wits. He had lived
by them for many years. He assured Lorraine that all Tomlin needed
was a little friendly advice and to “leave it to me!” She was a bit
alarmed at Billy’s proprietary manner in taking over her love affair,
but they were a long way from home and the conventions of New York.
And when Billy started to leave she said: “And by the way, Mr. Rand, if
for any reason you care to leave on the _Petrel_, whether or not Roscoe
comes, you will be welcome. And we are not going back by way of Langar!”
“Them detectives’ll be awfully disappointed if you don’t,” Billy said
frankly, wondering just how much Tomlin had told her, and what the
steward had told her--or Captain Farwell?
Billy got into the boat to be taken ashore, but the sailors said that
they were waiting for the Captain, too. Presently Captain Farwell came
and as the boat shoved off in the darkness, there was a crackling and
snapping on board the _Petrel_. Billy had noticed the wireless. He was
not much of a sailor and besides it had seemed natural for ships to
have tall poles and wires and ropes.
“Mr. Rand,” said the Captain, when he came, “I’m sending to Langar a
description of the man we met on the island this afternoon.”
Of course, he said it that way so the sailors wouldn’t understand.
“And I believe,” he went on, “that I can persuade the owner of the
_Petrel_ that it would be wiser to go back by way of Langar.”
So the Captain had been listening.
Billy settled down on a thwart and tried to think.
“It will take the detectives about two days to get here. Much may
happen in two days.”
Billy hoped so.
The Captain left Billy to ruminate until the boat hit the beach. Then
he got out and said that he would walk a bit with Billy.
“You know,” the Captain began, “if Tomlin should not leave on the
_Petrel_ I don’t believe that we would go back by way of Langar.”
Billy said nothing. He didn’t quite understand.
“And in that case, if you were on board the detectives would never meet
you.”
“Go on,” said Billy. “I’m interested.”
“But if Tomlin remained--and was able to talk, understand--he would
tell that you had gone on the _Petrel_ and you wouldn’t be much better
off. Besides, the _Petrel_ would be into trouble for having tried to do
you a favor. They would get hold of the _Petrel_ some way.”
“That’s right,” said Billy. “Now tell it all.”
“I’ll be frank with you. You are a bad crook, so I don’t suppose one
crime more or less means much to you, does it?”
“Naw, I’m bad!” said Billy grinning to himself in the darkness.
“Listen then. You kill Tomlin and I’ll see that you get away. Let him
live this night out and I’ll put you in irons and carry you to Langar
myself.”
“Ooo-oo,” said Billy. “I’m in a pickle.”
“You are,” said the Captain, speaking firm.
“With Tomlin out of the way, you think this girl can be consoled by
being Mrs. Farwell. Am I some guesser?”
“You discuss your own business. Not mine.”
“Sure. You’ve got what they call the upper hand.”
“I have.” The Captain was a man of decision; very firm, too.
“How’s the best way to go about it to keep Tomlin quiet?”
“Knife him.”
“All thought out!” said Billy, admiringly.
“Yes. Here’s a knife. Don’t leave it lying around. If you do I shall
swear you stole it from me.”
“I’ll bring it back to you.”
“You’ll do it then?”
“I’ll come to the _Petrel_ in the mornin’ and say a nigger done it.”
“That’s right. Don’t fail me. It’ll go hard with you.”
“I believe you,” said Billy, as the Captain turned away and walked back
toward the beach.
Billy, grinning thoughtfully, went up to the house. Through the doorway
he could see Tomlin with his elbows on the table, his hands in his
hair, sitting amid his troubles. The lantern hanging from a beam made
him look like a great grotesque image carved from teak.
Billy climbed over the doorway.
“Billy--” Tomlin said anxiously, ready to ask questions.
Billy did not answer, but started gathering up his few belongings, and
making a great show of that.
“Billy, what are you doing?”
No answer, but much rummaging.
“Billy, have you gone crazy?”
“Nope.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m movin’.”
“Moving? What’s the matter?”
“I got _pride_,” said Billy.
“Pride? What on earth is the matter with you?”
Then Billy told him. That is Billy explained how he had landed on the
beach and been living on Tomlin’s charity, and he simply couldn’t stand
it any more. His pride wouldn’t let him stand it. He was going back in
the bush and hunt berries and bugs of his own.
“But Billy--are you crazy? I’ve done nothing for you. I’ve liked you--I
want you to stay.”
“Nope. I got _pride_!”
“You idiot!” Tomlin cried, jumping up, his strained nerves at the
breaking point.
“Who’s an idiot?”
“You are. All this means nothing to me. I’m glad to share it with you.
Anything--everything. I like you--and you--you--”
“--then why don’t you marry her?” Billy cut in.
Tomlin’s face went blank as the palm of his hand.
“What does all that mean to her? She just wants to share it with you.
And you got pride. Aw, you just want her to coax and beg.”
“Look here--what are you talking about?” Tomlin demanded.
“See this knife,” said Billy, flourishing the long, cold blade.
“Well--” and Billy told him everything.
A few hours later Tomlin was talking like a happy child and trying to
shave while Billy sat at the table painfully trying to write a note.
Tomlin knocked over a shelf of pickled lizards.
“Look out!” Billy exclaimed.
“To hell with ’em!” said Tomlin.
“A missionary to--”
“I’ve thought out my letter of resignation,” said Tomlin.
Billy finished his note and put it in his pocket, saying: “I’ll rout
out some niggers and you come about fifteen minutes after me. Meantime
I got to kill a chicken.”
He slipped out and feeling under the low eaves grabbed a sleepy fowl.
Captain Farwell’s knife was soon a very grewsome object.
Just before dawn Billy paddled out to the _Petrel_. He inquired for
Lorraine’s cabin and banging on the door slipped her his note with a
word or two of explanation, then returned to the deck.
“Mr. Tomlin was murdered by natives last night,” he said to a sailor on
watch. “The lady wants me to tell the Captain.”
Billy was shown to the Captain’s cabin and the sailor went to spread
the news forward.
“Who’s there?” said the Captain.
“Me,” said Billy. “The niggers killed Tomlin last night!”
“Come in,” said the Captain, excited. Billy came in.
“Shut the door.”
It was shut.
“Lock it.”
Billy fumbled with the lock.
The Captain was in bed, sitting up, nervous.
“He is dead?”
“See this?” said Billy, pulling out the knife.
“Why didn’t you wipe it off?”
“All right,” said Billy as he grabbed the end of the sheet and wiped
the blade.
“You fool--the stains--here--”
“Where else should they be? Us murderers has to stick together.”
“Are you trying to implicate me? But I’ve got you--I’ll swear--you’re
going to murder me!”
With that the Captain sprang out of bed and began yelling “Murder!
Help!”
The door opened and Lorraine stood there, just as Billy had requested.
Her hair was tumbled down and she wore a kimono of white silk with
blue birds. Her face did not look pleasant, and her eyes were cold and
straight, but she said quite calmly:
“Captain Farwell, I have been listening with the door ajar ever since
you told Mr. Rand to lock it!”
With that she turned and walked off.
The Captain dropped his jaw, and then himself. He flopped like a sack
of flour into a chair and sat there staring at Billy.
“You see, Cap,” said Billy, friendly-like, “I’m wanted back in New York
as a witness in a bribery case. Not for murder. And seein’ as you don’t
want it, I think I’ll keep this knife as a little souvenir.”
The Captain said nothing, so Billy kept the knife and went out,
shutting the door.
Down the passageway he came upon Tomlin with his arms around Lorraine,
and she was weeping happily.
Billy overheard “--as soon as we can find a minister.”
“But you are one!” she insisted. “And Mr. Rand--isn’t he--”
Tomlin exploded into laughter.
But Billy intervened.
“’Scuse me for interferin’ with the reunion, but if you are lookin’ for
a weddin’ ceremony, allow me to offer my services.”
Tomlin looked surprised for it was obvious that Billy was in earnest.
Billy hastened to explain that when he had come over to Guam on the
transport the captain had married an officer and a nurse, so it
appeared that captains could marry people--though a missionary’s
assistant couldn’t!
“That’s right!” said Tomlin.
Lorraine was inclined to object.
“Then we must wait, my dear.”
“We have waited so long!” she said, thereby agreeing to the Captain’s
performing the ceremony.
The Captain was still in pajamas and on his chair and showed all the
visible symptoms of nervous prostration.
“Captain,” said Billy, cheerfully, “we’d like to have a knot spliced
this mornin’ and seein’ as how you are a sailor--”
“Will you be good enough to perform the wedding service?” Tomlin asked,
sternly. After all it was his, not Billy’s wedding.
The Captain choked and was badly scared, but at last managed to say
that he was “agreeable,” although he didn’t appear to be.
Billy grabbed a pair of sailors for witnesses, the Captain fished out a
Bible--and Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe Tomlin marched out blushing and happy to
break the news to mother; whereupon the old lady climbed right out of
bed, cured.
That afternoon the Captain had a little talk with Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin
and said that he would like permission to go ashore and stay there, as
relations on board had become somewhat strained. He knew that a boat
would be along in two or three days (the detectives had answered that
they were coming). It was very irregular--a captain leaving his ship
that way--but Tomlin said that all things considered, he thought it
would be well.
So the Captain said good-bye to the steward and whispered something
that caused the steward to look hard at Billy; then he, the Captain,
left, bag and baggage.
That day was spent in getting Tomlin’s bugs and lizards on board and in
saying good-bye to the natives.
The next morning with the First Officer on the bridge, the _Petrel_
steamed out and left the Captain sitting on the beach--very glad to
have got away without charges being laid up against him.
Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin cornered Billy and asked what on earth they could
do for him.
“Yesum,” said Billy. “Just drop that steward over-board.”
Mrs. Tomlin promised that at the first port they reached the steward
would be fired and given passage money home.
As the day passed Billy walked the deck and exchanged jokes with the
First Officer, who was the new Captain--and glad of it, because he had
never liked Farwell anyhow. Then a little trading schooner came over
the line, bow on.
Billy knew right away by intuition that she carried the detectives.
When within hailing distance the schooner heaved to and the _Petrel_
slowed down.
A fellow from the bow called out to thank the Captain for having tipped
him off as to the crook wanted in New York, and asked if he was still
in the nigger village.
The new Captain didn’t quite understand; but Billy grabbed the
megaphone and yelled: “Yes--raised a beard--stole papers and
clothes from the ship--may try to pass himself off as a Captain or
something--clever crook, you know--let ’im explain nothin’ or you won’t
get him to New York. Good luck!”
A shout of thanks came over the water as the _Petrel_ started churning
ahead.
Billy looked after the little schooner, and taking a deep breath, said
gratefully to himself, “The Lord helps them as helps ’emselves! Can you
see the D. A. when he gets hold of old Cap. Farwell expectin’ to see
little Billy!”
_The Woman’s Home Companion_
ACCORDING TO RUSKIN
BY
HARRIET WELLES
ACCORDING TO RUSKIN[12]
By HARRIET WELLES
During the first few days after the Armistice was signed I seemed, for
some strange reason, to wish to sit idly in my room in the London hotel
where I was temporarily domiciled.
Ever since I had left my home in America, the days in war-time England
had been so full, so tensely crowded, that each seemed crammed
with events--events, occurring somehow in an eternal twilight that
will always recur to me with the memory of the unbearable, shadowy
premonition of an approaching night; the sight of troops marching
across the city under faint stars, dim against the afterglow; laden
lorries lumbering, convoy wagons creaking, through the dusk; constantly
returning ambulances, with their endless gleanings, seeming to leave a
perceptible shadow long after they had passed. Even the pot of parrot
tulip bulbs, purchased to brighten my window sill, finally blossomed,
and contributed to my illusion of twilight by producing wan, colorless
flowers.
And then the Armistice was signed, and I awakened from my doze to find
it bright morning with dazzling sunshine! Small wonder that most of us
drew a long breath and, blinking uncertainly, hesitated....
But, after a few days, old ties reasserted themselves. I had been too
busy, too harassed, before, to look up old friends; now, I sat down
and wrote the one for whom, during a year in the Orient where her
husband and mine each held an official position, I had grown to have a
very deep admiration and affection. “It will be pleasant to see a real
English family in their own home, during the first days of peace,” I
planned, remembering my friend, her pleasant husband, and their three
sons and one pretty daughter.
Before her answering letter, urging me to make them a long visit, came,
my plans were suddenly changed, my sailing date hastened. I was able to
arrange for only one afternoon with her in the cathedral town where she
lived, near London.
The only books on sale at the railroad station book stall were war
literature, for which, now that the nightmare was so recently over, I
had a deep repugnance, so I dug out from a pile of miscellaneous books
a cheap paper-covered volume of Ruskin’s essays, and settled myself to
improve my mind, while the toy train moved leisurely on its punctual
way.
My friend waved to me from a wicker pony cart as I alighted from the
train at her station. She bridged the years which stretched between our
last meeting, half a world away, and the present, by the friendliness
of her greeting, the sincere warmth of her welcome. “There wasn’t
anyone to hold this fractious beast, or I wouldn’t be sitting here,”
she apologized as she kissed me.
“He looks peaceful enough,” I commented, taking the seat beside my
hostess.
“_She_ isn’t! Since our horses were commandeered, and we were allowed
only eight gallons of petrol a month for the motor, we’ve had to depend
on this pony. She’s put on a lot of side since she realized that she
was a war-worker,” volunteered my friend as the pony shied heraldically
at a baby carriage. “She’s seen that perambulator--or others like
it--every day for the last fifteen years, and never noticed until now.”
The pony, suddenly bored by her own antics, slowed down to a jog trot;
we rounded a grove of trees, and came upon a typical English village
dominated by a gray cathedral. “How quaint--how peaceful!” I exclaimed
with unfeigned enthusiasm.
“Yes, it is a dear old place,” she agreed, and hesitated: “I suppose
that, in a way, it’s peaceful, too, if you can overlook the sorrow
or suffering in every house. Our older men will have to stay in
harness and bear the burdens much longer than heretofore; the middle
generation is wiped out. We must wait for the lads who are children
now. There isn’t one young man left, in this village, who isn’t lame
or blind,” she said, and indicated with her whip a cottage doorway.
On the step a blond boy leaned idly against a post. Something in his
lack of cognizance of us made me look more closely. “Blind, deaf from
‘shellshock,’ and his right arm gone,” my friend explained.
I mentally searched for a pleasanter subject. “You haven’t told me of
your family--your husband, Daphne, the boys? I was so excited at seeing
you that I waited to ask,” I said.
We were passing the green cloister of the cathedral. Above us towered
the gray pile with its buttresses, gargoyles and columns; from an
unseen belfry a deep-toned bell sounded the hour, a silvery chime
supplemented the old canticle: “He ... watching over Israel ...
slumbers not ... nor sleeps.”
My friend listened intently. “Sometimes, when bad news arrived, or the
severely wounded came home, I’ve wondered. I’ve questioned,” she said.
I knew that she referred to the message of the bells.
“You needn’t question any more. Now, you know!” I comforted.
“Yes,” she agreed, “now I know--it had to be. All English mothers are
sure of that.”
There was in her tone quiet and sincere earnestness that any comment
seemed superfluous and impertinent, so in silence we drove on down the
long road and passed through a stone gateway and up a curving avenue to
the most perfect Georgian house that I have ever seen. She smiled at my
enthusiastic admiration.
“I used to get so homesick for it, in China,” she volunteered; “my
great-great-grandfather built it on the ruins of an older place of ours
which had burned.”
* * * * *
An old stableman hobbled up to take the reins. We went in past an
elderly parlor maid who had opened the door, and I instantly succumbed
to the perfection of the sunshiny hall, with its floor of black and
white marble, and the square, paneled rooms opening off on either side
of it.
“We’ve had tea in the garden every afternoon, it has been such a
beautiful, open autumn. But perhaps you’d prefer having it in the
house?” suggested my friend.
“I’d much rather have it in the garden,” I agreed, reluctantly
detaching my attention from the Adam mantelpiece and turning to examine
the carved corners of the old wall panels. The rooms were veritable
museums of rare and beautiful furnishings; they showed a finished
perfection of detail, from the wax candles in the crystal chandeliers
to the faded needle-point upholstering on the Chippendale chair seats.
“Just think of the generations of discriminating people whose taste is
represented in your home! Didn’t any of them ever make mistakes and buy
black walnut horrors?” I cried, and added, “What a magnificent heritage
to hand down, unspoiled, to your children!”
She did not answer. I turned and found her staring
down at the sturdy carving on a superb oak bench. “My
great-great-great-great-grandfather’s favorite seat,” she explained,
rousing herself. “He sailed with Drake ... and was a firm believer in
the unalterable greatness of England, and England’s future ... as I am
a believer in it!” She paused. “But sometimes I wonder ... what will
become of our household gods....”
“_Become of them?_” I cried. She interrupted me.
“Must you really go back to London this afternoon?” she asked, and at
my reluctant affirmative continued, “I’ve ordered tea early for that
reason. Shall we go out into the garden?... Ah, Daphne!”