Asa Worthen was a small, lean, strong old man, immensely voluble. He must
have been well over sixty years old; and he had grown rich by harvesting
the living treasures of the sea. At thirty-four, he owned his first ship.
She was old, and cranky, and no more seaworthy than a log; but she earned
him more than four hundred thousand dollars, net, before he beached her
on the sand below the town. She lay there still, her upper parts strong
and well preserved. But her bottom was gone, and she was slowly rotting
into the sand.
Asa himself had captained this old craft, until she had served her
appointed time; but when she went to the sand flats, he, too, stayed
ashore, to watch his ships come in. When they were in harbor, they
berthed in his own dock; and from his office at the shoreward end of the
pier, he could look down upon their decks, and watch the casks come out,
so fat with oil, and the stores go aboard for each cruise. The cries of
the men and the wheeling gulls, the rattle of the blocks and gear, and
the rich smell of the oil came up to him.... The _Nathan Ross_ was
loading now; and when Joel climbed the office stairs, he found the old
man at the window watching them sling great shooks of staves into her
hold, and fidgeting at the lubberliness of the men who did the work.
Asa's office was worth seeing; a strange, huge room, windowed on three
sides; against one wall, a whaleboat with all her gear in place; in a
corner, the twisted jaw of a sixty-barrel bull, killed in the Seychelles;
and Asa Worthen's big desk, with a six-foot model of his old ship atop
it, between the forward windows. Beside the desk stood that contrivance
known to the whalemen as a "woman's tub"; a cask, sawed chair-fashion,
with a cross board for seat, and ropes so rigged that the whole might be
easily and safely swung from ship to small boat or back again. Asa had
taken his wife along on more than one of his early voyages ... before she
died....
At Joel's step, the little man swung awkwardly away from the window,
toward the door. Many years ago, a racing whale line had snarled his left
leg and whipped away a gout of muscle; and this leg was now shorter than
its fellow, so that Asa walked with a pegging limp. He hitched across the
big room, and took Joel's arm, and led the young man to the desk.
"Sit down, Joel. Sit down," he said briskly. "I've words to say to you,
my son. Sit down." Asa was smoking; and Joel took a twist of leaf from
his pocket, and cut three slices, and crumbled them and stuffed them into
the bowl of his black pipe. Asa watched the process, and he watched Joel,
puffing without comment. There was something furtive in the scrutiny of
the young man, but Joel did not mark it. When the pipe was ready, Asa
passed across a match, and Joel struck it, and puffed slowly....
Asa began, abruptly, what he had to say. "Joel, the _Nathan Ross_ will be
ready for sea in five days. She's stout, her timbers are good and her
tackle is strong. She's a lucky ship. The oil swims after her across the
broad sea, and begs to be taken. She's my pet ship, Joel, as you know;
and she's uncommon well fitted. Mark had her. Now I want you to take
her."
Joel's calm eyes had met the other's while Asa was speaking; and Asa had
shifted to avoid the encounter. But Joel's heart was pounding so, at the
words of the older man, that he took no heed. He listened, and he waited
thoughtfully until he was sure of what he wished to say. Then he asked
quietly:
"Is not James Finch the mate of her? Did he not fetch her home?"
"Aye," said Asa impatiently. "He brought her home--in the top scurry of
haste. There was no need of such haste; for he had still casks unfilled,
and there was sparm all about him where he lay. He should have filled
those last casks. 'Tis in them the profit lies." He shook his head
sorrowfully. "No, Jim Finch will not do. He is a good man--under another
man. But he has not the spine that stands alone. When Mark Shore was gone
... Jim had no thought but to throw the try works overside and scurry
hitherward as though he feared to be out upon the seas alone."
Joel puffed thrice at his pipe. Then: "You said this morning that for
three weeks he hunted Mark, up and down the Gilbert Islands."
Asa's little eyes whipped toward Joel, and away again. "Oh, aye," he said
harshly. "Three weeks he hunted, when one was plenty. If Mark Shore
lived, and wished to find his ship again, he'd have found her in a week.
If he were dead ... there was no need of the time wasted."
"Nevertheless," said Joel quietly, "James Finch has my thanks for his
search; and I'm no mind to do him a harm, or to step into his shoes."
Asa smiled grimly. "Ye're over considerate," he said. "Jim Finch was your
brother's man, and a very loyal one. As long as he is another's man, he
is content. But he has no want to be his own master and the master of a
ship, and of men. I've askit him."
Joel puffed hard at his pipe; and after a little he asked: "Sir, what
think you it was that came to Mark?"
Asa looked at him sharply, then away; and his accustomed volubility fell
away from him. He lifted his hands. "Ask James Finch. I've no way to
tell," he said curtly.
"Have you no opinion?" Joel insisted.
The ship owner tilted his head, set finger tip to finger tip, assumed the
air of one who delivers judgment. "Islanders, 'tis like," he said.
"There's a many there." He looked sidewise at Joel, looked away. Joel was
nodding.
"Yes, many thereabouts," he agreed. "But there would have been tracks.
Were there none?"
"Mark left his boat's crew," said Asa. "Walked away along the shore. That
was all."
"No tracks?"
"They saw where he'd left the sand." The ship owner shifted in his chair.
"Seems like I'd heard you and Mark wa'n't too good friends, Joel. Your
a'mighty worked up."