Mark Shore held something like a reception, on the _Nathan Ross_, all
that first day. He went forward among the men to greet old friends and
meet new ones, and came back and complimented Joel on the quality of his
crew. "You've made good men of them," he said. "Those that weren't good
men before."
He listened, with a smile half contemptuous, to Jim Finch's somewhat
slavish phrases of welcome and admiration; and he talked with Varde, the
morose second mate, so gayly that even Varde was cozened at last into a
grin. Old Hooper was pathetically glad to see him. Hooper had been mate
of the ship on which Mark started out as a boy; and he liked to hark back
to those days. Young Dick Morrell, on his trips from the shore, gave Mark
frank worship.
Joel saw all this. He could not help seeing it. And he told himself,
again and again, that it was only to be expected. Mark had captained this
ship, had captained these men, on their last cruise; they had thought him
dead. It was only natural that they should welcome him back to life
again....
But even while he gave himself this reassurance, he knew that it was
untrue. There was more than mere welcome in the attitude of the men;
there was more than admiration. There was a quality of awe that was akin
to worship; and there was, beneath this awe, a lively curiosity as to
what Mark would do.... They knew him for a quick man, dominant, one with
the will to lead; and now he found himself supplanted, dependent on the
word of his own younger brother.... Every one knew that Mark and Joel had
always been rather enemies than comrades; so, now, they wondered, and
waited, and watched with all their eyes. Joel saw them, by twos and
threes, whispering together about the ship; and he knew what it was they
were asking each other.
Of all those on the _Nathan Ross_ that day, Mark himself seemed least
conscious of the dramatic possibilities of the situation. He was glad to
be back among friends; but beyond that he did not go. He gave Joel an
exaggerated measure of respect, so extreme that it was worse than scorn
or mockery. Otherwise, he took no notice of the potentialities created by
his return.
Priss had planned to go ashore in the afternoon; but Mark dissuaded her.
This was not difficult; he did it so laughingly and so dextrously that
Priss changed her mind without knowing just why she did so. Mark took it
upon himself to make up for her disappointment; they were together most
of the long, hot afternoon. Joel could hear their laughter now and then.
He had expected to go ashore with Priss; but when she came to him and
said: "Joel, Mark says it's just dirty and hot and ugly, ashore, and I'm
not going," he changed his mind. There was no need of his making the
trip, after all. Varde and Morrell had brought out water, towing long
strings of almost-filled casks behind their boats; and boats from the
shore had come off to sell fresh food. So at dusk, the anchor came up,
and the _Nathan Ross_ spread her dingy sails, and stalked out of the
harbor with the utmost dignity in every stiff line of her, and the night
behind them swallowed up the island. Mark and Priss were astern to watch
it blend in the darkness and lose itself; and Priss, when their last
glimpse of it faded, heard the man draw a deep breath of something like
relief. She looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.
"What is it?" she asked softly. "Were you--unhappy there?"
Mark laughed aloud. "My dear Priss," he said, in the elder-brother manner
he affected toward her. "My dear Priss, the South Sea Islands are no
place for a white man, especially when he is alone. I'm glad to get back
in the smell of oil, with an honest deck underfoot. And I don't mind
saying so."
Priss shuddered, and wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, how I hate that smell," she
exclaimed. "But, Mark--tell me where you've been, and what you did,
and--everything. Why won't you tell?"
He wagged his head at her severely. "Children," he said, "should be seen
and not heard."