THE WRECK OF THE GOOD SHIP “ARGO”
SHORTLY before Madge’s two hours of study were over Bloodmop Mundy
returned to camp in the buckboard. Joshua was out on the grade watching
the tramp laborers as they handled the teams. Mrs. Mundy left her tent
and followed the vehicle to the stable tent, where she entered into
conversation with her husband as he unhitched the small bay ponies.
“Well, George, what did you find out about him?” she asked.
“They didn’t know much about ’im at the skatin’ rink,” he replied. “But
they told me where I might get onto somethin’, and I follied it up. I
saw the fella they sent me to, who don’t figger at all. But he sent me
to a nigger that used to work for the Coles, and he told me a lot.
“I guess the boy’s tellin’ the truth. This nigger--Ole Ambrose they
call ’im--used to be stable man f’r the Coles. Say, there was a time
when they had a pile o’ money, ’Lizabeth. They lived on Park Avenue
an’--”
“Yes, the boy has told me all that,” she interrupted. “What about the
father?”
“No good--absolutely no good, ’Lizabeth. Always chasin’ ’round with
fast women and playin’ the ponies. He went through his wife’s fortune
in a few years, and now they got only his salary. It’s a good one, I
guess, f’r he’s still playin’ the races an’ goin’ th’ pace generally.
And what the kid said about his father’s half-drownin’ ’im in the
bathtub every time he does somethin’ a little funny, like every kid’s
doin’ pretty near every day, is truth. Ole Ambrose says he’s seen ’im
beat the kid half to death, and then duck ’im on top o’ that. Don’t
look like a bad kid to me, either. Does he to you?”
“Not at all. On the contrary, he seems to me an exceptionally kind and
thoughtful boy. But he’s queer, George--there’s no denying that. He
has an old head on his shoulders. I asked him: ‘But you really were
deliberately late for school, weren’t you?’ And he replied: ‘Yes,
ma’am.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘don’t you consider your school work more
important than watching slugs let themselves down from chips, no matter
how interesting that may be?’ And what do you think was his answer? He
said: ‘No’m, I don’t. It’s my business in this world to find out about
things like that. I study a lot, but not school books. I’m not lazy
in my head, if they do think so.’ Imagine, George, a boy of fourteen
talking like that--stating his ‘business in this world!’ I tell you
he’s a remarkable child, with those grave, kind eyes of his that look
you so directly in the face.”
“Yes’m,” agreed George, not deeply moved by his wife’s enthusiasm. “And
say--I think th’ cops are lookin’ for ’im, ’Lizabeth. The fella at the
skatin’ rink said two big huskies were nosin’ ’round this mornin’, and
they looked to him like plainclothes men. He was wonderin’ what they
was up to, an’ when I told him a little about this kid he said he’d bet
they was huntin’ him. But I told ’im the kid was all right and for him
to keep his face closed, and he said it wasn’t any business o’ his, and
he would. But what in th’ devil--I mean, what’re we gonta do about it?
We can’t afford to get mixed up in anythin’ like this, ’Lizabeth!”
His wife did not answer at once. She stood with her dark head slightly
bowed, a forefinger to her lips.
“Sometimes,” she said presently, as her husband came from the stable
tent after leading in the ponies, “I think it is best for a boy to get
out and learn something of the world. I didn’t use to think so before
I married you, but the camp life that I have led, here to-day, there
to-morrow, and encountering all sorts of men both young and old, has
changed me--made me more liberal. The educational system of the schools
is mostly wrong, I am convinced. Also I believe that most parents are
wrong in their attitude toward their children. They don’t understand
them and don’t try to. They don’t realize their sensitiveness. They
don’t make any attempt to find out the trend of their minds, and they
force them to this and to that, and--”
“Yes’m--I guess that’s about right, ’Lizabeth. But it ain’t tellin’ you
an’ me what we’re gonta do about this kid.”
“I know it isn’t,” she conceded. “And I must confess that I have
nothing in mind right now. I hate to see him taken back to that brute
of a father, and I hate to see him run away and become a tramp. Which
is just what will happen if we set him adrift. Could we use him,
George?”
“I reckon we could,” said Bloodmop. “Never saw a time yet about a camp
that a fella couldn’t put a strong, husky boy like that to work. The
cook needs a helper, and we can’t afford to hire him one. Camp cooks
’a’ got a way o’ quittin’ unexpected, you know, when they begin to
think the work’s too heavy and it’s gettin’ to be a long time between
drinks. Yes, we could keep the kid busy pretty near all day--but I
couldn’t give ’im anythin’ but his found.”
“Well, I’ll think it over to-day,” said his wife.
“Yes’m--an’ what you say goes”--and, whistling, the light-hearted,
hard-working gypo man started toward his gang.
But he turned back immediately. “Oh, ’Lizabeth!” he called, and came
swinging to her side again.
“This here boy,” he said, “has taken quite a fancy to Madge, don’t you
think? He’s gettin’ about the age when they begin to think they’re good
f’r somethin’ more’n to have their hair yanked. An’ say--course I know
they’re only kids an’ all that--but ’twouldn’t be th’ worst thing in
th’ world that ever happened. The boy’s mother was a Florence, they
say, and th’ Florences are big folks in Maryland. They got a pile o’
money, and, even if they did turn a cold shoulder on this boy’s mother,
that ain’t sayin’ they’ve forgot about her kids.”
“George! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself!”
Bloodmop Mundy’s face grew fiery red. “’Lizabeth, it ain’t the money
that I’m thinkin’ about so much. He might never get a cent, and the
chances are he won’t. But you come of a good family, and I ain’t ever
forgot it. You run away with me, a no-’count tramp of a dirt-mover,
just because I said I’d be good to you an’ treat you right. Well, I
done that. That part’s all right. But I don’t know nothin’ and never
did--and never will. I’m just nobody--or worse’n that, because I work
but don’t get anywhere. And it always hurt me to think that I drug you
down to a gypsy life like ours, an’--”
But here she laid a work-worn hand across his lips.
“Hush!” she said softly. “You do all the complaining, George, and
you’re only manufacturing reasons for complaint.”
“Well, anyway,” he laughed, “Sundays, when I shave and dress up like, I
ain’t so bad lookin’, am I? And I’m a fightin’ fool! We’ll win out some
day, ’Lizabeth. Wait’ll we hit th’ West, where a man c’n swing his arms
and hit a lick that counts!”
But what her husband had said caused Elizabeth Mundy to think that
morning. She knew her daughter pretty well. Born in a gypo camp,
raised with rough men from infancy, Madge was not like other girls in
her treatment of the few boys that she met. She had never had a girl
associate. Men had babied her from her cradle. So it was only natural
that she could not feel the backwardness and restraint that most young
girls experience in their early dealings with the opposite sex. She
wanted no puppy-love affair between these two, with Madge eleven and
Joshua fourteen. But for some unaccountable reason she had taken a
fancy to the boy and would have risked the difficulties that might
arise from their enforced close association in the gypo camp, were she
able to make herself believe it just to take the runaway under her
wing. And this last was the problem that faced her during the day.
As for Madge and Joshua, they were together on the grade all morning,
after the girl had finished with her studies. For two hours in the
afternoon she would recite to her mother in their remote little living
tent. Then she had promised to go “down the line” with him to see the
work of other camps on the double-tracking job.
The genial Bloodmop, born patron of boyish ambitions, permitted Joshua
to drive a team and to “stick pigs.” He talked to the boy as if he were
a man, and called him Josh and slapped him familiarly on the back.
And if there is anything that warms the heart of a growing boy it is
this unconscious acceptance of him as a reasoning being by a grown-up
member of his sex. The three went in together at noon, Bloodmop between
the boy and girl, laughing boisterously. During the afternoon, while
Madge was busy with her schooling, Bloodmop allowed Joshua to drive a
wheeler team, and took the time to explain many things pertinent to the
construction of railroads. When Madge came she and Joshua wandered down
the line. And after supper they had that delicious experience, the
undisputed due of young lovers since before the Egyptians builded the
Pyramids, of sitting side by side under the twinkling stars.
“Aren’t the stars bright to-night?” said Madge. “But they say that out
West they are brighter still. On the desert, I believe. Oh, I’m just
crazy to go West! And so is Pa. He talks about it all the time. Look at
that cluster up there, almost over our heads. I call that the kite. And
there’s the big dipper”--she pointed--“I can always find it.”
“What you call the kite,” said Joshua, “is the Constellation of Orion.
In March it’s just a little bit southwest of right over a fella’s
head. See those three stars in a line? That’s called the Belt of
Orion, and the three hanging down like make the Sword of Orion. The
Celestial Equator passes through the belt. Now look at the four big
stars that are around the whole business. That red one is Betelgeuse,
and thatun closest to it is Bellatrix. Now look at the dim little one
in the middle of the Sword. Around that is the Nebula of Orion, and the
bright, white star is Rigel.”
“Mercy alive!” cried Madge. “Wherever did you learn all that? Not at
school, did you?”
“Naw, jest monkeyin’ ’round,” he said disparagingly.
“And do you know everything about the stars? Why, I don’t know one from
another.”
“I know a little,” he told her. “Some day I’m gonta know more. Now look
over there to the left. See that big bright one? That’s Sirius, the Dog
Star. Now look at the Constellation of Orion again. Remember Rigel?
Well, that ain’t one star, but it’s two. It’s so far away’s what makes
it look to us like only one. And Number One in the Belt of Orion and
Number Three, too, are double stars.”
“Well, whoever heard of the like! I’ve always wanted to know something
about the stars, but I never had anybody to tell me before. Nights and
nights I sit outdoors and look up at ’em and wonder. Some nights you
can see millions and millions of them, and then again--”
“No, you can’t,” he corrected her. “Folks used to think that a fella
couldn’t begin to guess how many stars he could see. But we know
better now. You can’t never see over four thousan’. An’ about the most
a fella’ll ever be able to see is somewhere between two thousan’ an’
three thousan’.”
“I don’t believe that!”
“Don’t haff to if ye don’t want to,” he said dogmatically. “But I’m
tellin’ you what’s what. I know what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Well, let’s not quarrel about it. I guess you ought to know, but it
looks funny to me. Tell me about the Big Dipper. That’s my favorite.”
“Well,” he replied, “it ain’t particularly interestin’ to astronomers,
I guess. But d’ye see that star that’s right where you’d put your mouth
if you was drinkin’ outa the dipper, and holdin’ the handle straight in
front of you?”
After a pause: “Yes, I guess I know the one you mean.”
“That’s what’s called the Pointer. No matter which way the dipper
turns, that star’s always pointing straight at the Pole Star. There’s
the Pole Star--see it over there, with the Pointer pointin’at it?”
“Ye-yes--I guess so.”
“Five hundred centuries ago,” Joshua went on in a dreamy tone, “the Big
Dipper looked like a cross. And five hundred centuries from now it’ll
be in the shape of a steamer chair.”
“How do they know that, Josh? Nobody that’s living now was here five
hundred centuries ago. And how ever can they tell what it’ll look like
five hundred centuries from now? That sounds silly.”
“There’s nothin’ silly about science,” Joshua told her reprovingly.
“Well, we know the direction that the stars are goin’. And we know how
fast they’re goin’. So it’s easy to figger out where they were five
hundred centuries ago, and where they’ll be five hundred centuries from
now. And they’ll be just like I’m telling you. The Big Dipper’ll look
like a steamer chair. Why, lissen here, Madge: If the fellas that built
the hangin’ gardens of Babylon could come back here now they wouldn’t
notice hardly any difference in the stars. The stars are travelin’
through space from eight to ten miles a second, but if those ole fellas
could come back it would look like they’d moved only about half the
size of the moon. You know what I mean--half the size that the moon
looks like to us. Maybe half a foot, you’d say. Millions o’ miles up
there look like half a foot to us.”
“Gracious alive! That doesn’t seem possible. How far is it up there,
Josh? But o’ course nobody knows that.”
“I read where one fella said we were twenty-five million million miles
from the nearest star.”
“Twenty-five million million!” she gasped.
“Yes, sir--twenty-five million million miles. How’s that sound to you?
An’ lissen here: The sun and the planets--what they call the solar
system--are travelin’ through space more’n a million miles a day. Right
now you an’ me’s goin’ a million miles a day, Madge! Don’t it make
you feel dizzy? Well, we’re travelin’ more’n a million miles a day,
remember. Well, then, it would take us seventy thousan’ years to get to
the nearest star.”
“Aw, you’re just makin’ that up, Josh! Pretty soon I’m goin’ to ask you
again, and I’ll bet you’ll forget how many miles you said.”
“All right--try me,” invited Joshua.
“I will, all right. But tell me where we’re going so fast, if you can.”
“I can’t do that. Nobody can, I guess. But I know the direction that
we’re travelin’ in. We’re travelin’ towards a point between the
Constellation of Lyra and the Constellation of Hercules. There--see
where I’m pointin’? That’s about where we’re headed for. But you
needn’t be pickin’ up your baggage or puttin’ on your hat, Madge.
Remember that it ud take us seventy thousan’ years to get to the
nearest star. But we ain’t travelin’ that way, it happens. Why, just
think! In ten minutes from now we’ll be seven thousan’ miles from where
we are in space this second!”
“It sounds perfectly awful, Josh,” she murmured. “It’s kinda creepy,
isn’t it?”
“And by to-morrow evenin’,” he went on remorselessly, “we’ll be more’n
a million miles from the region of space that we’re in right now. I
remember readin’: ‘Prisoners are we on a rudderless ship lost in an
ocean of space, voyaging we know not whither--truly symbolic of the
spiritual status of man.’”
“Oh, don’t say anything more like that, Josh! I don’t believe I
understand it.”
“I do, kinda,” he told her. “I heard a lecturer say that, and
afterwards I read his book where he said it again. And I committed it
to memory; it sounded kinda nice, I thought. And this here, too: ‘There
where the glorious Milky Way dips below the horizon lies the good ship
“Argo,” in which Jason and his fifty adventurers sailed from Greece to
recover the Golden Fleece. And we too sail on this mystic ship, the
earth, bound north-eastward to an unknown port, perhaps to discover
the Golden Fleece of greater wisdom and “the peace that passeth
understanding.”’ I thought that was kinda pretty.”
“Uh-huh! You’re funny, Joshua. I don’t see why they expelled you from
school.”
“I wasn’t any good in grammar and ’rithmetic,” Joshua explained in all
simplicity. “And then--”
But here a hand fell upon his shoulder, and in the light streaming from
the dining tent he looked up into a pair of piggish little eyes set in
a heavy, florid face.
“I guess that’s about it, kid,” said a voice that somehow matched the
face. “And, besides that, you’re a bad actor generally. Guess it’s
about time you were goin’ home. Uh-huh--black hair, heavy. Gray eyes,
almost blue. Heavy black eyebrows. Face like a girl’s, but well-built
and strong. Guess I’ve got you, all right.”
Madge and Joshua had sprung to their feet in amazement. The man stood
eyeing them, maintaining a tight clutch on Joshua’s shoulder. Before
either of the youthful star-gazers could speak, a big, fat hand darted
to the inside pocket of Joshua’s coat and brought forth his father’s
razor in its case.
“Uh-huh! I was told I might find this on you. Well, kid, yer dad
wants you. Come on with me! And next time you run away, don’t ask any
switchman where to go. Come on--it’s gettin’ late.”
“Is--is he arrested?” asked Madge in an awed little voice.
“Uh-huh--sort of. C’m’on, kid.”