"Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho!
Ships may come and ships may go,
But I sail on forever!"
Certainly, no audience would be moved to tears, either by the quality of
the voice, or by the ditty that was thus rendered. And yet, there was a
blue-eyed, fair-haired girl, seated on the rocks below her father's
place, whose eyes filled with tears as she listened. Elizabeth thought
she was prepared to fulfill the promise made to her father three days
ago, but, now that the opportunity was upon her, she felt her resolution
slipping away. She loved her dear old friend as never in all her life.
The singer rounded a projection of sandy beach just beyond the rock-pile
where the girl was sitting. He was hurrying up the shore in the
direction of his home, his dejected figure revealing his utter
loneliness, despite the lightness of his song. His brow was puckered,
more with furrows of perplexity than with lines of anger, as he made his
way with labored difficulty up the steep incline from the beach.
"Oh, Uncle Josiah!" involuntarily cried the girl as she caught a glimpse
of the haggard face.
The old man stopped, turned about, and looked up.
"Now, ain't this surprising good luck to find you here!" he exclaimed.
"I was just thinking about you, Beth."
"Do your thoughts of me always make you sing like that?"
"That there song ain't got much music, and I cal'late it don't improve
to speak of with my voice," he answered, his swarthy face breaking into
a broad smile. "It must sound funny for an old fish like me to be
serenading a young lady like you. Glad you liked the entertainment,
Beth."
"I didn't say I liked it. It made me feel very bad," she said, loosening
a stone with the point of her shoe and sending it rolling to the water's
edge.
"Well, I don't just rec'lect that you spoke favorable on that p'int. I
honest didn't know you was about else I'd tried something more fitting
to the occasion. Fact is, Beth, I was singing to keep my spirits up."
"You should be happier than you look, then, for your singing is better
than a vaudeville show."
"You ain't none too partic'lar about classing me, be you?"
"Singing isn't in your line, and if I were you I'd not try it."
"Beth, what's wrong? You don't seem real glad to see me."
"Of course, I'm glad to see you, my dear old sailor Uncle," she said,
rising and putting her arms about his neck.
"Thanks, Beth." He choked out the words, for as he looked down he saw
the sign of tears in her eyes. "I've been cruising round nigh onto three
days, and that's a purty long spell for the land-lubber I'm getting to
be."
"Your return was as sudden as your departure, wasn't it?"
"Sudden? What do you mean by that?"
"Just what I say. I was looking for the _Jennie P._ to come into the
harbor. Perhaps she came as she went, like the ships that pass in the
night."
"You see me go out, did you, Beth?"
She nodded. "But I did not see you return."
"I did sort of sneak out. What did you think of me for doing a thing
like that?"
"I didn't think very highly of you, if you want the honest truth," she
declared, releasing her arms from about his neck.
"You ain't mad, are you, Beth?"
"Don't you think I have a perfect right to get angry? It was the first
time you ever left home without telling me good-bye. Should I like
that?"
"I never thought of that. But this here cruise was like the proposing to
the old maid: unexpected-like. For that reason I wa'n't prepared for
saying good-byes." His eyes clouded as he slowly continued, "It's a
fact, I never went off afore without telling you good-bye. I don't----"
He stopped and looked down at the girl. She was no longer the child who
had clung to him on the eve of departures for long cruises, asking,
"Take me 'long, Unca Josi?" She had grown to womanhood! He wondered that
the thought had not occurred to him before. And yet, as he continued to
gaze, he saw the eager child staring up into his face from the big
eyes.
"I cal'late I ain't got no right to expect them partings no more," he
faltered.
"Why, Uncle Josiah Pott! I don't like that one little bit."
"You seem so growed up, Beth, and I cal'late you're getting too
big----"
"For you to love me?"
"No!" he said vehemently.
"Then, just what do you mean?"
"I don't know." He drew awkwardly back as she approached him, and
fumbled his hat till it fell from his fingers. "You're getting to be
quite a woman," he observed.
"And you're getting very foolish! Now, you kiss me before I get angry."
He stooped, kissed her hastily, and wiped his lips with the back of his
coat-sleeve. He picked up his hat, and began to rub it vigorously with
his finger-tips.
"If ever you talk like that again I'll punish you by never giving you
another kiss."
"I ain't got no right to expect it, anyway, Beth."
"Uncle Josiah, don't let me hear that again. I want to hear all about
your voyage," she demanded as she settled herself on the rocks, and
motioned him near her.
"There wa'n't none, that is, none to speak of."
"Oh! But there was, and it must have been the most mysterious of all.
You went in the night, and you came in the night. Did you do all your
trading in the night, too, slipping about through the streets in some
unknown country with moccasins on your feet, like you once told me about
the Chinese?"
She laughed, but the Captain did not catch the restrained note and
manner.
"There, now! That's more like it!" he declared, joining in with a
cracked laugh. "It seemed afore like I was talking to a young lady I'd
never seen. Feel more like I'd got back home with you laughing like
that."
"I haven't been indulging much since you went away."
"You ain't?"
"But tell me about your trip."
"You was right on most p'ints, excepting I didn't cruise back in the
night."
"Then how did you slip into town so quietly and unseen? I've been
sitting on these cold stones for two days looking for you."
"I come back by railroad, and just now was walking over from the
station."
"But where did you leave the _Jennie P._? Why didn't you come back with
her?"
"I run her into dry-dock down to the city for repairs," he said
quietly.
The girl noticed a slight catch in his voice.
"I thought you did all your own repairing."
"I do when there ain't nothing bad wrong."
"You sailed the _Jennie P._ all the way into the city and left it
there?"
"Something went wrong with the engine, and I didn't have no time to
tinker with her afore I had to come back. Them there gas engines is
worse than a team of mules when they get to bucking and balking.
They----"
"Captain Pott! Tell me the truth. Why did you leave your boat in the
city docks?"
"For the reason I told you." He was looking away from her.
"Look at me, Uncle Josiah."
"Can't just now, Beth. I'm watching----"
"Oh, please tell me all about it!"
"There ain't nothing more to tell."
"You did not leave the _Jennie P._ in dry-dock for repairs!" she cried
with apprehension.
He did not reply, but tightly gripped the hand which had been slipped
into his.
"Tell me, please!" she implored. "You said a little while ago that you
were singing to keep up your spirits. Something dreadful has happened.
Did you wreck your boat?"
"Hey? Me wreck the _Jennie P._? I tell you honest, Beth, there ain't
nothing----"
Elizabeth lifted her hand and turned his face toward her. He looked down
and gave up.
"There ain't no use pretending to you. I sold her."
"You sold the _Jennie P._?"
"I sold the _Jennie P._," he repeated slowly, as though it were hard for
him to comprehend that fact. "You see, I didn't have no more real need
for her, and 'twas kind of expensive to keep her afloat."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the girl.
"It was a mite expensive, honest, Beth."
"Uncle Josiah! Why didn't you come to me if you were in need of money?"
"I owe your father more now than I'd otter."
"But I love you so!"
The big shoulders gave a decided heave. "That's wuth more to me than all
the money in the world."
"Then, why didn't you come to me?"
"I didn't think of doing that."
"Oh, Uncle Josiah!"
"Yes, I sold my boat. There wa'n't no wonder I was singing, was there?"
he asked, passing his hand across his face as if to clear his vision. "I
cal'late that song wa'n't much like music to you, but I just naturally
had to do something to keep my feelings afloat, didn't I, Beth?"
"Yes."
"I sold her," he said, speaking as though his thoughts were coming by
way of his tongue. "It wa'n't easy. Just like parting with an old
friend. It sort of pulled on me. Odd, ain't it, how an old boat like
that can get a hold on a feller?"
"No, it is not odd. Some of the happiest moments of my life were spent
on board the _Jennie P._"
"Do you honest feel that way about her?"
"Yes."
"I'm mighty glad, Beth," he said, his eyes gleaming with pride. "She
sartin was a worthy craft."
"Who bought your boat?"
"Feller by the name of Peters, who runs a fish business down on East
River near Brooklyn bridge. I knew him years ago. His wife's name is
Jennie, and I named my boat after her 'cause he was the first man to
help me sail her."
"Why did you go to him without first telling me?"
"There wa'n't no time to tell no one. You'd not likely----"
"Oh, you men! You treat us women as if we were numskulls. If you had
given me the slightest idea that you intended to sell I should have put
in my bid along with others."
"Do you mean you would have bought my _Jennie P._?"
"Why not, pray tell? Haven't I as much right to own a boat as any man
you know?"
"I do believe you'd have bought her, sartin as death!"
"Of course I should. If----" Her eyes suddenly widened. "Why did you
sell?"
"Same as I said afore, I didn't have no need of her, and she was getting
expensive to keep up." His face darkened, and an expression of pain shot
through the shadows.
"You said you were not going to pretend to me. Tell me the real
reason."
"I can't."
"In other words, that is the secret of your mysterious trip to the
city."
"Yes, that's my secret."
"My dear old Uncle!" she cried. "I know your secret! You sold your boat
to get money with which to pay Father. You've sold your one little
luxury to pay a debt you can never pay."
"You're mistook. I can pay your father every cent I got from him to
overhaul my place."
"But that isn't all!"
"It ain't all?"
"I thought I could tell you all about it, but I can't!"
"Do you mean you've something you want to say to me, Beth?"
"I can't! I can't! It is so----"
She broke down and cried without restraint. The old seaman put his arm
about her.
"There! There! Don't cry like that. She ain't wuth it."
"But you are!" she sobbed.
"All that there flood sartinly ain't for an old feller like me! Tut!
Tut! I sartinly ain't wuth it. I'm nothing but a leaky old ark what had
otter been towed in long ago, safe and high to some dry-dock."
"Uncle Josiah, you are the only uncle I've ever had. I love you next to
my father. You are the only man who has ever understood me. I have many
times come to you before going to my own father. And, now, that you are
in trouble, and I might have helped you----"
"Tush. Tush. Don't cry over an old salt like me. I tell you I ain't wuth
it, not one precious drop."
"If you only knew!"
"Maybe I ain't so deep in the fog as you think. I took another trip
while I was in the city to see a lawyer, and I found out some mighty
interesting things."
"But he couldn't tell you everything."
"Beth, is there something you'd otter tell me?"
"There is--there was--but I guess----Did you see a good lawyer?"
"The best I could find."
"Then, why did you sacrifice your boat? It was so needless."
"I had to have that much money right off, and there wa'n't no time to
look about. I didn't think you'd take it like this or I'd sartin never
done it."
"If you had only come to me I could have let you have that much without
you having to sell your boat."
"It would have been a mite queer to borrow from you to pay your dad,
wouldn't it?"
"What does that matter?"
"Nothing, much.... But you was going to tell me something."
She lifted her tear-stained face, and slowly shook her head. "Not now. I
might cry again, and I've been silly enough for one day."
"You ain't been silly, not one mite. I had no right to make you cry by
telling you things that don't consarn you."
"Indeed, you should have told me, and it does concern, far more than you
think," she replied, drying her eyes and cheeks. "I know I must look
frightful."
"You don't look nothing of the sort. You couldn't if you tried to."
"Will you be home to-night, Uncle Josiah?" she asked, looking at her
wrist-watch. It was half-past ten o'clock.
"Cal'late to be."
"May I come to see you?"
"That's a funny question. I should say you can come. Clemmie will be
real glad to see you, and so will the minister."
"I'm coming to see you," she said, coloring. "I'm going home now.
Good-bye."
She hurriedly kissed him, and before he had time to speak she was
half-way up the hill. At the rear gate she waved, then disappeared
behind the mass of shrubbery that lined her father's place.
Ten minutes later the Captain heard the roar of the open exhaust from
the girl's motor. Like a red streak the car shot down the hill of the
Fox estate and into County Road. The Captain gasped as he watched a
cloud of dust engulf the flying car.