"Take me where everybody goes," directed Percival.
"The Pali? Waikiki? Punch-Bowl? Aquarium?"
"Yes, yes. Go on. You see, as a matter of fact, I'm looking for some
one."
Percival's first impression of Honolulu was that of a futurist sketch,
a streak of green standing for the palm-shaded streets, a streak of
scarlet representing the royal Poinciana, and various impressionistic
dots indicating native Hawaiians. The motor in which he found himself
was very ancient, having evidently traveled from the center to the
circumference of civilization by easy stages. Its age and asthmatic
condition should have made it an object of veneration to the chauffeur,
but such was not the case. Like a belated express, it was driven
through the town and out into the open country. Luxurious villas, jungles
of cacti, Chinese tea-houses, taro patches, banana plantations--all
presented one mad panorama to Percival, who jolted from side to side
on the back seat.
Presently there was a precipitous halt, and the chauffeur indicated that
he was to get out.
"What for?" asked Percival, crossly.
"The Pali," said the chauffeur, impressively. "Eighteen hundred feet
above the level of the sea, where the early inhabitants of Oahu made
their last stand against the enemy."
"I'm quite sure she isn't here," said Percival. Then he caught himself,
and went into a rather elaborate explanation to cover his confusion.
"You see, I'm looking for the purser. The purser of the _Saluria_,
you know. He's put a nasty Chinaman in my state-room, and I've got to
find him before the ship sails."
"Everybody comes first to the Pali," said the man.
Percival glanced skeptically at the great granite cliff that seemed such
an unpromising retreat for pursers, then he stepped out of the motor,
and made his way around the sharp angle of stone wall. As he did so, a
gale struck him that sent his hat careening over the precipice. He gazed
after it in chagrin. The fact that one of the great panoramic views of
the world lay at his feet was quite obliterated by the unhappy knowledge
that an English Bowler had landed in the fork of a distant tree, defying
recovery.
"Where next, sir?" asked the chauffeur, surprised at his quick return.
"Anywhere out of this damned wind!" said Percival between his teeth.
"Your friend might be at Waikiki Beach," suggested the chauffeur,
amiably.
"He's _not_ my friend. He's a purser, I tell you. Wants to put--"
But his words were lost in the whir of the engine. All the way back to
Honolulu and through the town Percival was seeing this strange, tropical
land through the blue eyes of a certain little untraveled Western
savage. What a revelation it must be to one used to the barren alkali
deserts of Wyoming, where, nothing grew but sage-bush and cacti! It
wouldn't be half bad, he thought, to hear what she had to say about it
all. But where was one to look for her?
"We might try the pool-rooms," suggested the chauffeur.
Percival looked at him blankly, then he remembered.
"Take me to a hat shop," he said peremptorily.
When they arrived at Waikiki Beach he got out of the motor with more
alacrity than was habitual to him, and entered the cocoanut-grove. By
Jove! he thought, it was not a bad sight to see the palms dangling over
the beach like that, with the jolly breakers rolling in, and the bay
full of changing colors. Coral reefs! That's what caused the color; he
had read it in a book somewhere. Air was good, too, fruity and salty and
not too hot. For the moment he forgot his cares; he even forgot that his
new hat was one of those peculiar shapes which Englishmen often pore
over in the advertising pages of American magazines for the sole purpose
of enjoying a sense of superb and vast superiority.
As he scanned the beach his eye was caught by three ladies and three
natives standing about a surf-boat in animated discussion. The youngest
of the ladies, who wore a bathing-suit of conspicuous hue and did most
of the talking, suddenly detached herself from the others and came
flying across the sand toward him.
"Mr. Hascombe!" she demanded breathlessly, "you'll take me out in the
surf-boat, won't you? The boys haven't come, and Mrs. Weston is afraid
for me to go alone."
[Illustration: "Mr. Hascombe!" she demanded breathlessly, "you'll take
me out in the surf boat, won't you?"]
"But my dear young lady, it's quite impossible. I'm looking for the
purser. They say he's going to put--"
"Bother the purser! We haven't a minute to lose. The steamer sails at
five."
"But really, I can't. And I quite agree with Mrs. Weston that it would
be most awfully improper for you to go alone."
"Well, if you don't take me, I _will_ go alone!" she said defiantly;
then she suddenly changed her tactics, and added with childish insistence:
"But you _are_ going to take me now, aren't you? Please?"
He could scarcely believe his senses when, a few minutes later, he found
himself frantically struggling into a rented bathing-suit in a steaming
little bath-house that gave evidence of recent use. But a glance into
the mirror that hung on the door not only convinced him of his identity,
but added the comforting assurance that he was not by any means looking
his worst in his present garb. He paused long enough to flex a
presentable bicep with pardonable pride.
"Hurry up!" called Bobby, joyfully, as he emerged. "There are three
Kanakas and you and I. Can you swim?"
"Rather," said Percival.
They ran down to the beach to where the canoe, a long, narrow affair
with curious outriders, awaited them.
"The last boat that went out capsized," cried Bobby, gleefully taking
her place behind the second Kanaka. "The men were in the water five
minutes, but the sharks didn't happen to notice them."
"Sharks!" exclaimed Percival in consternation.
The native in the front seat grinned and shook his head.
"No sharks this side of the reef," he said reassuringly.
As they paddled out over the blue water, Bobby's enthusiasm dashed like
spray against the rock of Percival's seeming indifference.
"Isn't this the most heavenly place that ever happened!" she cried.
"Look at the mountains back yonder against the sky, and the mists in the
valleys, and all the color spilling out over the edge of the land into
the sea!"
"Ye-es," said Percival; "but as a matter of fact I find the mosquitos
peculiarly trying."
Now, if the truth must be told, it was not the mosquitos which were
disturbing the Honorable Percival. It was not even his failure to find
the purser. It was the disconcerting discovery that this persistent
young woman from the States was making him do things he didn't in the
least want to do. He glared gloomily at the back of her white neck,
across which a dark lock floated tantalizingly.
As the space between them and the shore widened, the surf became
stronger and higher, until by the time they reached the reef the canoe
was dancing like a shell on the water.
"Afraid?" asked Bobby, teasingly, flashing a smile over her shoulder.
"I don't think," said Percival, and, immediately was chagrined at having
indulged in such a vulgar expression.
"I love it!" cried Bobby. "It's more fun than a bucking bronco. Is this
our wave? All right! Let her go!"
The Kanaka in the prow gave the signal, and the boat backed into the
monster wave just as it was about to break. Simultaneously the paddles
were plunged into the water, and a vigorous pull was made for the shore.
There was a merry whiz of rushing waters, a breathless suspension in
midair, then a gigantic upheaval as the boat plunged over the crest of
the wave and shot like an arrow two miles in two minutes to the beach.
Percival, as has been stated, rather prided himself on having exhausted
life's thrills. When one has made a reputation for luging at Caux and
has raced on skis with the professionals at St. Moritz, not to boast of
a daring flight in a French aëroplane, one is apt to be rather superior
to minor sports. But the present thrilling diversion, shared with a girl
as irresistibly pretty and as utterly abandoned to the joy of the moment
as Bobby Boynton, proved quite the most exhilarating pastime in which he
had ever indulged.
Again and again the boat went out, and again and again Mrs. Weston
beckoned frantically and imperatively from the pier. The last time she
looked at her watch, she seemed to give up the hope of getting the
delinquents back to shore. Gathering up scarfs and parasols, she and
Elise hurried back to the steamer.
For the two young people in the boat the steamer had ceased to exist.
Everything had ceased to exist except a narrow shell of wood, three
brown-backed natives, and one towering wave after another that shot
them through delicious realms of space and left them, with every nerve
a-tingle, laughing into each other's eyes.
"Ripping, isn't it?" cried Percival on the third return. "Shall we have
one more go?"
"I expect we ought to be going," said Bobby, shaking the salt spray out
of her hair. "I don't see anything of Mrs. Weston and Elise."
"I don't want to see anything of them," cried Percival, recklessly.
"Right ho! once more!"
She was nothing loath, and they went blithely forth to meet the next big
wave.
"Mrs. Weston _has_ gone!" said Bobby when they again touched shore.
"Wouldn't it be a lark if we were left?"
No bullet ever brought a soaring bird to ground more promptly than this
remark brought the Honorable Percival to his senses.
"Gad!" he cried, "but it's impossible! My luggage is all on board!"
He scrambled frantically out of the boat and rushed to his bath-house.
The prospect of being stranded, on even a fairy island, with a
dangerously beguiling maiden of the middle class was even more appalling
than being divorced from his luggage. He struggled frantically into his
clothes, losing three precious minutes over a broken shoe-lace. When he
came out he found Bobby, very cool and collected, sipping an iced drink
at the pavilion. Not waiting for her to finish, he rushed her into the
waiting motor and implored the chauffeur to get them to the dock with
all possible speed.
He was aghast at his own folly. It was incredible that he should have
allowed himself to drift into such an awkward situation. They might not
be missed until after the steamer sailed, in which case it was quite
possible that the erratic captain would refuse to put back. The man
might even make capital of the incident and claim that his daughter was
compromised. What if he should demand satisfaction? What satisfaction
would be due in the circumstances? Percival felt the hot blood rush to
his head.
"Can't you speed her up a bit?" he urged, his elbows on the front seat
and his eyes on the small watch encased in the leather strap about his
wrist.
"Yes, do!" cried Bobby, excitedly. "I love to go fast!"
"Do you realize," asked Percival, assuming his sternest manner in order
to impress her with the gravity of the situation, "that we stand a very
good chance of being left?"
"I can't imagine a nicer place to be left in," said Bobby, adding
between bounces, "besides, you needn't--look so cross--at me. It is all
your--own fault."
The chauffeur at this point felt it incumbent upon him to avert a
quarrel, so he offered the cheering assurance that it was only four
forty-five, and he could get most anywhere in fifteen minutes. But even
as he spoke there was an ominous report, followed by the unmistakable
sound of escaping air.
"Oh, I say!" cried Percival in tones of horror, "not a puncture?"
"That's whut!" said the chauffeur, who had jammed on the brakes, and was
now ruefully inspecting a back wheel.
"Can't stop for that!" cried Percival, impatiently. "Every second
counts, my man. Doesn't matter how much we bounce so long as we get
there."
"But I ain't goin' to ruin my tire."
"What the deuce do I care about your confounded old tire? I'll pay for
it. I'll pay you anything you ask if you get me to the dock on time."
But after bumping furiously from cobblestone to cobblestone, the
chauffeur rebelled and positively declined to go farther until the tire
was changed.
"Then it's up to us to catch a streetcar!" cried Bobby, "What luck! Here
comes one now. They only run once a week."
"Street-car? Oh, you mean a tram. To be sure! Hadn't thought of it.
Shall we run for it?"
Thrusting a gold piece into the hand of the chauffeur, he made a
fifty-yard dash for the corner that did credit to his early training.
But the imperious signal with which he hailed the car was not heeded.
Instead, a fat conductor leaned from the rear platform and obligingly
volunteered the information that he was on the wrong corner.
"Intolerable insolence!" muttered Percival to Bobby, who had just come
up. "What are you laughing at?"
"At your face when the car went by. Here comes a wagon. Quick! Ask the
man if he can't take us the rest of the way."
"But we can't ride in a--"
"Yes, we can. We can ride on a broom-stick if we have to. Hurry!"
Percival plunged obediently into the street and made his request. He was
meeting with little encouragement from the driver, who evidently thought
he was mentally unsound, when Bobby came to his rescue. It was only by
resorting to some of those feminine tricks of persuasion which the
suffragists assure us are quite immoral that she succeeded in carrying
her point.
Ten minutes later the curiosity of the main thoroughfare of Honolulu
was raised to fever-heat by the singular spectacle of an austere and
distinguished-looking Englishman and a pretty, if somewhat disheveled,
young girl dangling their feet from the end of a dilapidated wagon that
was being driven at a breakneck speed toward the wharf.
[Illustration: At a breakneck speed towards the wharf]
For once in his life Percival was indifferent to appearances. Everything
else sank into insignificance beside the one supreme necessity of
catching that steamer. There would not be another sailing for the Orient
for ten days. The prospect of ten days in this lotus-land alone with a
perilously pretty girl who had evidently taken an enormous fancy to him
filled him with alarm. What possible explanation could he offer to
Sister Cordelia, that august representative of the family waiting in
Hong-Kong to minister to his broken and bleeding heart?
A violent lurch of the wagon caused him to grasp Bobby's arm to steady
her, and as he did so she got a glimpse of his rueful countenance.
"Cheer up!" she cried. "There's no use looking like that even if we
_are_ left."
"Like what?"
"Like a trout on a hook."
He shot a glance at her. Was it possible that she had divined his state
of mind? Woman's intuition was a thing of which he stood in deadly awe.
But they were arriving at the dock, and there was no time to indulge in
subtleties. He sprang from the wagon before it came to a halt.
"The _Saluria!_" he demanded wildly of a man in uniform. "Has she
sailed?"
"The _Saluria?_" repeated the man with maddening deliberation.
"Let's see. Yellow funnels, ain't she? Yep, that's her a-going out of
the harbor now."
VI
IN THE WIND-SHELTER
When Mrs. Western, anxiously watching the passengers come aboard from
the last launch, had failed to see Bobby Boynton, she was partly
reassured by young Vaughn, who was quite confident he had seen her on
the dock. Not being satisfied, however, she made a tour of the crowded
decks, looking into the music room, the writing-room and even the
smoking-room, It was not until she went below and peeped into Bobby's
empty cabin that she became seriously alarmed. Hurrying back on deck,
she found, to her consternation, that the gang-planks had been lifted
and the ship had weighed anchor. In great excitement she rushed to the
bridge to find the captain, but he was not there. Five interminable
minutes had been lost before she found him and stated her case.
The captain of an ocean-liner is too used to false alarms to be easily
excited, and it was only after another thorough search was made, and no
trace of Bobby and the Englishman found, that Captain Boynton concerned
himself. Just what he said need not be chronicled. It was extremely
crude and extremely personal, and punctuated by phrases that would have
shocked the delicate sensibilities of the Honorable Percival.
His humor was not improved by the dictatorial messages that began to
arrive by wireless:
Have chartered launch. Hold steamer,
HASCOMBE.
Distance too great for launch. Meet us halfway.
HASCOMBE.
Have started, Meet us.
HASCOMBE.
The exciting news that somebody was left soon traveled from deck to
deck, and when the steamer began slowly and laboriously to come about,
the railing's were crowded with passengers. Presently a small dark
object was visible in the distance, rising and falling unsteadily on the
waves that lay between the steamer and the dim shore-line. Gradually the
launch came nearer, and with some difficulty succeeded in getting
alongside.
A cheer of welcome went up as Bobby and Percival scrambled up the
ship's-ladder. Their hats were adorned with trailing wreaths of smilax,
and about their shoulders were garlands of carnations. It was a stage
entrance, sufficiently conspicuous and effective to have satisfied the
soul of the most exacting manager.
Percival's abhorrence of publicity, which had been overshadowed by his
anxiety, now took complete possession of him. With punctilious formality
he handed Bobby on deck, then, with a manner sufficiently forbidding to
discourage all questions and remarks, pushed his way haughtily through
the laughing crowd and went below.
It was not until he entered his state-room that he recalled the
grievance that ostensibly had sent him ashore. In the middle of his
berth was an open suitcase, with its contents widely distributed. Three
pairs of shoes lay in the middle of the floor, a bunch of variegated
neckties depended from the door-knob, and a stack of American magazines
and newspapers lay upon the sofa, Percival stood on the threshold
sniffing. There was no mistaking the odor. It was white rose, a perfume
forever associated with the perfidious Lady Hortense! Was he to suffer
this refinement of cruelty in having the very air he breathed saturated
with her memory? He rang furiously for his valet.
"Judson, see that that person's things are put upon his side of the room
and kept there, and under no condition allow the port-holes to be
closed."
"Very good, sir. Will you dress now for dinner!"
But Percival was in no mood for the long table d'hôte dinner, with its
inevitable comments upon the affair of the afternoon. He preferred a
sandwich and a glass of wine in a secluded corner of the smoking-room,
after which he played a few games of solitaire, then betook himself
to bed. His sleep was not a restful one, being haunted by departing
steamers, arriving Chinamen, and an endless procession of scornful
Lady Hortenses.
He was awakened the next morning long before his accustomed time by some
one stirring noisily about the state-room. After lying in indignant
silence for a while behind his drawn curtains, he touched the electric
bell. When Judson's respectful knock responded, he said in tones of icy
formality:
"Judson, tell the steward to draw my tub."
"I say," broke in a voice on the outer side of the curtain, "while you
are drawing things, I wish you'd try your hand at this cork."
There was a brief parley at the door, and a "Very good, sir," from
Judson.
Percival's anger rose. It was bad enough to share his room with a
stranger, but to share his valet as well was out of the question. When
a second tap announced that his bath was ready, he slipped a long robe
over his silk pajamas and emerged imperiously from his berth. It is not
easy to maintain a haughty dignity in a bath-robe, with one's hair on
end, but Percival came very near it.
The effort was wasted, however, for a cheerful "Good morning, Partner,"
greeted him, and his cold eye discerned not a slant-eyed Oriental, but a
round, pink American face, partly covered with lather, beaming upon him.
"My name is Black," continued the new-comer--"Andy Black. And yours?"
"Hascombe," said Percival, haughtily aware of all that that name stood
for in the annals of southern England.
"Oh, you're the fellow that got left! Any kin to the Texas Hascombes?"
asked the youth, drawing the razor over his upper lip as if there were
real work for it to do.
"None whatever," said Percival. "I'll trouble you for my sponge-bag."
When Percival got down to breakfast he found that the enforced proximity
of Mr. Andy Black was not to be confined to the state-room. The plump,
red-headed young man, with the complexion of a baby and a smile that
impartially embraced the universe, was seated at his elbow.
"Who is the girl at the captain's right?" he demanded eagerly as
Percival took his seat.
"His daughter," Percival said curtly, painfully aware of the amused
glances that had followed his entrance.
"Some looker!" said Andy. "I see my finish right now."
The sight of it eventually pleased him, for he turned his back upon
Percival, and became hilariously appreciative of the captain's jokes,
even contributing one or two of his own. Before the meal was over he
had informed the whole table that he was on his way to Hong-Kong in
the interests of the Union Tobacco Company, that he had done business
in every State in the Union, and that he had crossed the Pacific five
times.
During the course of the day Percival visited the purser at regular
intervals, demanding that his room-mate be removed. But the purser
was a sturdy Hamburger, and the very sight of a monocle affected his
disposition. Meanwhile Mr. Andy Black had made good use of his time.
At the end of twenty-four hours he had spoken to virtually everybody
on board, including the gray-haired old missionary who passed
cream-peppermints about the deck at a quarter to ten every morning. He
had played quoits with Elise Weston, punched the bag with the college
boys, and taught Bobby Boynton to dance the tango. So obnoxious was
the sight of him to the Honorable Percival that he turned his chair
to the wall and buried himself in "Guillim's Display of Heraldry." He
considered it as a personal affront on the part of Fate that just as he
was beginning to find the voyage endurable this prancing young montebank
should appear to spoil everything.
For the next two days he sternly avoided Bobby Boynton. His somewhat
pompous letter of apology to the captain, in which he set forth at
length the various unforeseen accidents that had caused him to miss the
steamer, was curtly and ungraciously received, and strained relations
ensued. Moreover, as he viewed the recent adventure in retrospect, he
decided that he had been most negligent in observing those rules by
which the conduct of an English gentleman should be regulated. In
condescending to be amused he had gone too far, and it was now incumbent
upon him to nip in the bud any gossip that might have risen concerning
his attentions to the daughter of that odious captain.
Bobby survived the withdrawal of his favor with amazing indifference.
What puzzled and annoyed him beyond measure was that the more oblivious
of him she seemed, the more acutely aware of her he became. Twenty times
a day he assured himself that it made no earthly difference to him
whether she was playing quoits with the Scotchman or bean-bag with Andy
Black, and yet not a page of his book would become intelligible until he
made a round of the deck to find out what she was doing. The evenings
were even worse: midnight often found him wrapped in his rug in his
steamer-chair or morosely pacing the deck, waiting for some festivity
in which Bobby was engaged to come to an end. The shocking lack of
chaperonage and the liberty allowed young girls in the States served
as themes for more than one bitter letter home.