[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "You darling!" (page 114)]
THE MAGNET
(Published serially as "The Pilot-Fish")
A ROMANCE
By
HENRY C. ROWLAND
Illustrations by
CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS - NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO.
as _The Pilot-Fish_.
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
THE MAGNET
CHAPTER I
The big schooner-yacht _Shark_ lay peacefully at anchor in Shoal
Harbour, Maine. At her taffrail the National Yacht Ensign aired
itself lazily in the land-breeze; from fore- and main-trucks
fluttered the pennant of the N. Y. Yacht Club and the burgee of
Captain Eliphalet Bell, U.S.N., retired.
A solid old seafaring tub was the _Shark_, built some time back in
the seventies, when, no doubt, she had been a tremendous swell. She
was square in the jowls, pug-nosed, paunch-bellied, with a stern like
a coach-horse, and there was a break from her quarter-deck to the
waist, and a high, t'gallant forecastle. Solid timber she was ... or
at least looked to be, though a gimlet might have shown differently
... and what ballast she had was inside her and not jerking away at
the keel in frantic efforts to whip out her spars.
For a yacht of her size the _Shark_ probably carried the smallest
crew on record, modern double-action hand-winches and other
labour-saving devices being installed about her decks. Brightwork
there was scarcely any, and that covered with a coat of shellac.
Galvanised iron took the place of brass, but if the old schooner
lacked the glitter of metal she certainly shone with spotless
cleanliness.
One saw at the first glance that the _Shark_ was less of a
pleasure-craft than a floating home, and such a domicile she had
truly been for fifteen years. Asthma and an insubordinate heart had
retired her owner from the service of his country; the same
affliction forbade his residence ashore and compelled him to seek a
warm winter climate. Wherefore, he wisely bought the _Shark_ for a
mere song, and made of her a home for himself and his three little
motherless daughters: Cécile, aged nine; Paula, aged seven, and
Hermione, aged four.
That was fifteen years before the epoch of this saga, so that we find
our three sirens at the dangerous ages of from nineteen to
twenty-four. Little heed had their cantankerous parent ever given
them, and little need had they of it, as from the very first day to
the present, they had found a wise and kindly nurse, playmate, and
duenna in that splendid old grizzled viking, Christian Heldstrom,
Master Mariner.
Captain Heldstrom, sailing-master of the _Shark_, had previously
served for ten years in the U.S. Navy and might have had a commission
had he wished. Most of his service had been under the choleric
Captain Bell, to whom, for some incomprehensible reason, he was
devoted. It was, therefore, not unnatural that he should have
followed him on his retirement, nor that he should have assumed the
care of the little girls, the old Norseman having, like so many
big-muscled, big-hearted men, a tremendous fund of paternal instinct.
They had their governess, of course, but it was "Uncle Chris" who
really brought them up and tended them when ill and imparted to them
much of his own honest, fearless nature. He taught them discipline
as well, and all three had more than once felt the flat of his big
hand where it would do the greatest good; Cécile for impudence, Paula
for theft (stealing goodies from the galley), and Hermione for
adventuring aloft and swarming out on the jib-boom. This last
admonition had been followed by a cuff on the side of the watchman's
head which had sent that grinning tar into the scuppers.
Thus one may listen with less surprise to a certain conversation
taking place upon the ample quarter-deck of the schooner, she
squatting peacefully upon the sparkling waters of Shoal Harbour, one
golden day early in August. Sprawled amongst the cushions on a
transome, basking like a pussy-cat in the sun, was Cécile, a luscious
beauty, ripe to the point of falling from the bough, and already
petulant for the plucking. For three seasons this girl had
demoralised the yachting world, for Captain Bell was widely known,
and the _Shark_ as hospitable as her namesake. A high-tempered but
jovial host, epicurean of appetite and ready to immolate his health
on the altar of good-fellowship at a moment's notice; three lovely
daughters, one a desperate flirt, one soft and sweet as a West Indian
night breeze, the third a long-legged nymph with violet eyes, her
pretty mouth full of sailor slang, ready to swim a race around the
ship or run one over the truck.... My word, it is no wonder that old
Heldstrom's hair had visibly whitened in the last three years.
Cécile was catching it fore-and-aft upon this August day.
"It vas me br'rought you oop," growled the Norwegian in his beard,
"und somedimes I am not pr'roud of it. How many yoong men haf you
jilted this summer?"
Cécile dropped her chin on her knuckles and kicked up her heels most
unmaidenly.
"I haven't jilted anybody. It's not my fault if they slam off in a
rage. I don't ask any odds, and if they can't play the game without
bawling, they shouldn't play it at all."
"Love is not a game; it is a serious business, as some day you may
find oudt to your cost."
Cécile gave the nearest cushion a vicious kick, and her head a toss
which set the bright hair to shimmering opalescent as a new-hooked
porgy.
"Don't fear," she said; "when I find the man who can make me feel
what I want to feel, he will have no cause to complain."
"Perhaps you may," Heldstrom retorted. He bent his big brows upon
her flushed, resentful face, and his eyes, clear and blue as polar
ice, softened a little. "I hope not, my dear. Meanvile, you must
not encoorage dese oder yoong men..."
"But how am I to know..." Cécile interrupted, when Heldstrom raised
his hand.
"You vill know. Und if you do not know, den it is not der r'right
man." He took a turn or two on the deck, then paused to stare toward
the harbour-mouth. Up forward the sailors were clustered about the
windlass, talking in low, vehement tones, the murmur of which reached
aft. "Less noise for'ard dere," ordered the captain in his great,
resonant bass, and the gabble ceased. The hands were all staring
toward the entrance, and as he looked forward Heldstrom gave a little
growl in his throat.
"Dis Pilot-fish..." said he, turning abruptly toward Cécile. "Vas he
anudder?"
"Another what?" she asked, sulkily.
"Anudder wictim. Anudder yoong man you haf made crazy ... und pull
your skirt down by your ankles, my dear; you are now too oldt to flop
ar'round dot vay like a little girl."
Cécile jerked her supple young body upright.
"If you are going to do nothing but scold," said she, sulkily, "I am
going below." She sprang to her feet and stood as primly as was
possible for one of her nymph-like allure. "I must say," she snapped
and thrust out her chin haughtily, "it seems to me that I have
reached an age where I might expect to be spared lessons in conduct
from the sailing-master of my father's yacht."
She turned toward the companionway, head in air.
"Cécile!" said Heldstrom, sharply, and the little feet stopped as
though despite themselves.
"Well...?"
"You vill say: 'Excuse me, Captain Heldstrom.'"
"I won't."
"You vill say: 'Excuse me, Captain Heldstrom.'"
[Illustration: "You vill say: 'Excuse me, Captain Heldstrom'"]
Cécile pressed her lips firmly together.
"Look at me."
Slowly, and as if moved by some compelling force, the lovely,
rebellious face was turned and the long, grey eyes, with their double
fringe of black lashes, were raised to meet the clear blue ones
flashing from under the bushy eyebrows. Cécile's eyes sought the
deck.
"Forgive me, Uncle Chris," she murmured.
"Dot is efen better, my dear. Listen, Cécile; I am not a poor man
und I am getting on in years. My brudder has left me lands und
houses in Norvay und I own in some big ships. But I stay und sail
dis old yoonk for your fadder und draw my pay vich is nodding, und
vy? Because if I go, who den vill take care of my little girls?
Your fadder is not rich; perhaps he is not so rich as me, but you are
my family und all dot I have is yours, yoost as I am yours. Und so,
my little girl, I talk to you like a Dootch uncle, und I am not
Dootch, but Norwegian und a gentleman born. Dot is all, my dear."
But it was not quite all, for Cécile rushed to the old viking and
flung her young arms about his neck and kissed the first exposed spot
she could find on the deep-lined, bearded face.
Then she stepped back and surveyed him through misty eyes.
"When I meet a man like you," said she, and caught her breath, "he
will find out that I am something more than a flirt."
And she turned and fled below.
Hardly had she disappeared when the captain's alert, if somewhat
blurred, vision was caught by a yacht's dinghy rapidly approaching
the _Shark_. Picking up his glasses he at once discovered, sitting
in the stern of the boat, a young man whom he recognised as a Mr.
Huntington Wood and who had been the previous summer one of Cécile's
most devoted suitors. When the caprice of the spoiled beauty had
sent him eddying in her wake with the other wrecks, Heldstrom had
sighed deeply. He had liked and admired Wood, finding him all that a
well-bred young American ought to be. Included amongst these virtues
was a very large fortune, and Captain Heldstrom had been deeply
disappointed that Cécile could not have found it in her heart to care
for him.
Seeing that Wood was coming to call, Heldstrom sent the steward to
inform Cécile, then received the guest himself, there being no one of
the family on deck. Wood was a clean-cut, thoroughbred-looking man
of about twenty-eight. Perhaps his greatest attraction lay in the
thoughtful kindliness of expression which was habitual to him. There
was humour, also, and the typical American alertness.
As Wood and Heldstrom exchanged their greetings there came from
forward a sort of buzz of suppressed excitement. The hands were
peering intently into the dazzling reflection of the sun on the water
at the harbour-mouth. Captain Heldstrom quickly levelled his glass
in that direction, then laid it down with a shrug and a shake of the
head.
"What is it?" Wood asked.
"Der Pilot-fish, zir," answered the sailor.
"What do you mean?"
Heldstrom was about to reply when Cécile came up through the
companion and Wood went to meet her. She greeted him with a rather
quizzical smile. Wood flushed.
"You were right," said he. "Here I am back again in less than six
months."
"We have missed you," said Cécile, and led the way aft.
"Thank you. I have come back, not as a suitor, but as a friend."
"Still bitter?"
"Not in the least."
"I heard," remarked Cécile, with a little laugh, "that you were
building a Home for Sick Babies."
"That is true. My cure for bitterness ... and not a bad thing for
the babies. If all of your rejected lovers would only turn to
philanthropy for their cure what a lot of good you would do."
"That is a nasty remark."
"Sorry. Let's drop personalities. How are you all?"
"Papa's asthma is better. He has taken a tremendous fad for cooking,
and spends most of his time stewing over the galley stove. This
seems to be a good thing for him, though bad for us. The cook's
wages have had to be raised."
Wood laughed. "And the girls?"
"Paula is as sweet as ever. Hermione has grown up. She is taller
than I and is going to be a beauty."
From the hands clustered on the t'gallant forecastle there came at
this moment a sort of stifled yelp, immediately followed by some
deep-sea admonition from Captain Heldstrom. As if in answer to the
commotion there popped out of the galley, which as in most
old-fashioned vessels was in a forward deck-house, a corpulent
gentleman with a crimson face, snow-white moustache, and a shining
bald head whereof the lustre was marred by streaks of flour.
"Papa..." called Cécile.
Captain Bell, for it was he, turned sharply, and seeing Wood, his
choleric face lightened. He tore off his apron, wiped his bare,
floury arms, and came striding jerkily aft.
"Well, well, Huntington ... glad to see you, my boy. Excuse my
negligée ... was just at work on an omelette soufflée, but somehow it
went wrong. Infernal thing collapsed like a punctured tire. All the
fault of this Pilot-fish...."
"What is the Pilot-fish?" asked Wood.
"Cécile will tell you while I brush up. You will stop for lunch ...
yes, this is not a request, it is an order. I have made a _plat_
that I want your opinion of." He glanced over the rail. "You are
off the _Arcturus_?"
"Yes ... cruising with Livingston Poole. I leave him to-morrow. His
people are to join him at Portland."
"Come and visit us a bit." He raised his voice. "Christian, tell
that man from the _Arcturus_ to go back and say that Mr. Wood is
lunching with us."
"Yes, zir."
Pausing to search the horizon with his glasses, Captain Bell went
below. Wood looked inquiringly at Cécile.
"Did you ever hear of a pilot-fish?" she asked.
"Yes. It is a little fish which is a constant companion of the
shark. So this is a companion of yours?"
"There is a man who lives on a little yawl and goes wherever we go.
Last summer we began to notice that, no matter where we were, there
would turn up sooner or later this same little boat. Sometimes she
would be in port when we arrived. No doubt he got our next address
at the postoffice and then passed us _en route_. The _Shark_ is
about as speedy as a brick-barge, and this yawl is a smart little
sailer."
"What is the game of this Pilot-fish?" asked Wood.
"It appears that we are his mind. He makes us do his thinking for
him. Here comes papa; get him to tell you of his interview with the
Pilot-fish."
Captain Bell, refreshed inside and out, appeared at this moment in
the companionway. His first glance was for the harbour-mouth.
"Come here, papa," called Cécile, "and tell Huntington about your
conversation with the Pilot-fish."
Captain Bell joined the two. "The Pilot-fish," said he, "is a balmy
galoot in a little yawl who has been eddyin' around in our wake all
summer. When it got certain that his whole business was to trail us
I went alongside him and asked what he meant by such cheek. I found
a long, tawny, sleepy-eyed scoundrel drinking tea and munching
macaroons."
"'Good-day,' says he. 'Won't you come aboard? You are just in time
for tea.'
"'Thanks,' said I, 'but I didn't come for tea. I came to ask why in
thunder you hang under my fin like a bloomin' pilot-fish.'
"He sets down his tea-cup and turns a pair of yellow eyes on me.
"'Do you mind?' he asks. 'I don't want to intrude.'
"'That depends on what you do it for,' I answered.
"'Well, then,' says he, rumplin' up his hair, which is about a foot
long and the colour of coir rope, 'I follow you because it saves me
the trouble of deciding where I want to go.'
"'The deuce you do,' said I, too surprised to say more.
"'Do you mind?" he asks again.
"'I don't know that I mind,' said I, 'but you make me tired. Can't
you do your own thinkin'?'
"'It's so distractin',' says he, and heaves a sigh. 'You see,
Captain Bell, I am a poet and if I have to determine where I want to
go it breaks into the Muse....'" And Bell went off into a fit of
wheezy laughter which finished in a coughing spell. "Now what d'ye
think of that...?" he gasped.
"It sounds fishy to me," Wood observed.
Bell nodded. "Still," said he, "there may be something in it, after
all. I give you my word, I come near flying off my chump sometimes
trying to decide where to go next. The girls will never help me out.
But to go back to this balm. 'Just the same,' I said, 'it must be
deuced inconvenient sometimes to follow me through all kinds of
weather in that little thing.' Says he, 'That's good moral
discipline. If it weren't for that I'd lie in one place and rot.
You'd see the pond-lilies sproutin' from my spars. For instance...'
says he, 'comin' up here I got started too late to catch the tide,
and was dodging rocks in the fog all night long. That is an
excellent way for a poet to refresh his faculties,' says he. 'Of my
own initiative it would never happen, but I put myself under a moral
obligation to go wherever and whenever you do.'"
Bell gave a plethoric chuckle. "'Well,' said I, 'at any rate, you
must know your business. It was thick as pea soup.' Says he, waving
his fin, 'I can usually find my way around...' And he took a swig of
tea. Upon my word, I began to like him. He has only one man; a
half-baked Finn with a cleft palate and one eye swung over to port; a
warlock, if ever you saw one. The Pilot-fish told me that he found
the beggar starving on the beach. Nobody would ship him, he was that
rum. These two zanies scarcely ever speak. The Finn lives up
forward and only comes aft to handle the boat and valet him. He was
ironing his shirt on the fore-hatch while we talked. I asked him to
dinner and you'd have thought from his face that I'd suggested our
havin' a glass of potassium cyanide together. 'Oh, no ... no ... no
...' says he, takin' a grip of his yellow thatch. Said I: 'What's
the matter? I'm not planning to poison you.' He began to spatter
out apologies; said that once he had met my household he would not
feel at liberty to tag me around, and asked me once more if I was
sure that I did not object. 'Follow me to Hades if you like,' said
I. 'The sea is free to all, and you never get within half a mile,
anyway.' My word, he was so upset he broke his tea-cup against the
coamin', and I left him tryin' to swig his tea out of nothin' and
bitin' the china ring around his finger. Coming off that evening we
passed the Finn. 'Kennybunkport
Kennybunkportkennybunkportkennybunkport...' he was patterin' to
himself. You see, he'd been ashore to find out our forwarding
address. When we reached Kennebunkport sure enough, here was this
floatin' bug-house lyin' at anchor and the Pilot-fish refreshin'
himself with tea and macaroons. As we rounded up..."
His narrative was interrupted by a commotion forward. The men were
talking and gesticulating. Out of the galley bounced the cook, a
pair of battered glasses in his hand. Up through the pantry hatch
popped the steward like a rabbit coming out of his hole, and the
girls' maid, a matronly woman, followed him.
"Look-a-that!" growled Bell, in disgust. "You'd think the White
Squadron was comin' in..." He levelled his glasses at the swimming
glare. "Confound him ... it's he ... and Cécile gets into me for ten
dollars."
Down below a cabin clock rang sharply two bells. "Two bells, sir,"
said a quartermaster. "Make it so," snapped Bell, for the _Shark's_
routine was strictly naval.
Two bells were struck forward, to be followed by a smothered chorus
of exultation from the winners of sundry bets. "Silence, there,"
cried Bell, and added to Wood: "This ship has got to be no more than
a bloomin' Grand Stand. That lobster has lost me ten dollars. He
must have stopped to fish."
Captain Heldstrom started forward, smiling under his grizzled beard.
"Win, captain?" snapped Bell.
"Fife dollars ... from der cook, zir," answered the captain.
"I'm glad it was the cook..." muttered Bell.
"This Pilot-fish," observed Wood, "has got the races beaten to a
finish."
All eyes aboard the _Shark_ were directed over the starboard bow.
Out of the vivid glare appeared presently a small, chunky vessel,
yawl-rigged, though from the size of her mizzen she might have been
classed as a ketch. No bunting did she fling to the light, offshore
breeze; no pennant, burgee, ensign, nor even so much as a tell-tale
at her truck. Huntington, a yachtsman of some experience, doubted
that she had been designed and built for a yacht. Beating back and
forth across the bay, the yawl finally made her berth about halfway
between the _Shark_ and the eastern side of the harbour.
"What is her name?" asked Wood.
"Her name," Bell answered, "goes with the tea and macaroons. It is
_Daffodil_."
"Oh, fudge..."
"His name," said Cécile, "is Harold Applebo."
She had expected to hear a feeble cry for help, but was disappointed.
Wood sprang up from his lounging position.
"Harold Applebo..." he cried. "Why, he was a classmate of mine. I
might have known ... from your father's description."
Cécile opened wide her grey eyes. "Tell us about him," said she.
"Harold Applebo," Wood began, "is eccentric and a poet. At college,
however, he was not considered by any means a fool."
"Does he write good verse?" asked Cécile.
"One needs to get into the bath-tub to read it. Yet, although mushy,
he has a few admirers, and has published two books, doubtless at his
own expense. Selections from the first were read to me this summer
by a friend. When she had finished my head felt like a bottle full
of bees. There was one 'Ode to a Dew-drop in the Heart of a Pansy';
another was called 'Flowers at Play.'"
"Nuf', nuf' ... let me up..." murmured Bell.
"I managed to keep my strength," continued Wood, "until my friend,
who happened to be a young mother, recited from memory, 'Baby in the
Asphodel.' That finished me. I have never felt the same toward
babies since. That is unfortunate, considering my charity."
He levelled a glass toward the yawl. "Yes ... I see Harold ... and
there is a thing like a gollywog getting into the dink."
"The Finn," said Cécile. "Tell us some more about Applebo."
"At college he kept house with a parrot and a bull-pup, and was known
to have eccentric ideas. He did not believe in friendship, saying
that one's attitude should be the same toward all of one's fellows.
Although known to be tremendously powerful physically, nothing would
induce him to enter athletics. He said that the demonstration of
individual prowess was a vain exhibition of superiority, and
therefore not ethical. It was observed that his arguments were
beautifully adapted to his own tastes."
"Sounds rather an interestin' ass," said Bell. "Why not jump into
the dinghy and see if you can't get him for lunch? He might come for
you."
Wood glanced at Cécile, who nodded.
"Do," said she. "Tell him that he may let us do his thinking for
him, just the same."
"Very well," answered Wood, always obliging. Captain Bell raised his
fat, throaty voice.
"Away ... dinghy..." he called to the quartermaster on duty.