IX

The Crooked Billet stood facing the water, midway between High and

Chestnut Streets. Swift packets huddled before it; their masts towered

overhead, all stepped with a rake; all the cordage had the taut

trimness of government craft.

The tavern was built high from the ground to keep it out of the wash

of the tide, which sometimes overflowed the docks; it had a broad

comfortable look, and a promise of cheer within. The principal room was

set with oaken tables; the floor planks were scrubbed to a degree of

whiteness, and overhead the beams were brown with smoke. Outside, after

sundown, the air had an eager nip, for it was now well into the time of

year; and the open fire and whale-oil lamps of the tavern had a cherry

glow. Little groups were already gathered at the tables; waiters were

going backward and forward bearing hot, hearty dishes and tumblers of

steaming drink.

With the assurance of an old hand, Whitaker selected a table; and an

attentive waiter made them comfortable.

"First," said Whitaker, "let us have a trifle of French brandy to put

ourselves in humor." Anthony made no objection to this, and the waiter

departed to bring the drink. "Old Ned Stapleton, who once was a sort of

lord of all the inns in the city and had a master knowledge of cookery,

used to say that between meals there was formed a secretion that was a

most active poison, and needed to be cut away by ardent spirits before

more food was tasted. It is so possible a thing," nodded the dandy,

"and the prevention so pleasant a one, that I've always given heed to

it."

They drank the brandy, and then Whitaker gave his attention to the

ordering of the supper.

"A venison pasty," directed he, "and one of comfortable size and

that has stood long enough to make it desirable. Also we'll have

some parsnips, roasted potatoes, and greens. Fish?" and he looked at

Anthony. "Suppose it is a boiled rock, with eggs shredded upon it?"

Anthony nodded, and so rock it was. "And ale," said Whitaker, as the

waiter was departing once more; "a tankard each."

Shipmasters and mates, merchants and upper clerks, ate of the good

food, drank the excellent liquor of the Crooked Billet, and enjoyed the

warm fire and the lights.

"A settled, respectable gathering," said Anthony, with a smile, as his

eye went about. "And all out of much the same mold. In New Orleans,

now, one would see many breeds and kinds; and not only would honest

traffic be talked of, about the tables, but many kinds of devilment as

well."

Whitaker wagged a wise head.

"Don't be misled by appearance," said he. "In my travels I've learned

that roguery is roguery the world over; it has its place in every port,

and all manner of men are engaged in it. If your evil-doer has the air

of a church-going man, is he any the less a rascal?"

Anthony shook his head.

"I've found," said Whitaker, growing even more impressive, "that

people take on the manner of those about them--in a general way. Now,

for example, look at those two gentlemen warming their legs at the

fire, and so enjoying the flavor of their drink. A comfortable man of

business, and a middle-aged clerk who has possibly been with him for

years? No such thing. That old codger is one of the biggest rascals

that ever shaved a note, and the other has arranged more stinking

villainy than any dozen others in the port."

"It is possible," said Anthony, not at all amazed; "the greatest rogue

I ever encountered was at Batavia, and he looked like a comfortable man

of family."

"Not more than a good step from here," proceeded Whitaker, "there is a

section known to shipping men as the Algerian Coast--and rightly, too,

for those who have their trade there are pirates to a man."

"I have always fancied that business was conducted rather primly in

this city," said Anthony, "and that your authorities looked after

shipping malpractice with a keener eye than is done in warmer waters."

"No eye can catch these gentlemen," stated Whitaker; "for their doings

are underground; or, if not that, then bent in some cunning way to the

shape of the law. Their whole procedure is rich in rascality; many a

ship has gone down, and many a business house, also, to their gain."

The boiled rock arrived, smoking hot, upon a large dish and garnished

with egg as desired. Afterward the venison pasty, and a notable dish

it looked, was placed before them, with stewed whole parsnips and some

tender young cabbages.

"Ned Stapleton was fat," said Whitaker, as he set his ale tankard

down, "and if it were not for that I'd agree that his idea of life was

the pleasantest and most profitable for a gentleman. What can be more

agreeable than snacks of good cookery amid pleasant surroundings, and

with well-conditioned liquor to keep it company?"

"It has its virtues," admitted Anthony, filling his plate with the

savory contents of the pasty. "I'll never doubt that."

"But to be fat!" exclaimed Whitaker. "That is not a state of body for a

person of taste. God save the man that the smallest tailor can't reach

around with his tape. He is lost!"

They were engaged interestedly with the food when the door opened and

admitted Dr. King and Captain Weir.

"Well," said the physician, as he shook Anthony's hand. "I see that it

has not taken you a great while to hear of our advantages. Captain Weir

you know, I think."

Anthony once more shook hands with Weir; and as he looked into his face

he again noted the level, steady eyes, the fixed expression, and the

scar across the jaw. Whitaker had also arisen to greet the new-comers;

and a few moments later, while he was engaged in some talk with the

captain, Dr. King said in a low tone to Anthony:

"Weir is a man well worth cultivating; he has the strongest hand in all

your uncle's affairs. He is firm, sane, reserved, unemotional, never in

haste; and little escapes him."

"Different sorts of men," said Whitaker, after the two had left them

and taken a table at the other end of the room. "Totally different,

but, I should say, equally dependable. Fine quality, both of them.

But Weir is none of your easy-mannered ones, like the doctor; courtly

conduct isn't taught on the decks of Yankee ships."

"They are close friends, though, I suppose?" said Anthony.

"No," replied Whitaker; "no. I think they admire each other in a

practical way; but they are not at all intimate. Their being together

to-night is, I think, because of you. Dr. King, I think, desires a

place made for you in the counting-house."

"I see," said Anthony.

Active inroads had been made in the pasty; the tankards had run low

and been refilled when Anthony, chancing to look up, saw Mademoiselle

Lafargue and her father moving among the tables toward him. At once he

pushed back his chair and arose. His eyes met hers, but she averted her

face and passed him by without a word or sign. A waiter opened a door

for them, which apparently led into a smaller room; and then it closed,

leaving Anthony standing, stunned.

"That was unkind!" exclaimed Whitaker. "Most devilishly unkind. She

hasn't the excuse that she didn't see you; she looked full at you."

Anthony sat down, a frown upon his face.

"I hadn't expected that," said he. "But, then," with a laugh, "under

the circumstances, what reason had I to expect anything."

Whitaker discoursed philosophically upon the ways of women--upon the

vagaries of young ones in particular. Anthony endured it silently;

then, so it happened, the door through which the girl and her father

had passed was opened once more, this time widely. Anthony saw a group

of people--men and women; there was a table loaded with food and drink,

and Mademoiselle Lafargue was talking earnestly with a handsome young

man whose dress showed him to be a person of fashion.

"Well, dash me!" exclaimed Whitaker. "There's Bob Tarrant!"

The girl's attitude seemed one of pleading; she was asking something

of Tarrant, and he seemed reassuring her with courtly grace. And, as

Anthony watched, the man turned to another, him who stood holding the

door open, and nodded. The man at the door laughed; Anthony shot him a

look, and recognized the big young man who had thrown the saddle-bags

from the deck of the New York packet. Then the door slammed shut, and

the young man, a quizzical look upon his face, strode through the

public room.

He stopped at the table at which sat Anthony with Whitaker.

"Good evening," said he to Anthony, his even teeth gleaming

good-naturedly. "Well met, sir. I'd thought to see you again, but I did

not expect it to be under conditions like these."

Anthony looked at him quietly, while Whitaker was plainly astonished;

all who sat in hearing distance were slued about in their chairs, their

food neglected while they listened.

"Well?" said Anthony.

"Time alters things sadly," said the big young man, "and apparently it

requires no great space to do it, either. Only the other day I would

have said you were creditably placed in a certain young lady's favor;

and I'd had good reason, for you took up that little matter of my

making with promptness, and stood to it nobly." He dragged a chair to

the table and sat down. "But to-day," he said, "I see you displaced.

She has turned her back upon you; and not only that, but she has taken

into her confidence one who sends me with a rather grave message."

"To what effect?" scowled Anthony.

"Mr. Tarrant is of the opinion, since you saw fit to lift your hand to

him the other night, that some redress is due him. He has desired me to

speak to you, or to any friend whom you might name, and learn if you

are of a mind to give him satisfaction."

The words were fairly low; but there was a sudden stir and whispering

in the room. Whitaker, astonished, looked at Anthony.

"Is it possible," said he, "that it was you who struck Tarrant?"

"It was," replied Anthony. "And now, as a personal friend of Tarrant's,

it would perhaps be best if you withdrew; I have no desire to involve

you."

But Whitaker spoke promptly.

"I have always been upon good terms with Tarrant," said he; "but still

it does not follow that I should abandon another friend because of

that."

"Well spoken," applauded the big young man. "Crisp, and to the point.

Here is a gentleman of much the same kidney as yourself," to Anthony.

"Impulsive; ready to take up a cause at a moment's notice." He laughed

and seemed immensely entertained. "Never an inquiry; never a thought

that the matter might be otherwise than stated."

"Suppose," said Anthony quietly, "we indulge in as few observations as

possible."

"Excellent!" approved the other good-humoredly. "Just what I should

have expected of you." He composed himself to a smiling gravity and

resumed. "Well, then, as Tarrant has received a blow from you, I, as a

friend, have come to ask that you refer me to some one with whom I can

make arrangements for a meeting."

"You are carrying out a code I am not too familiar with," said Anthony.

"But I think your coming on this business into a public place and

bawling it out so that every one must hear is contrary to the accepted

practice."

The other glowed with appreciation and made a wide gesture.

"If I had known--" he began; but Anthony interrupted him.

"You know now, at any rate," said he.

"Having offended, I shall carry out the remainder of the affair with

all possible decorum," mocked the big young man.

"You may carry it out in any way you choose," said Anthony, "for, as

far as I am concerned, your part will consist only in taking back word

to Mr. Tarrant that I decline a meeting of any sort."

Whitaker was a little pale; but he sat still. Again there was a stir

among the surrounding tables, followed by a deep silence.

"Then," said Tarrant's representative, "you refuse?"

"I do," said Anthony.

"Do you give any reasons?"

"None."

The big young man arose.

"You are aware," said he, "that you will be posted?"

[Illustration: "'YOU ARE AWARE,' SAID HE, 'THAT YOU WILL BE POSTED?'"]

"In any action that is taken against me," said Anthony, "I shall know

how to defend myself."

"In all likelihood, the first time Tarrant meets you in a public place

he'll brand you a coward."

Anthony looked up at the speaker, and replied quietly:

"If he does, I'll beat him like a dog."

The other stood for a moment, as though waiting for something more;

but, as Anthony was silent, he turned, and in a moment the door which

had admitted him to the public room closed behind him. Whitaker spoke

in a low voice.

"Of course I do not know what is usual in New Orleans. But it must be

the same as anywhere else. Tarrant is held a man of consequence here,

and to refuse him satisfaction would be a grave thing socially. Is your

mind completely made up?"

"Dueling," spoke Anthony, "is a code that has no place in the modern

world; it is murderous and preposterous."

Whitaker shook his head.

"There is a law against it, but the man who refuses a challenge is

marked."

Anthony looked more grim than ever.

"I am never troubled," said he, "by the way people regard me. And fear

of society's disapproval is only entertained by those who value its

countenance. There is no force that I know of that can make me place my

life in jeopardy at the hands of a practised man-killer; neither can it

compel me to go out in cold blood and kill him."

Whitaker wriggled in his seat.

"I'm afraid your uncle--" he began.

"I have not seen my uncle in fifteen years," said Anthony, coldly; "and

his opinions in the matter can have no weight with me." Then he leaned

across the table, seeing the grave look in the face of Whitaker, and

said kindly: "I think my attitude troubles you. Please do not allow any

duty which you think due me as a chance acquaintance to entangle you in

a disagreeable situation."

Whitaker swallowed hard, but he was firm.

"You see," said he, and his voice was so pitched as to be unheard by

the curious ones about him, "my group is the gayer one,--Tarrant and

his kind,--and it holds to certain things as necessary in a position of

honor! But, damn it all, Stevens! I'll overboard with the whole lot of

it; for, after all, what you say is nearer the truth; only most of us

have never had the courage to admit it."

A door was heard to close sharply. Tarrant was in the public room, his

eyes going about, his face flushed with passion. At sight of him a

murmur arose; then it grew until it was a sort of subdued roar, shot

through with startled cries; for the duelist had sighted his man and

was advancing swiftly toward him between the rows of tables. Whitaker

said to Anthony:

"You had better get up. He means to strike you!"

Anthony made no reply; he sat still and glowered at his plate. A close

observer would have noted, though, that his swift, powerful body was

adjusted for a sudden leap and a tigerish lashing out. Tarrant reached

his side.

"Mr. Stevens," said the man, fury shaking his voice, "I have received

your message."

Anthony turned his head and waited.

"Let me say to you," proceeded Tarrant, "that while your attitude may

serve in a mongrel community like New Orleans, it will not be tolerated

here." Anthony was silent, but Whitaker saw his rigid jaw, and noted

his back hunch as the great muscles grew tight. "For the last time,"

said Tarrant, "will you--"

"One moment, please," said a hard, quiet voice.

The duelist turned, and saw the mask-like face of Weir, and a pair of

eyes that were as cold as ice.

"I would advise, Mr. Tarrant," said Weir, "that you carry this matter

no further. When the facts are known, it will be generally seen that

you cannot require any action from this gentleman except that which he

is giving you."

The eyes of Tarrant seemed to dart flame.

"What! What!" breathed Whitaker in Anthony's ear. "He'll not dare face

Weir! He'll not dare!"

But before it was made clear what was in Tarrant's mind he was

surrounded by a sudden surge of people. There was a hubbub of voices;

doors slammed, other people hurried forward; there were oaths and

bitter vows, and the pleading of the tavern's people for order. Then

Tarrant was led away. Weir bowed to Anthony in return for some word of

thanks, and turned back to Dr. King. Whitaker, a little later, with

a most leisurely air, settled the bill; then he and Anthony got up,

passed through the staring groups about the tables, and left the place.

As the dandy was parting from Anthony at the door of the Half Moon he

said:

"Well, I think Weir has ended the matter as far as you are concerned;

for, once he's pronounced a judgment on a thing of this kind, no one

will think of taking it otherwise. He's an authority. And it will be

easier for you, too. As it stood, though I think you were right, you'd

have had an extraordinary position to maintain."

"I am much in Mr. Weir's debt," said Anthony.

Whitaker nodded.

"When I heard his voice," he said, "I knew that was the end of it. No

matter what Tarrant's state of mind, he'd never try to face down Weir."

"Why?" asked Anthony.

"Well, any man who knows Weir properly--and Tarrant does, for he

once sailed under him--would not care to measure skill with him in

a struggle. Tarrant is a swift, courageous blade, and like a whip

for giving offense or taking it. But Weir is of another kind. He has

something in him," and Whitaker shook his head, "that most rufflers, no

matter how desperate, fear."

* * * * *

Not a great while after Anthony and Whitaker had left the Crooked

Billet, Monsieur Lafargue and his daughter, in the private supper-room,

off at one side, also stood up to go. Tarrant, now recovered from his

rage, was beside them; and the big young man smiled good-humoredly in

the background.

"I am greatly in your debt, sir," said Monsieur Lafargue, to Tarrant.

"You have shown yourself a friend, at a time when a friend was greatly

needed."

"Sir," said Tarrant smoothly, "I am glad to have been of service to

you, and to mademoiselle. For no gentleman could have witnessed what

I have witnessed in your affairs and not come forward. I saw you

about to fall in the hands of Anthony Stevens, the most subtle of

double-dealers, and of course," with a gesture, "I had to do what I

could to prevent it."

"But, sir," and it was the girl who spoke, "are you quite sure of all

you say?"

"Mademoiselle," said Tarrant, "what I have stated is a very grave

thing; and so, before saying it, I considered it very carefully. As

your father will tell you, the house of Rufus Stevens' Sons has long

been engaged in commercial practice which cannot be sanctioned by

honest men; things have been done with insurance, and with merchant

moneys adventured in their care, which no one of shrewdness can

overlook. Is not your father's money in some of the dealings of this

house? Has he not persuaded his friends at Brest to venture theirs?"

"That last," said the old Frenchman, "is the worst of it." He shook his

head, and his hand gestured helplessly. "If loss comes, I will never

forgive myself."

"There was another who had risked his money, one who knew how your

father was situated with the firm, one who wrote him a letter," said

Tarrant, still addressing the girl. "I refer to Magruder. He saw how

matters were going with the house and feared the result. Magruder

somehow knew--he was a cunning, ratty kind of a man, who knew many

things he was not credited with--that your father had moneys involved,

and so wrote him a letter of warning. Is it not so? It was this letter

that brought you and your father to this country? Am I right? But for

all his writing Magruder was afraid; he'd not meet your father openly;

he dreaded some unseen danger."

"And it seems he was right in that," spoke the big young man, his smile

growing broader. "Events, I think, have proved he had reason for his

dread."

"Before you could arrange to speak with him," said Tarrant to the old

man, "he was done to death." And as Lafargue shuddered, and the girl

turned away, Tarrant went on: "Who was interested in having this man

die at this particular time? Could you say? Who stood in fear of what

Magruder might tell? Whose rascally dealings were about to be exposed?

The people most interested in the house of Stevens, as you know very

well!"

"I thank you," said Monsieur Lafargue tremblingly. "You have gone to a

deal of trouble, sir, for our sakes, and have probably saved me from a

great mistake."

"Avoid all conferences with the Stevens firm, or any one bearing the

Stevens name," said Tarrant, shaking his hand. "To deal with them in

any way will bring you and your daughter, both, misfortune."

"But how is my business here to be carried forward?" asked the old man.

"Take heed! If you went to them now, you could merely state what you

suspect," said Tarrant. "You would be placing yourself in their hands,

for you have no proof of anything. My advice to you is to wait." He

nodded to the old man understandingly. "Of course, an indefinite stay

here will be expensive, and your means are limited; I know that. But I

have suggested a way of surmounting the difficulty. Money can be had

readily; old Bulfinch is your man; you have only to ask him for it."

"You are kind," said Monsieur Lafargue. "I should feel helpless and

alone, indeed, without you."

Tarrant went with them to their carriage; and when he had handed them

in, and their driver sat with the reins in his hands, he said:

"Remember what I have told you--both to-day and to-night. I

repeat it all now. Keep to yourselves. Do not trust the firm of

Stevens--especially do not trust young Anthony of that name; he is, as

I have shown you, the most ruthless of them all. Have no confidences

with any one; be silent, and you will win through."

Then Tarrant went back to the supper-room; the big young man was seated

at the table; and across from him was a white-haired old man, with the

rosy, gentle face of a saint.

"Good!" said Tarrant, at sight of the old man. "I had hoped you'd not

keep us waiting, old moneybags!"

The new-comer laughed; it was a laugh that had a soothing, oily

quality; one white hand stroked his well-shaven chin.

"I strive to be prompt," said he. "It's a virtue that has a deal of

value in a business way. And being early to-night repaid me in an

unexpected way; for while I waited in the public room I witnessed your

encounter with Captain Weir."

Tarrant sat down; with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands,

he cursed in cold anger.

"Some day," he said, "I'll drive a bullet through that man's skull, so

help me God!"

But the saintly old man held up a protesting hand.

"No, no!" said he. "Oh, no! We are friends. We are all friends

together. We have business relations with Captain Weir. No violence; no

discord. It would be to the disadvantage of us all."

"My thought!" said the big young man. "My thought, exactly, Mr.

Bulfinch. Let us put all private matters to one side; for the present,

at least, let us work for the common good."

Tarrant regarded them both with cold eyes.

"Is it for the common good that Weir affronts me at almost every turn?"

said he. "Am I possessed of more patience than the run of men, that I'm

continually asked to bear his impertinence?"

"Do not forget," said the old man in his soothing voice, "that the plan

we are working under is, in a general way, one laid down by him. And he

disapproves of the way you have selected in dealing with young Anthony

Stevens; he fears it is not a good way."

Tarrant sneered; but it was the big young man who spoke.

"I have no good reason to hold my hand where this same Anthony Stevens

is concerned," said he. "But, on the whole, I agree with Weir. Keen

young blades like this are not apt to be budged by hostile talk, or the

threat of blows. It only makes them all the more resolved."

"It is the captain's desire," said old Bulfinch, "to manage the matter

carefully; he plans to be friends with this young man, to encourage

him, to support him. And, then, one day will come an occasion when what

is necessary can be done with safety. And it _will_ be done."

"I have no stomach for craft when a smart blow or two will serve as

well," said Tarrant bitterly.

But the big young man wagged his head in disagreement.

"I once thought that, myself," he said, "and risked my bones every day

for a little gain. But Weir's way gives fine profits and no risks;

we squeeze our toll out of shipmen and need never even take to sea.

Instead of facing a roused captain, with a ship's company behind

him, on his own deck, we now, thanks to Weir's brains, make a little

arrangement with that same captain before he goes on board; and the

ship and cargo are ours at whatever place we say, and without striking

a blow."

Old Amos Bulfinch smiled; his rosy, saint-like face glowed with

mildness.

"Could anything be better put?" he asked of Tarrant. "Would it be

possible to state a perfect case in more comprehensive words? Sir," to

the big young man, "I thank you."

"But even in the thing you give Weir so much credit for," said Tarrant,

"all is not done that could be done. Why are our operations held to a

single house? Why should we be forced to be content with Rufus Stevens'

Sons alone? There is Girard; there is Crousillat; there is a half-dozen

more. Good profit is to be had by extending our operations to all of

these--"

But the smooth tones of Amos Bulfinch checked him.

"Rich they are, those merchants," agreed old Amos, "and their ships

are many. But each man of them is as keen as a knife-blade; each has

a thousand eyes! Where a thing can be done in the shadow of Rufus

Stevens' Sons with ease and comfort, it could only be undertaken, in

the case of these others, with much danger; at almost any moment we

could expect to be laid by the heels."

"Weir is a dog-fox; I'd follow his plan without question where I'd

not even listen to another," said the big young man. "Leave the other

houses alone. This one is rich enough, for the time, at least."

Tarrant regarded the younger man, and then the elder one, with a curl

at his lip.

"You both have a deal of respect for Weir's opinions in some things,"

he said. "And yet, strangely enough, you have very little in others.

There is no thing which he has spoken more sharply against than the

proposed dealing with the French agent, now on his way here, in the

matter of letters of marque. And yet _you_ strongly favor the project."

"The matter of the letters of marque is to be a venture of our own,"

said the big young man. "That is, if the captain is disinclined to join

us."

Old Bulfinch nodded.

"Quite right," he said. "It is to be an affair of our own. But we shall

be prudent, for all that. We shall be exceedingly careful that every

legal aspect be observed."

Tarrant laughed.

"A saying like that has an odd sound," said he, "when I remember that

Blake here," and he pointed to the big young man, "was brought north

to take active charge of the matter--Blake, who for years has given as

much thought to the legality of any action as he would to a snap of his

fingers."

The big young man smiled; but it was old Amos who spoke.

"Blake," said the old man, "is to take charge when all is said and

done; the legal status of French privateers, recruited and armed in our

ports, will have been passed upon when he sends out the first of them."

"And when they are passed upon and take to sea," smiled the big young

man, "then will come the time to forget legal forms; rich merchantmen

will be our only need, and the seas between here and Rio are crowded

with those."

"Well," said Tarrant, "God knows I don't want to put myself in a

position to block any such flow of circumstance. If there are prizes to

be had, let us have them. If we get Weir's help in the matter, well and

good. If we do not, we can, as you suggest, go on without it."

"This Frenchman, Lafargue, was an excellent thought," said old

Bulfinch. "Oh, excellent! He can do much for us if properly managed."

"I have found a way for that," said Tarrant. "He is without money; I

have recommended that he go to you."

"I am always ready to accommodate gentlemen, upon good security," said

the old money-lender smoothly. "A good name or two on the back of a

bill will go far with me."

"His bill will have no name upon it," said Tarrant. "And he has no

security."

Old Bulfinch looked at the speaker, astonished.

"What?" said he. "What? Oh, surely, now!"

"In the matter of Lafargue," said Tarrant, "names and securities must

be forgotten. You must only remember that Lafargue is a man to receive

special treatment."

"Very careful, special treatment," agreed the big young man, nodding.

"He must be beholden to us, he must be tied to us, tightly, in some

way; and, of all ways, to have him owe you money is the readiest and

best."

"In the matter of money," said old Bulfinch, wincing, "it is wise to

use care. Money is not easily come by; and it should not be too easily

parted with."

"Any money spent in the matter of Lafargue will be well spent," said

Tarrant. "We must have his friendship; for through him we hope to gain

the countenance of this other Frenchman, Genêt."

"And keep well to mind who and what Genêt is; he is the French

minister, now on his way here for the sole purpose of arming American

ships to sail under the French flag. He was Lafargue's friend in

France," said the big young man, "and we must see to it that he is our

friend here."

Tumblers of hot drink were brought them, and, with the plates and cups

pushed to one side of the table, they talked and drank and planned.

The coming of Lafargue to the city, so it seemed, had startled them,

at first. Untold harm might have been done by it, had not Charles

Stevens happened to be away. But now, on the whole, they were pleased

with the old Frenchman's arrival. Monsieur Lafargue had no legal proof

of any slack dealing, and so he could not appeal to the law; they had

so filled his mind with apprehension that he'd not dare enter the

counting-room of Rufus Stevens' Sons and frankly tell what he thought

of the various transactions that troubled him. Altogether it was

agreed, they were safe from him. And his tightened circumstances now

delivered him into their hands; being a friend to the French agent,

he'd have much influence. Legalized piracy! By God, it was like a dream

of paradise! You sailed the seas with a good ship under you; you took

what you liked, and the law supported you! Oh, yes, on the whole they

were now pleased with the old Frenchman's coming. They had hoped in the

regular course of things to get commissions for a vessel or two from

Genêt; but now, look you, a fleet was not impossible. Give them the

harrying of the seas for three months' time, and you, or any one else,

could do what you pleased. They would be satisfied.

"But," said old Amos Bulfinch, as he was about to go, "I have seen

Lafargue's daughter. She is not one to be easily misled. By some chance

she might distrust this matter of ours, and might warn her father away."

"Never fear for that," said Tarrant, as he rang the bell for more

drink. "That event has been provided for, and by no less a person than

Weir himself. He has suggested a little ruse, to safeguard those things

in which he is interested; but it so chances that it safeguards our

venture as well. You need fear nothing from the girl; she will have her

mind filled with other matters, I promise you that."

"Keep your ears open in the next few days," smiled the big young man.

"Common gossip will tell you much."

Old Amos wore the look of a peaceful saint, so calm was he of face, so

rosy of color, so white of hair, as he bade them good night; and then

he went out, leaving them together at the table awaiting the liquor

they had ordered.

X

The next morning as Anthony ate his breakfast at the inn he noticed

many glances cast in his direction; waiters spoke to each other behind

their hands, while they watched him out of the tails of their eyes. He

smiled, even while he frowned.

He had finished, and was seated, with a journal, at a window in the

public room, when he noted a slight man of middle age come in, look

about, and ask a question of a porter.

"Mr. Stevens," said the man, in a hushed sort of voice, as he came

forward. "I am from the counting-house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and have

been sent to say that Mr. Charles Stevens is now in the city."

Anthony felt a thrill of satisfaction.

"Thank you," he said. And then, "Did Mr. Stevens direct you to bring me

word?"

"No," said the man. "Not Mr. Stevens--Captain Weir."

"I see," said Anthony.

There was something fragile about the man; his skin had a transparent

quality, his hands were thin and nervous, his whole aspect was worn.

As Anthony looked at him, he became aware of something that impressed

itself upon him as a glow--a pallid, luminous something--white, like

moonlight.

"I will step down to the counting-house during the course of the day,"

said the young man. "I trust Mr. Stevens is well?"

"Quite well," said the man.

This luminous quality which Anthony felt the man threw off also lit up

his eyes. They were deep-set eyes, light in color and full of pain; in

them a pale hope seemed constantly lifting itself through shadows, only

to sink again.

"Is there anything more?" asked Anthony, as the other lingered.

The man shook his head, but did not move.

"I am Tom Horn," said he. "As a boy, I worked as clerk for your

grandfather. And now I am clerk again."

There was an oddity in this simple statement that supplied a missing

portion of Anthony's conception of the man. Surely he was not quite

firm in his mind.

"In your grandfather's time," said Tom Horn, "the circles flowed freely

about the world. They were wide and wonderful, and the sun and the wind

and the stars were in them." He bent closer to Anthony: "Do you know

what makes the wind to blow?" he asked.

"No," said Anthony.

"No more does any one else," said Tom Horn. "No one in all the world

knows what makes the wind to blow. And no one knows why water flows in

circles, and rings in every ship, every island, and every man. Once,"

he said, "I saw a circle around the moon. The world moves in a circle.

I do, too. I began as a clerk; and I am a clerk once more."

"You held a better position once, then," said Anthony.

"I was supercargo in the _William and Mary_," said Tom Horn. "Three

voyages in all. She was a stout ship, and well officered. But what can

wooden planks and good intentions do when once the circle begins to

narrow? Nothing. It is like one man setting his strength to prevent the

world turning over. All circles move. There is no power under God's

that can stop them."

With that he turned and went out; but in a few moments Anthony saw him

peering in at one of the windows, and in his eyes were at once the

hope and fear that, perhaps, marked his madness.

It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when Anthony arrived at

Rufus Stevens' Sons and was received by the affable clerk.

"Yes, Mr. Stevens is in, sir," said this personage. "I will speak to

him."

He hastened through a doorway, and in a moment hastened out again.

"You are to go right in, sir," said he.

Anthony entered. The room that Charles Stevens had fitted up for

himself was low-ceilinged like the others; its width and breadth

were great; the floor was laid with rugs of marvelous colors and

texture, and the walls were hung with rich draperies, pictures, and

strange-looking arms. The furniture was all of far-off lands; there

were things of ebony, and ivory, of silk and gold, and the breath of

the place was vital with rich essences.

Charles sat upon a divan and nursed his lame foot; he was a

young-looking man; his color was fresh, and his hair as dark and

thick and vital as it had been at twenty-five. He was talking with a

settled-looking person who sat at a table with a quill and an ink-pot,

scrawling figures upon a sheet of paper.

"I would not lay out another groat," Charles was saying, "upon a ship

of the build and stowage-room such as we now have. They are cramped,

they are slow, they are tricky. What we want is vessels that will carry

both cargo and canvas, and will stand up under a wind that blows above

the ordinary."

The settled man looked up from his figures.

"What results I have reached--what results every ship-builder has

reached--are reared upon tried and tested things. Little by little we

learn how to improve a hull so that it gives less and less resistance

to the water; and carrying-room, Mr. Stevens, is largely dependent upon

the shape of this hull. A ship is a ship; it is not a hogshead with

masts in it."

Charles Stevens's laugh was singularly young. He got up and limped up

and down the floor, both hands waving.

"Siddons," said he, "I have the same struggle with you every time I

ask anything that is not customary. It's in the records of the house

that my father went through the same thing with your father. But keep

this in your mind: it is the necessities of trade that improve ships;

if their advance had been left to the builders, we'd still be hugging

the coasts in galleys and afraid to venture out of sight of land. The

Yankee ships are making ours look like Venetian caracks; they have

moved ahead of us, Siddons; they are winging it into Calcutta carrying

almost twice our merchandise, and doing it in less time."

The settled man consulted his figures.

"You talk of vessels of seven hundred tons burthen," he said,

plaintively. "Who ever heard of such things?"

"In New England," said Charles, "they not only have heard of them

but have built them." He held up two fingers of his left hand and

pointed to them with the forefinger of his right. "Build me two ships,

Siddons,--twins,--of live-oak, clear of all defects, bolted well, with

all clamps and spirketings and braces of the best metal, and give me

room in their bellies to stow cargoes that'll open the eyes of all

Massachusetts."

"But seven hundred tons!" complained Siddons. "Is there water enough in

the ocean to keep such a monster afloat?"

"Who said anything of seven hundred tons?" demanded Charles. "It was

the Salem ship that measured that. The pair you are to build for me are

to be of a thousand tons."

Siddons gasped and curled up in his chair.

"A thousand tons! The seas would break their backs in the first blow."

"Ship-builders have been saying that with each additional inch since

the beginning. So don't worry me with it; I want the vessels, and they

are to be built on this river. The Siddons yard has always laid down

the keels for Rufus Stevens' Sons; so get your computers to work; see

that the timbers are properly seasoned, and the ironmongery gotten

under way."

"There must be new ways erected; there must be new docks," complained

the ship-builder. "The outlay will be frightful."

"But think of the income, Siddons," said Charles. "Think of passing the

Delaware Capes, inbound from Calcutta, in seventy days." And as Siddons

paused in the act of gathering up his sheets of paper, and gazed at

him, his jaw hanging slack, Charles laughed and said, "How old is your

son, Siddons?"

"Twenty, passed."

"Get him into the yards as quickly as you can. You need a fresh eye.

Before he has reached your limitations, a two months' trip from the

same port will be thought a long one." As the ship-builder moved toward

the door, Charles added, "When can you give me the figures?"

"In a week," replied the man.

"Excellent! In a week I shall expect them."

A number of times in his limping up and down the floor, Charles had

passed within a few feet of Anthony, but he had not paid the slightest

attention to him; now, as he closed the door upon Siddons, he turned

with a boyish smile and looked at him.

"Anthony!" said he. "Robert's Anthony!" And, as he looked, the smile

changed in character; the pleased look in his eyes became one of

wonder. "You should have been called Rufus, for your grandfather," he

said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," said Anthony.

"At that age your grandfather was master of a ship voyaging half across

the world," said Charles, "God was in the same mood when he fashioned

you two." He looked for another space, and then added, "Yes, they

should have called you after him."

Emerging from the surprise, he shook Anthony's hand with great warmth.

"I'm greatly pleased," said he, his face a shining proof of it; "I'm

amazingly pleased. I had no thought that such a pleasure as this

awaited me. So your father and mother are both dead." He nodded at his

nephew wistfully. "Both dead and gone. And you left alone, and I never

so much as sending you a line of writing."

"These things escape one," said Anthony; "especially when they happen

so far away."

"A brother is a brother, no matter what the distance; and you were of

my own blood. There was never a time when I did not hold your mother as

the most beautiful and best of women; there was no reason why all these

years should have gone by, and I holding my tongue; no reason at all."

They sat down.

"Have you been in the city long?" asked Charles.

"Less than a week. I inquired here for you, but learned you were away."

"And you've had a devil of a dull time, I know, going about in strange

places."

"Why, fortunately, no. I dropped in on Christopher Dent--"

"What--old Kit!" Charles laughed, and curled himself up in a corner of

the divan, nursing his lame foot. "Good soul! I'm glad you thought of

him."

"And while I was there who should come in but Dr. King, and he, when he

found who I was, instantly invited me to supper."

"Excellent!" approved Charles. "It couldn't have been better."

They talked for some time of Dr. King and of the city and its changes;

then there came a tap upon the door, and the affable clerk put in his

head.

"Mr. Clark, of the _Starry Cross_, sir, when you are at leisure."

"I'll speak to him in a few moments." Then, as the clerk withdrew,

Charles said to Anthony. "The skipper of one of my tea ships. He

reached port while I was away."

"I'm afraid I've come in on you at a time when your attention is much

engaged." Anthony got up. "Perhaps to-morrow or next day you'll not be

so pressed."

"Sup with me to-night," said Charles, putting his arm about Anthony's

shoulders. "I want you to make the acquaintance of Captain Weir."

"I've met the captain already," said the young man.

"You've not wasted your time, at any rate," smiled his uncle. "But sup

with me, anyhow; there's thousands of questions I want to ask, and to

answer."

"Thank you," said Anthony. "I shall be glad to."

He shook hands with Charles once more and then left the counting-house.

At the Half Moon, he encountered the round-faced coachman, seated upon

his bench in the passage.

"Good even, sir," said the man. "I suppose they are well settled by

this." And then, as Anthony looked at him questioningly, he added. "I

mean Mr. Lafargue and his daughter--in their new place."

"New place!" said Anthony. "Have they gone?"

"Why, yes; this morning," said the coachman. "And all their luggage

with them. But I couldn't say where. Seeing as they're friends of

yours, I thought you knew."

"No," said Anthony, "I didn't."

And then he went, in a heavy-footed way, up the stairs to his room.