XVI

Anthony found a fine flavor in the old books of Rufus Stevens' Sons, a

rich color, and an admirable reticence. Everything was set down with

clerkly care, but for all that there was no humdrum routine, no dull

insistence on profit and loss, no sordid grasping or squeezing of

little things. The columns of figures, as Anthony studied them, did

not mean so much the dollars paid out or taken in; they did not seem

to deal with hard money, or price, with bargain or sale; when a line

was struck under one of them, the result had none of the smell of the

counting-room; rather it told of singular adventuring, of hazards, of

stratagems in the midst of danger, of bleak days and plunging nights at

sea.

He saw wide stretches of water: he saw a red sun and strange stars,

and high-hulled ships with odd rigs and worked by dark-skinned men. He

saw ports which grew masts as a forest grows trees; he saw boundless

riches, precious stuffs, and ant-like populations; and he felt the

spiritual depression that emanates from vast huddles of submissive

people.

The names of the houses dealt with gave a tropic savor to many an

entry; through a list of merchandise Anthony could fancy a caravan

plodding; the glare of the sands made his eyes ache; he felt the hot

wind on his face.

Batavia! Calcutta! Canton! Silent bells seemed to ring the names in his

mind.

Batavia! Dutch Javanese, a place of stinks, of green canals, of hordes

of slaves, of stolid Chinamen, a place of pepper, of rattan, of

sandalwood; of indigo, arrack and cloves. And its coffee! Its strong,

brown, whip-like coffee that made the nerves jump, and started a fever

in the blood. And Calcutta! held in one of the holy hands of the

Ganges, standing away, many a laborious mile from the sea which made

it; Calcutta, bright, opulent, hot, city of the Parsee merchant, of the

Hindu, the Greek, the Armenian; place of silks, of wonderful shawls,

of rice, ginger, and hides; of oils, ointments, and opium; city of

crowding ships, of tangled flags, of many tongues; gateway of riches;

sluice carrying off the toil of a patient people; filter through which

went all that was good, and which gave back dregs alone.

Then Canton! with its staggering, shell-walled junks, its narrow

streets, its sharp smells, its teeming, sweating, cheapened population,

its grotesque vice. Grass cloth, damask, nankeen. Table ware! oh,

excellent stuff! smooth, durable, shapely, with all the craft of

attentive minds in its fabrication. And tea! The fortunes and the

fragrance that were boxed up in those little chests! The swift

ships that were sent for them: wide-winged ships that took them in,

expectantly, departed hastily, and arrived breathlessly. And then such

a gathering of merchants, such an uplifting of voices, such a scurrying

and planning, such a laying out of money, such profiting and such

satisfaction! Boxes of magic! Little chests of sorcery! marked with

incantations and odorous of flowers.

A little wicket in Anthony's mind would be thrown open at some such

place as this, and the sentinel, posted there by old Rufus, would put

out his head.

"You are a true nephew to Charles," the sentinel would say. "You have a

deal of the strain of blood that makes play of what should be serious

man's work. You refused romances when Charles offered them. You said

you'd rather read the books of the house. Very well, but how are you

reading them? Are they any more than tale books, taken in the spirit

in which you sit down to them? It was your hope, was it not, to come

upon some cunning contrivance, or artful bit of knavery? But it will

take an open mind for that, and a seeing eye; and neither of those are

had by one who reads into a book things that are not there."

"I was wrong," said Anthony. "I admit it. I was wrong."

"The winter is an excellent time for a search like this," spoke the

sentinel; "and the winter is passing. In the spring other things will

take your attention. So work diligently now; give your mind to it, and

put aside all else. The things you have been thinking are those a man

finds who reads by moonlight."

And then the wicket would close with an exasperated little snap; and

Anthony would set himself squarely to his task, hunting, tracing, and

examining. There was now no line of writing in any of the books that

was so honest but it had to prove itself; there were no figures so

obvious but they came under suspicion. As fast as he finished with the

books he had, he brought more to his lodgings, and there was not a

night but one of them was open on the table; his light burned steadily

into the small hours while he read and made notes of those things which

drew his attention.

"A coffee-house or a playhouse would be far better entertainment for

him," said Charles, in speaking of the matter to Captain Weir. "But

when a young man is as set in disposition as Anthony, one may as well

give him his way."

Weir stood at a window with his back turned, and Charles did not see

the ugly twist at his mouth or the narrowing of his cold eyes. But what

he said was:

"I would venture he's nearer right than wrong. A solid knowledge may be

had by doing what he's elected to do."

Whitaker smiled; also he shrugged in the new French way when Griggs

spoke of Anthony's labors. "Of course, every man to his own way of

doing things," said he. "But my own method is to look forward, not

backward; and I've found it does very well."

One night Anthony was drawing on his boots before the counting-room

fire; Tom Horn was busy at his tall desk with his ledgers, a candle

burning on either side of him. He suddenly paused in his labor and

looked at Anthony.

"I have noticed in bits of your writing," said he, "that your pen is

not a skilled one."

"No," confessed Anthony, readily. "I write very badly."

"Your capitals do not tower enough," said Tom Horn; "your round letters

are too full in the belly, and your loops are squat." He peered at

Anthony over the great ledger, the candle on either side toning out

the transparent quality of his skin but adding to the worn expression;

the shadows made the deep-set eyes seem deeper, the hope in them more

despairing. "To give smoothness to your hand," said he, "you should

study some one who took pride in such things." He nodded, his gaze

holding to the young man's face. "Back before my day with the firm's

books, there was a man of the name of Lucas who wrote a very useful

hand. And Carberry, who came after him, also had a well-ordered pen.

You would do well to give attention to both; but, of the two, Lucas

would give you most for your effort."

"I have not yet come to Lucas's period in the books," said Anthony;

"nor yet Carberry's. But when I do I'll remember what you say."

The winter drew on, a series of bitter nights and gray, wind-driven

days; the report came that the bay was a mass of great floes, and that

sledges heavily burdened were venturing a mile or more from shore on

either side. The roads were filled with hard-packed snow; wheeled

vehicles had not been seen for weeks.

Then one evening there walked into the counting-room of Rufus Stevens'

Sons one Corkery, mate of the firm's ship _General Stark_, and, in a

brief seaman-like way, told how the vessel was ice-bound at New Castle

and from all appearances would remain so until the coming of spring.

This news caused Anthony to walk the floor; for the _Stark_ was laden

with hides, drugs, and sugar, and the market for these things was

brisk. The ship should never have ventured into the bay. It seemed that

Captain Small had managed her indifferently.

"Captain Small is ill of a lung fever," said Corkery. "He hasn't set

foot on deck since we left Hatteras."

"As mate," said Anthony, "you took his place. When you saw the floes,

you should have headed the vessel for New York. With the merchandise

landed there we'd have contrived a way to deal with it."

Corkery was a blunt man, with no affectation of speech.

"With a master tumbling about on his bed, and praying to God, and

raving about things that must have passed in his boyhood, I was glad

to arrive, as near as I could, at the place called for in the ship's

papers," said he. "You here in the counting-room can talk of markets

easily enough, for you are always where you can watch them; also, you

can talk offhand of changing a ship's destination, for you've no one to

answer to if you've guessed wrong."

Anthony smiled and nodded, for he knew the mate spoke truth.

"I hope all that could be done for Captain Small has been done," said

he.

"He is ashore at New Castle, at the house of a doctor in the place, and

is being well seen to," said Corkery.

"That is good," said Charles. "And, as to the ship, I suppose all we

can do now is see that she's well watched to keep her from thieves, and

from damage by the ice."

"That is all. The second mate is aboard, and the crew is one to be

depended on. I'll go back myself in a day or two."

But Anthony frowned; and after Corkery had gone he continued to pace

the floor.

"Ah, well," said Whitaker, after a time, approaching him, "it does

no good to fidget. It's the hard season, and nothing else was to be

expected. We can only wait until the ice is out, and the vessel can

come comfortably up to her dock."

"But while excellent cargo is within hands' reach are we to sit here

twiddling our thumbs?"

"What else can we do?" asked Whitaker cheerily. "When a ship is lodged

in the river's gullet as this one seems to be, and there's a month or

more of bad weather still to come, why fret and get in a state of mind?"

But this submissive state did not appeal to Anthony; he resented the

easy air of the counting-room under defeat; so he thought hard about

the matter during the day, and for most of the night; and the next

morning found him in the public room of a tavern on Second Street

where he heard Corkery was lodged. The mate sat before the tavern fire

chipping bits of tobacco from a dark cake, with which to charge his

pipe, and greeted Anthony with a nod; the young man drew a stool up to

the fire and sat warming his hands at the blaze.

"They tell me," said Anthony, "that you are of this port and know the

river and bay very well."

"Why," said Corkery, as he carefully chipped away at the tobacco, "I

was a boy aboard a sloop that sailed between here and Bristol, carrying

bricks; then I shipped on the New Castle packets. Yes, I can claim to

know the river and bay quite well."

"How did you come up to the city?" asked Anthony.

"By sledge," replied the mate.

"In what state are the roads?"

"Filled with snow, but packed hard. The sledge I came up on carried a

good weight of freight as well."

"Are there many sledges in the neighborhood of New Castle, and could

one engage the use of them?"

"The farmers and traders could muster a deal of them," said Corkery,

"and, I suppose, would put them out for hire with little dispute."

Anthony smiled at the fire; and then he began questioning the man about

the position of the ship, and the condition of the ice about her. The

replies being satisfactory, the young man went into the bar and spoke

to the landlord.

"I want a span of good-stepping horses," he said. "Also I want a sleigh

and a driver who knows the roads as far south as New Castle."

The landlord was a Scot, a hard-featured, scrubby man with the manner

of one whom the world had failed to convince.

"There's many a team," said he, "and like enough there's many a sleigh.

And I've spoken to many a man who knows the very roads you have in

mind. But where are they now? is the question, and could they be

engaged if found?" He frowned and looked doubtful. "But you might try

Churchman in Cobbler's Place," said he.

Churchman was located; he was the exact opposite of the Scot; he

took life as a pleasant experience, and seemed to have the fullest

confidence in everything.

"I have just the span you want, and exactly the sleigh," said he. "But

the driver is another matter. Couldn't you drive yourself? Your way is

as plain as a-b-c."

Anthony had traveled the roads with Christopher Dent as far as the

Delaware line, on more occasions than one, and he felt sure that he'd

manage to keep to the way. So he gave his orders and went back to the

counting-room. Charles had not yet arrived, for it was still a fairly

early hour. However, Captain Weir was there; he stood with his back to

the fire, his hands behind him, and greeted Anthony pleasantly.

"You are still going on with the books, I suppose," said he, after a

space.

"Yes," said Anthony.

"Mind you don't overdo it; too much candle-light is a bad thing. But

with all this attention you must be making progress."

"Yes," said the young man, "things are becoming plainer to me, I

think." He took up a poker and shoved a billet, which was throwing a

thin spiral of smoke into the room, back into the fireplace. "Though, I

must admit, there are some I don't understand."

"To be sure," said Weir. "That is to be expected. But, perhaps, I could

help you?"

But Anthony shook his head.

"Not yet," said he. "For I haven't made up my mind about the matters,

except to think them curious, and to note that they stand out

singularly."

"Books are kept for a firm's information," said Weir; "but, speaking

for myself, I get little out of them. After a little they are a kind of

a maze, and often mislead me."

"So far, I can't complain of that. But, as I've said, I've come upon an

odd flavor here and there in the ledgers; it's made me curious, and I

hope to come upon the reason for the oddness further on."

Here Charles came in, cheery and rosy from the nip of the cold.

"I have made arrangements to go to New Castle to-day," said Anthony.

Charles threw his cloak to a porter, and looked at his nephew in

surprise.

"Why?" he asked.

"To look at the roads, to get the position of the ship, and study the

chances of getting the cargo up to the city."

Charles laughed good-humoredly.

"Well, thank God, you've got an active mind," said he. "But here's a

thing, I'm afraid, that's bigger than you think for."

"That can't be told until the conditions are known to a certainty,"

said Anthony. "If the roads are as I have been assured they are,

and sledges are to be had, I can bring the important details of the

_Stark's_ cargo into the warehouse in ten days' time."

Charles looked at him for a moment, and then turned to Weir.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Weir. "I've never heard of it being done under

these conditions; but, then," and he nodded his head, his eye fixed

thoughtfully upon Anthony, "we have here a young man who has led trains

through the wilderness, and across the deserts. So, under any human

circumstances, from New Castle to the city should be no impossible

task."

"Well," said Charles to Anthony, "if you have the mind to try the

thing, there it is for you."

An hour later, while the horses were being put to the sleigh in

Cobbler's Place, Anthony told Churchman what he had in mind. The

optimist rose freshly to the idea, his eyes snapping.

"The only thing against you is a sudden change in the weather great

enough to soften the roads," said he. Then he scanned the patch of sky

that could be seen between the walls of the court and seemed to taste

of the quality of the wind. "And there's not much chance of that," said

he. "This cold wind will keep things hard as iron for weeks to come."

Anthony settled the thick, warm robes about him and was off along

Second Street; and, finally below the lower ferry, he struck into

the road that ran along the river. It was afternoon when he drew up

in Chester for a snack of food, some warming drink, and to have the

horses seen to. He crossed the state line in that gray hour just before

nightfall; the wind from the river, away to the left, was bleak and

heavy; the runners whined as they slid over the frozen snow; Anthony's

knees were stiff, and despite the generous wrappings he began to feel

his blood chill. He saw a man cutting wood in a patch of timber not far

from the road, and drove toward him.

"How many miles is it to the nearest tavern where a bed can be had for

the night?"

The ax bit deeply into the log and was allowed to stay so, while the

man beat his blue hands together and answered:

"There's a village about five miles along the way you're going. But the

inn is a rough place, and small; and the food is not over-good."

"Years ago," said Anthony, "when I knew something of the roads further

to the north, I'd hear of a tavern called "the Brig" which I understood

was somewhere hereabouts."

The man's face wore a curious expression as he looked at Anthony. Then

he said:

"It's open still, and is clean, and has excellent, good beds. There's

cookery to be had in that place the like of which you seldom come upon;

and as for its spirits and malt liquors, well, sir, they are rare,

indeed!"

The place where Anthony had stopped was on the shoulder of a hill;

night was now lowering over the desolate winter landscape with its bare

fields, stunted trees, and ice-filled marsh. The wood-cutter pointed in

the direction of the river.

"Do you see that road winding along there?" asked he. "And there, in a

hollow near it, a clump of cedars?"

"I do," said Anthony. "And I also see something rising up from among

the trees like the mast of a ship."

"It is one," said the man, "and with a topmast and rigging all

complete, just as it would be if it were stepped in a vessel instead of

the dooryard of the Brig Tavern."

Anthony looked at the mast for a moment, then turned his eyes upon the

man.

"When I inquired about an inn," said he, "you spoke of an indifferent

one a long way off, but made no mention of this excellent one so close

at hand."

The wood-cutter grasped the haft of his ax and plucked its blade out of

the log.

"The Brig is so off the road," said he, "I thought you'd not care to go

there."

There was a look in the man's face that gave a different story; but

Anthony did not stay to go further into the matter; he thanked him,

turned his horses back to the road, and proceeded on. In a little while

he came to the place where the winding road crossed the main one;

taking to this he journeyed on toward the tavern. The winter twilight

had grown thicker; and ahead in the hollow where the cedars grew, night

had already thrown itself down. There was a dull glow from the inn; it

served to light the way through the trees, and as Anthony's sleigh drew

up a man came out of a barn with a lantern.

"What, Mr. Blake," said the man, "are you back so soon?"

"I am not Mr. Blake," said Anthony, as he threw aside the robes and got

out. "What encouragement is there here for a traveler who has the mind

to stay overnight?"

The man held the lantern up so that its lighted candle might bring out

Anthony's face.

"I was sure you were Mr. Blake," said he. "Your horses feet pattered

on the road just as his do, and you came in at the gate in the same

free fashion."

"As I so resemble friend Blake in those ways," said Anthony, "I wonder

is he like me in being hungry and in need of a fire and a bed."

"I have no doubt but you can have both if you inquire within," said the

man. "And if you desire I'll rub and feed and bed your horses."

Anthony turned the animals over to him, and walked up the paved way

to the door of the tavern. There were some massive hewn steps leading

up to the door, and a hood projected over it to keep out the wash of

the weather. Anthony went through the wide hall and into a room at one

side. Two men sat by a fire playing drafts, and a woman stood by the

table watching them. One of the men was a furtive, dry-looking person

with a patch over one eye; the other was Monsieur Lafargue. And she who

stood looking on was his daughter.