"Being a helpless and unchaperoned young lady," she explained primly,
"he is my natural guardian and protector. I think I see him coming now."
Legend is enriched by the picturesque fates of those who have
historically affronted Heaven with prevarications no more flagrant than
this. But did punishment, then, descend upon the fair, false, and frail
perpetrator of this particular taradiddle? Not at all. The Tyro was the
sole sufferer. Had the word been a bullet he could scarcely have dropped
more swiftly. When next he appeared to the enraptured gaze of the
heckler, he was emerging, _ventre à terre_, from beneath the far end of
the life-boat.
"I'll be in my deck-chair between eight and nine to receive explanations
and apologies," was her Parthian shot, as he rose and fled.
At the time named, the Tyro took particularly good care to be at the
extreme other side of the deck, where he maintained a wary lookout. Not
twice should the huntress catch him napping. But he reckoned without her
emissaries. Lord Guenn presently sauntered up, paused, and surveyed the
quarry with a twinkling eye.
"I'm commanded to bring you in, dead or alive," he said.
"It will be dead, then," said the Tyro.
"What's the little game? Some of your American rag-josh, I believe you
call it?"
"Something of that nature," admitted the other.
"This will be a blow to Cissy," observed his lordship. "She's used to
having 'em come to heel at the first whistle. I say, Mr. Daddleskink--"
"My name's not Daddleskink," the Tyro informed him morosely.
"I beg your pardon if I mispronounced it. How--"
"Smith," said the proprietor of that popular cognomen.
"I say," cried the Briton in vast surprise, "that's worse than our
pronouncing 'Castelreagh' 'Derby' for short!"
"S-m-i-t-h, Smith. The other was a joke and a very bum one! Alexander
Forsyth Smith from now on."
"Hullo! What price the Forsyth?" Lord Guenn regarded him with increased
interest. "Did Miss Wayne say something about your having an interest in
her house on the Battery?"
"My house," corrected the other. "Yes, I've got an old option, depending
on a ground-lease, that's come down in the family."
"What family?"
"The Forsyths. My grandmother was born in that house."
"Then our portrait of the Yank--of the American who looks like you at
Guenn Oaks is your great-grandfather."
"I suppose so."
"Well met!" said Lord Guenn. "There are some sketches of the Forsyth
place as it used to be at Guenn Oaks that would interest you. My
ancestor was a bit of a dab with his brush."
"Indeed they'd interest me," returned the Tyro, "if they show the old
boundary-lines. My claim on which I hope to buy in the property rests on
the original lot, and that's in question now. There are some other
people trying to hold me off--But that's another matter," he concluded
hastily, as he recalled who his rival was.
"Quite the same matter. It's Cecily Wayne, isn't it?"
"Her father, I suppose. And as far as any evidence in your possession
goes, of course I couldn't expect--considering that Miss Wayne's
interests are involved--"
"Why on earth not, my dear fellow?"
"Well, I suppose--that is--I thought perhaps you--" floundered the Tyro,
reddening.
Lord Guenn laughed outright. "You thought I was in the universal hunt?
No, indeed! You see, I married Cecily's cousin. As for the house, I'm
with you. I believe in keeping those things in the family. I say, where
are you going when we land?"
"London, I suppose."
"Why not run up to Guenn Oaks for a week and see your great-grandad?
Lady Guenn would be delighted. Cissy will be there, I shouldn't wonder."
"That's mighty good of you," said the Tyro. A sudden thought amused
him. "Won't your ancestors turn over in their graves at having a
haberdasher at Guenn Oaks?"
"They would rise up to welcome any of the blood of Spencer Forsyth,"
said the Briton seriously. "But what a people you are!" he continued.
"Now an English haberdasher may be a very admirable person, but--"
"Hold on a moment. I'm not really a haberdasher. While I was in college
I invented an easy-slipping tie. A friend patented it and I still draw
an income from it. It's just another of the tangle of mistakes I've
gotten into. As people have got the other notion, I don't care to
correct it."
"That rotter, Sperry," said Lord Guenn with a grin--"I was glad to see
you bowl him over. He's just a bit too impressed with his money. Fished
all over the shop for an invitation to Guenn Oaks, and when he couldn't
get it, wanted to buy the place. Bounder! Then you'll come?"
"Yes. I'll be delighted to."
"Jove! I'm forgetting my mission. Are you going to obey the imperial
summons?"
"Can't possibly," said the Tyro, "I'm very ill. Tell her, will you?"
Lord Guenn nodded. "Perhaps one of you will condescend to let me in
presently on all these plots and counterplots," he remarked as he walked
away.
Left to himself the Tyro floated away on cloudy imaginings of gold and
rose-color. A week--a whole week--with Little Miss Grouch; a week of
freedom on good, solid land, beyond the tyranny of captains, the
espionage of self-appointed chaperons, and the interference of countless
surrounding ninnies; a week on every day of which he could watch the
play of light and color in the face which had not been absent from his
thoughts one minute since--
_Thump!_ It was as if a huge fist had thrust up out of the ocean's
depths and jolted the Clan Macgregor in the ribs. Several minor impacts
jarred beneath his feet. Then the engines stopped, and the great hulk
began to swing slowly to starboard in the still water.
Excited talk broke out. Questions to which nobody made reply filled the
air. An officer hurried past.
"No. No damage done," he cried back mechanically over his shoulder.
Presently the engine resumed work. The rhythm appeared to the Tyro to
drag. Dr. Alderson came along.
"Nothing at all," he said with the _sang-froid_ of the experienced
traveler. "Some little hitch in the machinery."
"Do you notice that there's a slant to the deck?" asked the Tyro in a
low voice.
"Yes. Keep it to yourself. Most people won't notice it." And he walked
on, stopping to chat with an acquaintance here and there, and doing his
unofficial part to diffuse confidence.
One idea seized and possessed the Tyro. If that gently tilted deck meant
danger, his place was on the farther side of the ship. Quite casually,
to avoid any suggestion of haste, he wandered around.
Little Miss Grouch was sitting in her chair, alone and quiet. As the
Tyro slipped, soft-footed, into the shelter of a shadow, he saw her
stretch her hand out to a box of candy. She selected a round sweet, and
dropped it on the deck. It rolled slowly into the scuppers. Again she
tried the experiment, with the same result. She started to get up,
changed her mind and settled back to wait.
The Tyro, leaning against the cabin, also waited. With no apparent
cause--for he was sure he had made no noise--she turned her head and
looked into the sheltering shadow. She smiled, a very small but very
contented smile.
An officer came along the deck.
"The port screw," he paused to tell the waiting girl, "struck a bit of
wreckage and broke a blade. Absolutely no danger. We will be delayed a
little getting to port, that's all. I am glad you had the nerve to sit
quiet," he added.
"I didn't know what else to do," she said.
She rose and gathered her belongings to her. Going to the entrance she
passed so near that he could have touched her. Yet she gave no sign of
knowledge that he was there; he was ready to believe that he had been
mistaken in thinking that her regard had penetrated his retreat. In the
doorway she turned.
"Good-night," she said, in a voice that thrilled in his pulses.
"And--thank you."