The young man whose chief end in life seemed to be to out-English the
English lighted a cigarette and lounged on farther aft. I followed the
movements of his white-flanneled figure with the gaze speculative.
Quite as truly as in the case of Bonteck Van Dyck--though in a vastly
different manner--here was a "perfectly good cat, spoiled." I had
known Jerry Dupuyster quite intimately in the university days; known
him for a lovable fellow with rather more, than less, than his fair
allowance of brains and ability. But something, either the bait of the
major's hypothetical fortune, or too much idleness--or both--had turned
him into ... the speculative train paused. I didn't know what the
compelling influences had turned Jerry Dupuyster into, but whatever it
might be, it seemed too trivial to warrant the effort needful to try to
define it.
Sauntering forward on the starboard promenade I saw that Grey had
joined his wife and Edie Van Tromp on the bridge, and that Van Dyck and
a lean, hatchet-faced man whom I took to be the yacht's sailing-master,
were with them. While I looked on, Goff, the sailing-master, came down
to the rail to direct the stowing of the last load of luggage through
the open port below. Like some other things in this Caribbean cruise
entourage, this man Goff was a new wrinkle, and a rather astounding
one. Hitherto--at least in my knowing of them--the _Andromeda's_
skippers had been of the Atlantic-liner class, spick and span martinets
in natty uniform, with fine, quarter-deck manners, and maintaining a
discipline comparable only to that of the Navy.
But Goff was at the other end of the gamut of extremes; a gaunt,
hard-bitted old Yankee fishing-smack captain, if appearances counted
for anything; hungry-looking, lank and weather-beaten, with a harsh
voice and a bad eye. And to emphasize the oddities, the sailormen he
was directing seemed to be all foreigners; another sea change sharply
opposed to Van Dyck's former notions about manning his yacht.
As it appeared, there was to be no loss of time in the outsetting.
While the trunks were still tumbling into the hold baggage-room,
a subdued clamor came up from the fire hold, and the yacht's twin
funnels began to echo to the roar of the stirred fires. A minute later
the lower-river pilot, a hairy-faced giant who might have taken the
heavy villain's part in comic opera, climbed aboard. With a bare nod
to the sailing-master, the giant ascended to the bridge, and almost
immediately the yacht's searchlight blazed out, the order to cast off
was given, and the trim white hull, shuddering to the thrust of its
propellers, edged away into the brown flood of the Mississippi, and
made a majestic half-circle in midstream to pass the lights of the city
in review as it was headed for the Gulf.
Dodging the pair of smokers under the after-deck awning, I went around
to the port promenade, where I stumbled upon Billy Grisdale sitting
alone with his bull pup between his knees.
"Hello, Prebby," he said, much as if it had been only three days
instead of as many years since he had come down to the East River pier,
a fresh-faced prep. school-boy, to see me off for the tropics. "Come
over here and sit down and give me a smoke." And when I had done all
three: "Rum old go, isn't it? If I wasn't such an ass about carrying
a tune, I'd be warbling 'My native land, good-night.' Got your life
insured?"
"I'm an orphan and a bachelor; why should I carry insurance, Billy?" I
said, laughing at his doleful humor.
"I don't know. Guess I've got a bad case of the hyps. Can't think of
anything but that bloody-bones jingle of Stevenson's:
'Fifteen men on a dead man's chest,
Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum!'
Teck Van Dyck's a pirate. He's gone daffy over something, and we're all
going to heaven in a hand-basket."
Of course this was all froth; pure froth. But there was usually a
little clear liquor in the bottom of Billy's stein.
"What ails you?" I asked.
An impish grin spread itself over his smooth, boyish face.
"I'm in love, if anybody should ask you. Everything looks green to me,
and I want to chew slate-pencils. _Ergo_--which is college slang for
'Ah, there, stay there'--I'm as daffy as Teck. Don't laugh or I'll set
Tige on you. Say, Prebby, do I look like an invalid?"
"Yes; about as much as Mr. John Sullivan did when he carried the world
heavy-weight wallop in his good right hand."
"Yet I am an invalid. Doc Fanning says I am, and he's like George
Washington. He might lie if he could, but he can't because he's lost
the combination."
"What on earth are you gibbering about, Billy?"
"Facts; iron-clad, brass-bound, blown-in-the-bottle,
sold-only-in-the-original-package facts. Fanning's the family
physician, you know, and he has gone on record as declaring that I need
half a winter off in a mild climate. And I don't know to this good
minute whether I succeeded in fooling him, or whether he was just plain
good-natured enough to size the thing up and fool the governor--I
don't, really, Prebby."
"But why?" I persisted.
"The 'why' is a girl, of course; you ought to know that without being
told. She's a lulu and a charmer, and if I can't marry her I'll end it
all with a bare bodkin. Her name? I'm going to tell you, Prebby; and,
again, if you laugh, I'll make Tige bite you. It's Edith."
"Not Edie Van Tromp!"
"Prebby, you're the one only and original wizard. You could make your
fortune if you should set up as a guesser."
"Ye gods and little children!" I commented. "Edie Van Tromp is
eighteen, if I remember correctly; and you are----"
"I was twenty a few days ago, if you don't mind," he returned, tickling
the cropped ears of the bull pup. And then: "'Crazy,' you say? Maybe
so--quite likely so. I've got to keep the pace, you know. This little
ship's full of crazy people. I'm crazy about Edie, and, if you listen
to what you hear, Jerry Dupuyster's crazy about Conetta Kincaide--just
like you used to be--and Jack Grey's crazy about his Annette, and
Ingerson and Teck are both crazy about Madeleine Barclay. So there you
are. And if the wind gets around into the sour east, Teck's going to
sink the ship in the deep-blue Caribbean, and drown us all--all but
Madeleine--and live happily ever after. Apropos of nothing at all,
Prebby, this is a rotten cigar you gave me, and I'm all mussed up and
discouraged. What's that bell clanging about?"
"It is striking five bells in the first night watch--otherwise, or
landsman-wise, half-past ten o'clock."
"Good!--excellent good. Let's turn in, so we can turn out bright and
early for our first shot at the blue water. What do you say?"
I said the required word, and we went below to our respective
staterooms. The next morning when I turned out and drew aside the
curtain shading the stateroom port light, the sun was shining brightly,
and for a horizon there were only the tumbling wavelets of the Gulf of
Mexico.