VII

Over my hayfield, that morning toward the last of June, a pleasant

breeze was blowing, and from the southwest, as is the habit of breezes

hereabout. A man clad in white flannels, and wandering slowly about,

would have found that hayfield cool enough and pleasant, I have no

doubt. I found it pleasant, but not cool, for I was mowing. For weeks I

sought some one--any one--who would cut my grass, and cut it in June,

for I have a prejudice in favor of June for cutting hay. In the last

week of June the grass is in full flower--tiny blossoms of a pale violet

color--and the stems are swollen with the juices, and rich and tender.

I, in my ignorance, believe that it makes more succulent hay than if

cut in July, when the stalks have begun to dry up and become thin and

wiry. Besides, if it is cut in June it is out of the way, and I can use

my hayfield for a ball-field if I am so minded.

I am no mower, and I have not known what a scythe should be. I was dimly

aware that my old scythe was not everything that could be desired, for I

remember that when I took it to be ground the man applied it lightly to

his stone, then harder, then cursed and bore on with all his might, and

cursed again and sweated for half an hour, and charged me ten cents,

holding the scythe out to me as if he never wanted to see it again. He

observed that it was the hardest scythe he ever see; and I smiled and

thanked him, and thought no more of the matter, and walked off with my

scythe. And I struggled with that scythe for ten years, never being able

to keep it sharp, and spending much more time with the whetstone than I

did in mowing, but I did but little mowing, only trimming around here

and there. I never _got_ the scythe sharp. I know that now, but I did

not know it then, attributing the fault to my own lack of skill.

I got a new scythe the other day, being unwilling to whet through two

acres. I can get it as sharp as a razor in half a dozen strokes of the

stone. When I tried it the other afternoon, just before dinner, I found

myself laughing, and I should have gone at the hayfield then if Eve had

not stopped me. Now I go about with my scythe in my hand, and hunt for

clumps of grass tall enough to cut, for the hayfield is shorn close and

tolerably smooth, and the grass lies in the sun and gives off all manner

of sweet odors.

The mowing of that hayfield with that new scythe was simply a joy--a

delight. I swung to and fro with the rhythmic motion of rowing--mowing

is not unlike rowing, and one swings about thirty or more to the

minute--with my eyes on the ground, and I listened to the sounds: a soft

ripping with a little metallic _ting_ as the scythe advanced, and a

gentle _swish_ as it swung back again. Yes, mowing is a delight--with a

good scythe; but it is a hot sort of amusement. If I could regulate

matters mowing time should fall in November. All mowing should be done

by hand, and mowing should be compulsory for all able-bodied men. They

would be the better for it.

I stood for a few minutes, leaning on my scythe and letting the breeze

blow through me and gazing down the bay. Then I went at my mowing again

and the scythe sang a new song. It was _sub--marine; sub--marine_, over

and over. And I kept at my mowing mechanically while I thought my

thoughts. There had been no reports of submarines since the day of Eve's

party, and nothing further said of the report of that day. Even Bobby

would say no more than that they did not find any; and when I would have

rallied him, remarking that I feared he had not baited his traps

properly, he glowered at me, which hurt my feelings. It was not like

Bobby to glower. But Bobby seemed tormented by that restlessness which

seizes on men in a certain case. I did not laugh at him, for I feared

lest he take it but ill, but I did counsel him to take to clamming; at

which he gave me a smile that would have brought tears to Eve's eyes. He

has not yet found that fount of eternal youth, and whether he will find

it or not no one can guess. I hope he will, and that joy and peace will

be in his abiding place forever. And the one who should show him the

fount is not far to seek, as he well knows; but, as I think, and Eve

too, he is stubborn and cherishes some fancied grievance, hugging it to

his heart. The poor fool!

Then I stopped mowing, and straightened my back, and rested. And, on a

sudden, that talking machine of my neighbor began pouring forth a

strident voice, and I looked and there was the little Sands girl

watching me over the wall. She no longer throws things. But I was not

giving an exhibition of mowing, and I nodded to her, and went back to my

garden. Melons are a lottery; but I looked at my peas--my second look

that morning--to make sure that they will be ready for the Fourth, and I

took a turn about the garden. And all the while I listened, much against

my will, to that strident voice. And when it had finished that

particular humorous selection, I fled, my scythe on my arm, for fear

that I should have some sort of secret liking for the next selection;

and I came to my pine, and I sat me down on the seat, and again my gaze

ran across the waters of the harbor, well ruffled by the breeze and

dancing in the sun, to the shore opposite; and down that curving line of

shore to the lighthouse on its rock; and over the blue-gray water

beyond, that was lightly veiled in haze, to the islands floating high.

And on the water between the lighthouse and the islands I saw the

Arcadia. She was coming fast, with all her light canvas set, a thing of

beauty. It would be a fast submarine I thought, that could damage

her--in any sort of breeze. Then I thought idly of Captain Fergus, and

of Elizabeth and Olivia, and Bobby and Ogilvie, and of Eve and Pukkie.

That is the goal--Eve and Pukkie and Tidda--little Eve.

Elizabeth has been our guest for the past two weeks when she has not

been on the Arcadia. She puzzles me yet. What is she doing here so

long--a poor girl, seeming to be loafing out the summer? She should be

conducting her classes in swimming. It is likely enough that the same

question has been a puzzle to Bobby; but he takes it harder than I. I am

content to let the question go unanswered and have her stay with us. She

is a good comrade, and a comfort to Eve, and she is fond of Tidda, and

Pukkie is her willing slave. For Pukkie is at home again.

He came on the twelfth. I remember that we had had a hard rain for two

days before, and that all the ploughed land was no better than a bog,

and all the fields were covered with water under their cover of grass,

so that the water was running out through the crevices of the stone

walls, through each crevice a rivulet. But not my field, and my garden

was no bog. And I waited, sitting just where I was at that moment and

gazing idly at the same things that were there before my eyes. I could

not work in peace, nor sit in peace for many minutes at a time, but I

spent the morning going like a shuttle from garden to pine and wandering

the shore, then back again.

Eve had gone with Old Goodwin in his fastest car to bring him

back--"him" being Pukkie, my son. But as the time approached for his

arrival I sat upon the bench and simulated peace and content, and gave

no outward sign of other; but every muscle was tense, and every nerve

on edge; I listened so hard that it hurt, and I wished devoutly that Old

Goodwin's car was not so perfect and so silent, and I resolutely kept my

gaze fixed upon the distant hills, and did not see them.

At last I heard the latch of the gate click faintly, as though somebody

had tried to lift it without noise, and I heard an excited chuckle,

instantly subdued. And I turned quickly, forgetting that I had resolved

not to turn, and there was Pukkie running toward me. And I whipped up

and ran, and I sank upon one knee and held my arms wide. And Pukkie ran

into them at full speed, almost knocking me over, and he threw his arms

around my neck, and he hugged me. He hugged me so tight that I was

nearly strangled; but not quite--not so nearly but that I could hug him

close and whisper in his ear.

"Oh, Pukkie!" I whispered. "My dear little son! My well beloved!"

For answer he but hugged me the harder, and gave an excited little laugh

that was near to tears. That was enough for me. Indeed, I was not so far

from tears. I looked up at Eve, who had followed close, and tears stood

in her eyes, but she was smiling. Oh, such a smile! A smile that belongs

to wives and mothers--of a certain kind. And, seeing her, I gave thanks.

But that is nothing new that I give thanks for that, for I have done the

same many times a day for many years.

Then Old Goodwin came up behind Eve.

"If you and Pukkie can spare the time," he said to me, "I should be

glad to have you ride home with me--you and Eve. I have something to

show you."

Pukkie went somewhat eagerly, and Eve and I, having devoted ourselves to

following our son about, went after, not so eagerly. And Old Goodwin

took us down to his boathouse, which is at the head of his stone pier

and gives upon his artificial harbor, and out of the car and into the

boathouse.

"Grandfather," said Pukkie, trying in vain to keep all signs of

excitement out of his voice, "is it my dory that we're going to see? Is

it?"

Old Goodwin smiled to himself. "Well, no, Pukkie. It isn't your dory. I

didn't manage that. But it's something of that nature."

"Oh," said Pukkie in low tones of disappointment, "I didn't know but--"

Old Goodwin had opened the door at the other side. "Oh! What's that?"

Made fast to the stage there lay a perfect little sloop about twenty

feet long which seemed to be an exact reproduction in miniature of a

large boat. Every sail was there which the large boats carried, every

rope and block and stay, although they had drawn the line at a separate

topmast. I realized at a glance that there were too many ropes and

blocks and stays for her size. It would take more of a crew to handle

her easily than she could carry.

But Pukkie realized nothing of the kind. He ran toward her, and stood

beside her, touching with a fearful hand her smooth deck, and the pretty

blocks and cleats of shining brass, and smiling.

There was even a gangway ladder, and her gunwale not much more than a

foot above the water.

Pukkie turned his shining face to me.

"Oh, daddy," he cried, "look at her dear little jibs. Aren't they

cunning?"

They were cunning and tiny.

Old Goodwin, simple-hearted gentleman that he was, was as pleased as

Pukkie. He seemed delighted.

"There are other sails," he said, smiling and eager. "In the sail locker

you will find a gafftopsail and a jibtopsail and a flying jib. We

couldn't very well manage any more," he added to me.

"They are quite enough," I returned, "for her size--and for her crew to

manage."

"She is rather deep for her length," Old Goodwin went on. "A boy can

stand straight in her cabin, and a man very nearly. Go aboard, Puk, and

see. Go down into the cabin."

So Pukkie, excited and solemn, went aboard, stepping carefully, and

opened the cabin doors, and disappeared. We followed him on deck and

looked down. There was a little table in the middle which would fold up

out of the way, and there were two small transoms with little netted

hammocks for the sleeper's clothes, like a sleeping-car. And there was a

silver pitcher for ice water, and racks for glasses and dishes, and

shelves with brass rails around them, and lockers tucked away in every

corner, and a door at the forward end which should have led to the

galley. Old Goodwin saw my look of incredulity, and he smiled.

"There is a galley," he said, "although a very small one. But I think a

boy could manage it. About the size of a cupboard." Old Goodwin pushed

the slide farther back. "We had to put this slide on her," he said

apologetically, "or there couldn't have been a cabin of any use to

anybody. I was sorry."

I was not sorry. It would help to keep the seas off. But Pukkie took one

last look around, drew one long, quivering breath, and came up.

"Oh, see!" he cried.

I turned and looked where he was pointing. There was the little wheel,

which we had seen before; and there too was a tiny binnacle with its

compass, cunningly contrived to take no room, set just forward of the

wheel.

"Do you like it, Pukkie?" Old Goodwin asked somewhat wistfully. "Do you

think that you'll like her as well as you would have liked a dory?"

"Like her!" cried Pukkie. "Like her! Oh, grandfather!"

And he leaped at his grandfather, and seized him about the neck, and hid

his face; and Old Goodwin patted Pukkie's shoulder, somewhat awkwardly,

and smiled at Eve and me. I wonder what is the market value of the time

that Old Goodwin wastes upon his grandson.

Then Pukkie would go sailing at once. It did not matter that it was

time for luncheon, although my clock that I carry beneath my belt told

me that it was. He was not hungry. It did not occur to him to wonder

about me, or he would have offered to get me a luncheon in his galley.

So we set forth to sail the raging main; a little sail of half an hour,

with Eve and Old Goodwin to see us off.

So we set all the little sails, but we did not get out from the sail

locker that gafftopsail and the jibtopsail and that wonderful flying

jib. The wind was moderately strong. And we glided out from Old

Goodwin's harbor with me at the wheel, and Pukkie sitting beside me with

shining face. The little boat was handy, and she went about her business

with no fuss, and the water began to hiss past under her rail. And I

sat the straighter. Truly, what is luncheon?

We passed some fishermen going out--the same way that we were going, and

we passed them as if they were at anchor; and they gazed in amazement

and I saw them pointing. I headed for a lighter that I saw dimly through

the light haze--she was anchored by a wreck, as I chanced to know--and I

gave up the wheel to Pukkie.

He had never steered with a wheel, but I undertook to teach

him--although the art of steering, whether with a wheel or with a

tiller, cannot be taught. One learns to steer by feeling. And Pukkie was

alert and anxious to learn. I told him to keep the boat headed for the

lighter, at which he looked at me in surprise, and suggested that it

might be too far to get back in half an hour. It was; but I did not tell

him so.

Thereafter, for some time, the boat cut some astonishing capers, which

must have set those fishermen to wondering. We passed the fish traps,

with men in rowboats busy with taking in the catch; and we passed

innumerable terns, or, rather, they passed us, and they were fishing and

sending forth their harsh metallic cry; and we saw a pair of fishhawks,

and they too were fishing. All fishing. Truly, the business of the

waters is catching fish. And Pukkie was getting the hang of the wheel

and steering a straighter course, so that he could give some attention

to other matters.

There were rocks which looked like monsters just risen from the deep,

and with the water washing over their backs.

"They look like submarines," said Pukkie. "Don't they, daddy?"

I explained to him the appearance of the back of a modern submarine; but

the rocks did remind me of submarines. Everything reminds me of

submarines. And we saw, afar off upon the water, a small gray speck. And

the speck grew until it became a motor-boat, painted a dark gray. Why

they paint them a gray that is almost black is a mystery. There is no

concealment in it. This motor-boat was small, and was heading right for

us, it seemed.

"Is that a chaser, daddy?" Pukkie seems to have the jargon pat. Probably

he learned it at school. "It isn't very fast, is it? It couldn't catch

a submarine, could it? It wouldn't be any use to chase with that." His

words held a depth of scorn. Always submarines. I cannot get away from

them. "Why don't you go out and chase them, daddy? I should think you

would like to. I would."

I am thankful that he cannot. I gave him some answer that seemed to

satisfy him.

"That chaser is trying to meet us," he resumed. "Whichever way I go, she

goes too."

It did look so; but it was a small boat and slow. I thought that we

could beat her likely enough, if it came to a chase, but Pukkie would

not have it so. He wanted to meet her, and asked me to steer.

We met in a few minutes, and the pleasant-faced ensign hailed me and

asked if I had a license or a permit or something. I knew nothing of any

permit, and I told him so, and he said that they were required, and we

had to turn about and sail back again. It was just as well, for we were

like to be over our half-hour; and we got in well ahead of the

motor-boat.

Since that day I have been out with Pukkie every afternoon, for he must

be taught to sail if he has a boat. He is well used to going with me in

my dory and he swims passing well for a boy of ten. He will be eleven in

October. And Elizabeth has taken him in hand. She sails nearly as well

as she swims, and she sails with him nearly every morning; and sometimes

Eve and she go with us in the afternoon. I feared a little at first to

take so many, for I thought it might swamp the boat; but the boat will

carry all she will hold.

I had got to this point in my meditations, and I was well rested, and I

was somewhat cooler than I was; and my scythe rested against the bench

beside me, and I gazed down the bay at the Arcadia, and I wondered idly

about Captain Fergus. If Elizabeth was a mystery, he was no less. He did

not seem the sort of man to be sailing idly about in a beautiful, fast

yacht when everybody else was busy in looking for something to fight;

everybody but Old Goodwin and me, and Old Goodwin is nearly seventy.

Fergus is a fighter if ever I saw one, the very kind of man that would

stick out his jaw and damn the torpedoes.

Since Tom Ellis is gone, I have no moral support against my

conscience--if it is my conscience that makes me vaguely

uncomfortable--except the knowledge of Eve's pacifist attitude. I try

not to say anything that would give her concern, but it is hard

sometimes. It gets harder as time goes on. Gardening is well enough, but

I hate to be left alone and gardening. Gardening seems but a poor

occupation for a man when other matters are afoot, although it is

better, perhaps, than acting as chauffeur for a lot of naval officers.

But Tom seems to like it well enough, and says that he has put himself

entirely in their hands, and does whatever he is called upon to do,

without a thought for the morrow, which is, no doubt, the proper

attitude. Cecily likes it too, and spends most of her time in Newport,

going to and fro in Old Goodwin's car. I went over with them one day,

and the first thing my eyes alighted upon was the Arcadia just come to

anchor, and Captain Fergus landing at the War College. Perhaps his

conscience was too much for him. Fergus is a year or two older than I

am, and--confound it!--there is some fight left in me yet. If there were

only something more than phantoms to fight! And this frantic search for

what is not!

I heard the sound of a screen door slamming, and looked around the

tree-trunk, and saw Pukkie running over the grass toward me; and behind

him there came, at a somewhat more sedate pace, Eve and Elizabeth.

"Daddy," Pukkie called as soon as he saw me, "don't you want to go

swimming? We're going. Tidda's at grandmother's."

Being indulged, of course, with unlimited cookies and raisins and

anything else she took a fancy to. Grandmothers have a talent for

indulging, and Tidda has a genius for accepting indulgences.

"I do, Pukkie. That is exactly what I want. I have been mowing. Is your

mother going swimming? You going in, Eve?"

"Yes, she's going." And Eve smiled and nodded.

So I put my scythe in the shed, and we went down the steep path, and

along the shore where the water lapped high; and past my clam beds to

the bathhouse near the stone pier. The bathhouse is Old Goodwin's, as

any might guess, and the little beach is Old Goodwin's, and the

float-stage a little way out, with its springboard. It is good bathing

at that little beach only when high water covers the sand. Beyond the

sand are great pebbles covered with rockweed and barnacles.

Eve came out hesitating, her eyes smiling and tender as she looked at

me; but a dark green cap covered her glorious hair except some wisps

which ever bother her with their straggling, and the sun shone upon the

wandering locks and framed her head in fine spun copper.

"Don't you think, Adam," she asked timidly, "we might go in here? It is

a good tide--and I'm afraid I can't manage the float."

Eve does not swim very well, although confidence is all she lacks to

make her a passable swimmer. And I was quite willing, but Elizabeth

would not hear of it, promising that she would look out for Eve; and she

had us all in the boat and rowing out before we could make our

objections heard.

And no sooner were we well clear of the beach, than Elizabeth dived, and

when she came up again,--it was some distance that she was under

water--she called to Pukkie. And Pukkie, with supreme confidence in

Elizabeth, stood up on the seat and dived over the side, and swam beside

her.

Eve seemed to have more confidence in Elizabeth than she had in me,

which is not strange, for I have observed that, in matters of skill or

knowledge or judgment, a woman will trust the veriest stranger before

her husband, although in this matter of skill and knowledge Elizabeth

was well past me.

So Eve trusted herself utterly to Elizabeth, and she made some progress

in her swimming. And we all floundered about there in the cool, clean

water until Elizabeth said that Eve was cold, and then we all drew

ourselves, dripping, on to the float, and there, but a little way off,

was the Arcadia anchored, and her sails nearly furled.

As I gazed at her I thought I saw something queer about her topmast

stays--a little thing. It looked almost like aerials for wireless. I

asked Elizabeth about it.

She was looking at it too, almost with satisfaction.

"Yes," she said, "I see. It does look as if it might be."

Why should she know? And then the tender put off with Captain Fergus and

Bobby and made for the landing, going rather close to us huddled on the

float. They hailed us, Bobby very solemnly, but they did not stop.

There was a light of mischief in Eve's eyes.

"I'm going to have Bobby to dinner to-night," she whispered.

"If he'll come," I said in her ear.

"Oh, he'll come."

And he did.

Eve and I were standing alone together and silent and hand in hand upon

the edge of my bluff, watching while the Great Painter spread his colors

as he was wont to do. The still waters were covered with all manner of

reds and purples. The grasses of the little marsh below us waved gently

above the shining mud, and now and then there broke a wave that ran in

among the grass stems in ripples of color, and left the wet mud

glistening in a coat of shimmering green, and set the grass waving anew.

As we stood there looking down, Bobby came silently and stood beside us,

and breathed a long sigh, and gazed for a long time. Then he looked at

Eve and smiled.

"Lovely," he said, "and peaceful. For the matter of that, it would be

hard to find a more peaceful-looking place than the lightship--in good

weather."

"Then, Bobby," I said, "I take it that not many periscopes have fallen

to your bow and spear."

He shook his head. "I'm disgusted. I'm beginning to think that the

Germans have no submarines, and that all these tales are fables. Your

traps, Adam, are no good. I'd just like to get a chance to go across to

the North Sea or Ireland or the Channel. I'll tell you in strict

confidence--we have been warned not to talk about these things--a mine

sweeper went to Boston a few days ago, on the way over. Nobody knows

when she will leave Boston. I was greatly tempted to try for a place on

her. But I'll get there yet."

"No doubt there would be occupation for idle hands over there. But what

has become of Ogilvie? We have not seen him since the clambake."

"He's busy. He's going over--to go on a chaser. Lucky chap! He had his

orders that very morning. Waiting for the chaser. But I'd be tried for

high treason if you were to tell anybody--even Miss Radnor, for

instance."

I had turned about, and there was Elizabeth. She must have heard it all,

for she turned pale, and the light in her eyes went out suddenly,

leaving them cold as stones. It was a pity.