Throughout the ten minute journey from the Moorea to Meiggs Wharf, Tamea
sat beside Dan Pritchard in the stern sheets of the launch, holding his
hand tightly and, in silence, gazing ahead toward the lights of the
city. She seemed afraid to let go his hand, nor did she relinquish it
when they paused beside Dan’s limousine, waiting for them at the head of
the dock. Graves, his chauffeur, with the license of an old and favored
employee, was sound asleep inside the car when Dan opened the door and
prodded him; at sight of his employer standing hand in hand with Tamea,
Graves’s eyes fairly popped with excitement and interest.
Tamea’s lashes still held a few recalcitrant tears and she looked very
childish and forlorn. Dan was carrying her accordion, and observing
this, Graves instantly concluded that his master had casually attached
himself to some wandering gipsy troubadour. He stared and pursed his
lips in a soundless whistle; his eyebrows went up perceptibly.
Tamea’s moist eyes blazed. Rage superseded her grief.
“Monsieur Dan Pritchard,” she demanded, “is this man your servant?”
Dan nodded.
“If we were in Riva I should have him beaten with my father’s razor belt
to teach him humility.”
Dan reflected, sadly humorous, that it would be like Gaston of the Beard
to utilize a razor strop for any purpose save the one for which it had
been intended. But the girl’s complaint annoyed him.
“Oh, don’t bother about Graves!” he urged. “He isn’t awake yet. He
thinks he’s seeing things at night.”
“The man stares at me,” Tamea complained. “He is saying to himself:
‘What right has this girl with my master?’ I know. Yes, you bet.”
“Graves,” said Dan wearily, “you are, I fear, permitting yourself a
liberty. Wake up, get out of here and in behind the wheel. And by the
way, Graves, hereafter you will be subject to the orders of Miss
Larrieau. In her own country Miss Larrieau is a queen and accustomed to
the most perfect service from everybody with whom she comes in contact.
I expect, therefore, that you will remember your manners. Driving for a
bachelor is very apt, I quite realize, to make any chauffeur careless,
but from now on, Graves, whenever Queen Tamea of Riva craves snappy
service, see that she gets it. I should regret very much the necessity
for flaying you with a razor strop.”
“Lay forward, you,” Tamea commanded. “What business have you aft? Your
place is in the fo’castle, not the cabin.”
Fortunately, Graves was blessed with a sufficient sense of humor to
respond humbly: “Beg pardon, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to get fresh.
As the boss says, wakin’ me up sudden like that scared me sorter.”
He carefully drew the curtains in the rear, on both sides and in front,
for, notwithstanding his cavalier manner in the presence of royalty,
Graves was more than passing fond of his employer and desired to spare
the latter the humiliation of being seen with a lady of uncertain
lineage and doubtful social standing riding in public with him in his
limousine. Graves was fully convinced that his master suddenly had gone
insane, and as a result it behooved him now, more than ever before, to
render faultless service. He wondered where the Queen was taking the
boss or where the boss was taking the Queen; already he was resolved to
drive them through streets rarely frequented by the people who dwelt in
Dan Pritchard’s world.
Tamea’s haughty voice disturbed his benevolent thoughts.
“Are you ashamed to ride with me, Dan Pritchard?”
“Certainly not, my dear girl. Graves, how dare you draw those curtains
without permission? I’ll skin you alive for this!”
“Beg pardon, sir,” mumbled the bewildered Graves.
He raised the curtains, vacated the car immediately and stood at a stiff
salute while Dan handed Tamea into the luxurious interior. As he
followed her in he turned to Graves and growled, “Scoundrel! You shall
pay dearly for this.” A lightning wink took the sting out of his words,
however, and caused Graves to bow his head in simulated humiliation;
nevertheless the faithful fellow could not forbear one final effort.
Just before he closed the door upon them he switched off the dome light.
As he did so he saw Tamea’s hand slip into Dan Pritchard’s.
“All I ask,” Graves murmured a moment later to the oil gage, “is that
Miss Morrison don’t get her lamps on them two. She don’t seem to have no
success gettin’ him to fall for her, but along comes this Portugee or
gipsy or somethin’ with an accordion on her arm, and the jig is up.
She’s dressed like a North Beach wop woman that’s married a fisherman,
but she tells him she’s a queen and wants to step out with him in his
automobile. Right away he falls for her. Bing! Bang! And they’re off in
a cloud of dust. Ain’t it the truth? When these quiet birds do step out
they go some!”
There was a buzzing close to his left ear.
“Sailing directions,” murmured Graves and inclined his ear toward the
annunciator.
“Home, Graves!” said the voice of Daniel Pritchard.
Graves quivered as if mortally stung, but out of the chaos of his
emotions the habit of years asserted itself. He nodded to indicate that
he had received his orders and understood them, and the car rolled away
down the Embarcadero.
“Now,” murmured the hapless Graves, addressing the speedometer, “I
_know_ he’s crazy! Of course I can stand it, Sooey Wan won’t give a hoot
and Julia probably won’t let on she’s saw anything out of the way, but
Mrs. Pippy’ll give notice p. d. q. and quit quicker’n that. . . . Well,
I should worry and grow a lot of gray hairs.”
He tooled the car carefully through rough cobbled streets which
ordinarily he would have avoided, and by a circuitous route reached Dan
Pritchard’s house in Pacific Avenue. “I’ll be shot if I’ll pull up in
front to unload them,” he resolved, and darted in the automobile
driveway, nor paused until the car was in the garage! As he reached for
the hand brake the annunciator buzzed again; again Graves inclined a
rebellious ear.
“While appreciating tremendously the sentiments that actuate you,
Graves,” came Dan Pritchard’s calm voice, “the fact is that my garage is
scarcely a fitting place in which to unload a lady. Back out into the
street and so maneuver the car that we will be enabled to alight at the
curb in front of the house.”
Again the habit of years conquered. Graves nodded. But to the button on
the motor horn he said dazedly:
“He’s got the gall of a burglar! Here I go out of my way to help him and
he throws a monkey wrench into the machinery. Very well, boss! If you
can stand it I guess I can. I ain’t got no proud flesh!”
With a sinking heart he obeyed and stood beside the car watching Dan
Pritchard steer Tamea up the steps; saw the incomprehensible man open
the street door with his latchkey; saw him propel Tamea gently through
the portal and follow; saw the door close on the incipient scandal!
Then he looked carefully up and down the street and satisfied himself
that he had been the only witness to the amazing incident; whereupon he
put the car up and hastened into the servants’ dining room to ascertain
what, if any, impression had been created upon Mrs. Pippy, the
housekeeper, Julia, the maid, and Sooey Wan, the Chinese cook, who, with
Graves, constituted the Pritchard _ménage_.
As Graves took his seat at the servants’ table and gazed inquisitively
through the door into the kitchen where Sooey Wan, squatted on his
heels, was glowering at something in the oven, Pritchard entered the
kitchen. Sooey Wan looked up at him but did not deem it necessary to
stand up.
“Boss,” he demanded, “wha’ for you allee time come home late for
dinner?”
“I don’t come home late for dinner all the time. Confound your Oriental
hide, Sooey Wan, are you never going to quit complaining?”
The imperturbable Sooey Wan glanced at the alarm clock on an adjacent
shelf.
“You klazy, boss,” he retorted. “You fi’, ten, fi’teen, twenty-fi’
minutes late. Dinner all spoil, ever’thing go lotten boss don’ come home
on time.”
“Go to thunder, you old raven! Quit your croaking,” Dan admonished the
heathen.
Sooey Wan flew—or rather pretended to fly—into a rage. “Helluva note,”
he cried, and shied a butcher knife into the sink. “Twenty year I cook
for you papa, but he never late. Papa allee time in heap hurry. Son,
allee time go slow, takum easy. Well, you likee lotten dinner I ketchum,
boss. You likee A-numba-one dinner no can do—gee, Missa Dan, wha’s
mallah? You no look happy.”
“I’m a bit distressed tonight, Sooey Wan.”
Sooey Wan stood up and laid a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You tell Sooey
Wan,” he urged, and in his faded old eyes, in his manner and in the
intonation of his voice, no longer shrill with pretended rage, there was
evidenced the tremendous affection which the old San Francisco Chinese
servant class always accords to a kindly and generous employer and
particularly to that employer’s children.
“A good friend has died, Sooey Wan.”
“That’s hell,” said Sooey Wan sympathetically. “Me know him, boss?”
“Yes, he was a friend of yours, too, Sooey, Captain Larrieau, the
Frenchman with the big beard.”
“Sure, I remember him. When he come Sooey Wan have sole for dinner. He
teachee me how makum sauce Margie Lee.”
“Yes, poor Gaston was very fond of tenderloin of sole with sauce
Margery, as it is made in Marseilles. Well, he’s dead, Sooey Wan, and
tonight I brought his daughter home with me. I am her guardian.”
“Allee same papa, eh?”
Dan nodded, and Sooey Wan thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “All li’, Missa
Dan,” he replied. “I have A-numba-one dinner! Too bad captain die. Him
one really nice man—him likee Missa Dan velly much. Too bad!”
He patted his employer on the shoulder in a manner that meant volumes.
“The lady has to dress, Sooey Wan, so we cannot have dinner for half an
hour yet.”
“You leavee dinner to Sooey Wan,” the old Chinaman assured him. “Missa
Dan, you likee cocktail now?”
“Never mind, thank you.”
“Sure, boss, you likee cocktail now. You no talkee Sooey Wan. Sooey Wan
fixee nice Gibson cocktail. My boy ketchum cold heart, Sooey Wan makum
heart warm again. . . . Shut up, shut up! Boss, you allee time talkee
too damn much.”
Realizing the uselessness of protest, Dan stood by while Sooey Wan
manufactured the heart-warmer. And when the drink was ready the old
Chinaman produced two glasses and filled one for himself. “I dlink good
luck to spirit Captain Larrieau. Hoping devil no catchum,” he said.
“Tonight me go joss-house and burn devil paper.”
He set down his empty glass and with paternal gentleness thrust Dan out
of the kitchen; as the door swung to behind the latter, Sooey Wan began
audibly to discharge a cargo of oaths, both Chinese and English. This
appeared to relieve his feelings considerably, for presently he
commenced to sing softly, which emboldened Graves to address him.
“Say, Sooey,” he suggested, “I wouldn’t mind bein’ wrapped around one of
those cocktails of the boss’s myself.”
Sooey Wan looked at him—once. Once was sufficient. Ah, these new
servants—these fresh American boys! How little did they know their
place! What a febrile conception of their duty toward the author of the
payroll was theirs!
“Bum!” hissed Sooey Wan. “Big Amelican bum!” Seizing the poker he
commenced stirring the fire vigorously, from time to time favoring
Graves with a tigerish glance which said all too plainly, “I stir the
fire with this, but if I hear any more of your impudence I’ll knock your
brains out with it.”
Graves subsided. He knew who was the head of that house!