AN INNOCENT EAVESDROPPER
DOWN at Port Tampa, out in the bay, lay the “Restless” at anchor.
Jeff Randolph was aboard the yacht, in sole charge. That Florida boy
couldn’t have been coaxed on shore, no matter what the allurement
offered. He was supremely happy in the realization of his great
ambition.
For four days, now, the Tremaines and their friends, including Captain
Halstead and Engineer Dawson, had been at the big, luxurious Tampa Bay
Hotel, at Tampa proper, nine miles up from the port.
Both Tom and his chum had demurred mildly, when invited to go with the
rest of the party to the hotel.
“Oh, come along,” said Henry Tremaine, genially. “It will do you
youngsters good to get away from your yacht once in a while. Up at the
hotel you will mix with people, and learn some things of the ways of
the world that can’t be learned on the salt water.”
Borne right down in their mild resistance, the boys had yielded and
gone with the party.
Nor did either Halstead or Dawson feel at all out of his element in
the sparkling life of the great hotel. Both were self-possessed boys,
who had seen much of the world. Both were quiet, of good manners, and
their shore clothing, once their uniforms were discarded on board the
“Restless,” were of good cut and finish.
Altogether, they _did_ enjoy themselves hugely at this fashionable
winter resort. Moreover, they made quite a number of pleasant
acquaintances in Tampa, and found much to make the time pass pleasantly.
As for the Tremaines and their ward, they had met friends from the
North, and were enjoying themselves. There were drives, automobile
rides, short excursions, and the like. At night there was the hotel
ball to take up the time of the ladies.
“It’s rather a new world to us, chum, and a mighty pleasant one it is
too,” said Joe Dawson, quietly.
As for Halstead, though he remained outwardly cool and collected, these
were days when he secretly lived on tenterhooks. He haunted the mail
clerk’s desk all he could without betraying himself to Dixon.
When asking Randolph to write him at this hotel the young skipper had
planned to run up each day from Port Tampa. Now, however, being at
the hotel all the time, young Halstead chafed as the time slipped by
without the arrival of the letter he expected.
This afternoon, realizing that there was no possibility of a letter
before the morrow, Halstead slipped off alone, following the street car
track up into the main thoroughfare of Tampa.
Presently, in the throng, Halstead found himself unconsciously trailing
after Tremaine and young Mr. Dixon.
“By the way, you’re known at the bank here, aren’t you, Tremaine?”
inquired Dixon.
“Very well, indeed,” smiled the older man. “In fact, I’ve entertained
the president, Mr. Haight, in New York.”
“Then I wish you’d come in with me, a moment, and introduce me,”
suggested the younger man.
“With pleasure, my boy.”
As they stepped inside the bank Halstead passed on without having
discovered himself to either of the others.
Henry Tremaine, inside the bank, led the way to Mr. Haight’s office.
“Mr. Haight,” he said to the man who sat at the sole desk in the room,
“my friend, Mr. Dixon, has asked me to present him to you. He’s a good
fellow, and one of my yachting party.”
Mr. Haight rose to shake hands with both callers.
“I wish to cash a check for a thousand,” explained Dixon, presently.
“You have it with you?” inquired President Haight.
“Yes; here it is.”
“Ah, yes; your personal check,” said Mr. Haight, scanning the slip of
paper. “Er—ah—er—as a purely formal question, Mr. Tremaine, you will
advise me that this check is all right?”
Oliver Dixon laughed carelessly, while Henry Tremaine, in his
good-hearted way, responded:
“Right? Oh, yes, of course. Wait. I’ll endorse the check for you.”
Nodding, Mr. Haight passed him a pen, with which Tremaine wrote his
signature on the back of the check. With this endorsement it mattered
nothing to the president whether the check was good or not. Henry
Tremaine’s written signature on the paper bound the latter. Mr. Haight
knew quite well that Tremaine’s name was “good” for vastly more than a
thousand dollars.
“I’ll endorse anything that my young friend Dixon offers you,” smiled
the older man, as he passed the check back to the bank president.
“With such a guarantee as that,” smiled Mr. Haight, affably, “Mr. Dixon
may negotiate all the paper he cares to at this bank.”
“I may take you up, later on,” smiled the younger man. “I’ve taken such
a notion to Tampa that I think I shall buy a place here, and spend a
goodly part of my winters here.”
“In that case, if you’ll favor us with your account——” began Mr. Haight.
“That is exactly what I shall want to do,” the young man assured the
bank president.
The money was brought, in hundred dollar bills, and Dixon tucked it
away in his wallet. After handshakings all around, the two callers
departed.
On coming out of the bank Oliver Dixon trod as though on air. He was
beginning to feel the importance of a man who is “solid” at a bank.
Having turned back along the main thoroughfare, Halstead met the pair
as they came out of the bank.
“You look rather aimless, Captain,” observed Tremaine, halting and
smiling.
“I’m just strolling about taking in the sights of this quaint little
old place,” replied Tom.
“And I’ve been making Dixon acquainted at the bank, so that he can cash
his checks hereafter without difficulty,” replied Mr. Tremaine. “As I
am in a position to know that the young man has a good deal of money
about him, I think we ought to require him to lead us to the nearest
ice cream place. Eh?”
“He’ll do it,” laughed Tom, easily, “if he’s as good natured as he is
prosperous.”
Nodding gayly, young Mr. Dixon wheeled them about, piloting them
without more ado in the right direction.
* * * * *
The night’s dance was on at the Tampa Bay Hotel. The strains of a dance
number had just died out. Out of the ball-room couples poured into the
great lobby of the hotel, rich and fragrant with the plants of the
tropics. Doors open on the east and west sides of the lobby allowed a
welcome breeze to wander through. Women wore the latest creations from
Paris; the black-coated men looked sombre enough beside their more
gayly attired ball-room partners. All was life and gayety.
Tom Halstead, who did not boast evening clothes in his wardrobe, had
dropped into a chair beside a window in one of the little rooms off the
lobby. The breeze had blown the heavy drapery of the window behind his
chair, screening him from the gaze of anyone who entered the room—a
fact of which the young skipper was not at that moment aware.
Into this room, with quicker step than usual, came a young woman. Into
her face had crept lines of pain. She looked like a woman to whom had
come a most unwelcome revelation.
At her side, pale and over-anxious, stepped a young man. Yet his face
was strongly set, as the face of a man who did not intend to accept
defeat easily.
The young woman wheeled abruptly about, looking compassionately at her
escort. Then she spoke; it was the voice of Ida Silsbee:
“I can’t tell you how wretched this has made me feel, Mr. Dixon,” she
said, in a low voice. “So far, I have given no thought to marriage.”
“Do—do you love anyone else?” he inquired, huskily.
“No,” she answered, promptly. “I am heart-free—utterly so.”
“Then why may I not hope?” he demanded, eagerly.
“No, no; it would be worse than unkind for me to let you even hope that
I might change my answer. I do not care for you in the way that a woman
should love her husband.”
“Have you any real objection to me?”
“Yes,” she answered, clearly, steadily, meeting his eyes. “My objection
is not one that should cause you any humiliation, Mr. Dixon. It is
simply that you do not combine the qualities that I would expect in the
man I married.”
“But you have not known me long. Perhaps——”
“I have seen enough of you, Mr. Dixon, to feel certain that I should
never feel a deep affection for you.”
“If you have discovered anything about me,” he pleaded, intensely, “I
might be able—would be able—to change for your sake.”
“That, of all, is least likely,” she replied, honestly, seriously. “If
you were the man to win my heart, Mr. Dixon, you would already have
shown the traits, the characteristics, that would interest me in a man.”
“And I have not shown those traits?”
“You have not.”
“Then wait! Perhaps——”
Ida Silsbee laid an appealing hand on the arm of the pallid-faced young
man.
“Do not hope. Do not give this unhappy fancy any further encouragement,
Mr. Dixon. To say what I am saying now gives me the greatest pain I
have felt in many a year. But, believe me, there is absolutely no hope
that I can ever love you. My own heart tells me that most positively.
You understand, don’t you? It will be worse than folly ever to think
of repeating our talk of these last few minutes. I am heartily sorry,
but I do not love you, Mr. Dixon, and I am wholly certain that I never
shall. Now, please lead me among others that we may be certain not to
carry this wholly unpleasant, impossible conversation any further.”
It was said in all gentleness. Yet, as he watched her while she was
speaking, Oliver Dixon realized that this young woman knew her own
mind thoroughly. He saw, and believed, that he could never be anything
to her.
“A heart’s Waterloo, then,” he sighed, with a bitter smile. He bowed,
offering her his arm. “I shall not distress you again, Miss Silsbee.”
They turned, passing from the room, joining the throng in the lobby.
Tom Halstead? He had heard every word. Too honorable to play the
eavesdropper, he had risen at once. Then he had halted for a brief
instant, that he might think what best to do in the circumstances.
From the first word the conversation had told its own story swiftly.
Captain Halstead, at the very moment of impulse to step from behind the
draperies and proclaim his presence, drew back. By showing himself was
he not far more likely to bring great annoyance upon Ida Silsbee?
The scene had passed swiftly. While Tom Halstead was rapidly trying to
make up his mind whether he would annoy Miss Silsbee more by showing
himself, the pair turned and left the room.
“That makes me feel like a mean hound!” Tom Halstead muttered,
indignant with himself, though he was not at fault. “I had no notion
of playing the spy, yet I’ve done it. Confound it, there’s only one
reparation I can make, and that is to hold my lips padlocked!”
He waited but a decent interval, then stepped from the room, afraid
that, if he lingered in his former seat, he might be forced to be a
witness to more such scenes. Though Halstead had no means of knowing
it, that little room had been the scene of hundreds of proposals of
marriage.
“Yet, now that I _do_ know what I had no business to find out in
that way,” murmured Skipper Tom to himself, “I’ve got Mr. Tremaine’s
interests to think about a bit. If Oliver Dixon knows that he has been
defeated, then he’ll be likely to get away in a hurry, and without
leaving any address behind, for he has at least the money he stole from
Tremaine. That is, if he _did_ steal it. Of course he did.”
Hearing the music and the soft, rhythmic swish of feet over the waxed
floor, young Halstead presently glanced in through one of the entrances
to the ball-room. Dixon was there, dancing with Mrs. Tremaine. The
young man had recovered much of his usual self-possession, even forcing
a smile. Then Ida Silsbee, still looking pained, glided by, directed by
the arm of Henry Tremaine.
“Does Dixon mean to fly?” Tom wondered. “After all, why should he? He’s
having a good time, and he doesn’t fear being found out. Besides, he’s
very likely a big enough egotist to imagine there’s still a chance of
winning Miss Silsbee. No; I hardly think he’ll run away for a while
yet.”
None the less the young motor boat captain determined to keep a close
eye over the movements of Oliver Dixon.