MR. COCHRAN'S TEMPER
David Downes stared at the ceiling, blinked at the long windows, and
squirmed until he saw a sweet-faced woman smiling at him from the
doorway. She wore a blue dress and white apron, but she was not a
_Roanoke_ stewardess nor was this place anything like the bunk-room on
shipboard. The cadet put his hands to his head and discovered that it
was wrapped in bandages. Then memory began to come back, at first in
scattered bits. He had been running through dark and empty streets. Men
were after him. How many of his bones had they broken? He raised his
knees very carefully and wiggled his toes. He was sound, then, except
for his head. Oh, yes, he had banged against something frightfully hard
when he fell. But why was he not aboard the _Roanoke_? She sailed at
eight o'clock in the morning. He tried in vain to sit up, and called
to the nurse:
"What time is it, ma'am? Tell me, quick!"
"Just past noon, and you have been sleeping beautifully," said she.
"The doctor says you can sit up to-morrow and be out in three or four
days more."
"Oh! oh! my ship has sailed without me," groaned David, hiding his face
in his hands. "And Captain Thrasher will think I have quit him. He knew
I had a notion of staying ashore."
"You must be quiet and not fret," chided the nurse. "You got a nasty
bump, that would have broken any ordinary head."
"But didn't you send word to the ship?" he implored. "You don't know
what it means to me."
"You had not come to, when you were brought in, foolish boy, and there
were no addresses in your pockets."
"But the captain probably signed on another cadet to take my place,
first thing this morning," quavered the patient, "and--and I--I'm
adrift and dis--disgraced."
The nurse was called into the hall and presently returned with the
message:
"A red-headed sailor man insists upon seeing you. If you are very good
you may talk to him five minutes, but no more visitors until to-morrow,
understand?"
The anxious face of Mr. Becket was framed in the doorway, and at a
nod from the nurse he crossed the room with gingerly tread and patted
David's cheek, as he exclaimed:
"Imagine my feelin's when I read about it in a newspaper, first
thing this morning. They didn't know your name, but I figured it out
quicker'n scat. You must think I'm the dickens of a shipmate in foul
weather, hey, boy?"
"You couldn't help it, Mr. Becket, and I'm tickled to death to see you.
Please tell me what happened to me. I feel as if I was somebody else."
"Well, it was quick work, by what I read," began Mr. Becket. "And as
close a shave as there ever was. Accordin' to reports, you, being a
well-dressed and unknown young stranger, was rescued from a gang of
drunken roustabouts by two policemen, a big red automobile, and a
prominent citizen whose name was withheld at his request, as the bright
reporter puts it. The machine was coming under full power from a late
ferry, and making a short cut to Broadway. It must have bowled around
the corner, close hauled, just as you landed on your beam ends, and it
scattered the enemy like a bum-shell. They never had a chance to see
it coming. The skipper of the gasolene liner, he being the aforesaid
prominent citizen, hopped out to pick you up, and had you aboard just
as the police came up. So you came to the hospital in the big red
wagon, the gentleman taking a fancy to your face, as far as I can make
out. And so you've been turned into a regular mystery that ought to be
in a book."
"But did you find Captain Bracewell?" was David's next spoken thought.
"Of course I did, after I got tired waitin' for you," and Mr. Becket's
tone was aggrieved. "It was mistrustin' my judgment that landed you
in a hospital. Captain John and Margaret will be over to pay their
respects as soon as the doctors will let 'em pass the hospital
gangway. I just came from telling them about you."
But David's mind had harked back to his own ship, and his face was so
troubled and despairing that Mr. Becket tugged at his red mustache and
waited in a gloomy silence.
"I've lost my ship," said David at length. "Captain Bracewell and I are
on the beach together."
"Why didn't I think to telephone the dock as soon as I guessed it in
the newspaper?" mourned Mr. Becket, beating his head with his fists.
"But Captain Thrasher or some of 'em aboard will read it."
"They won't know it's me," wailed David. "All I can do now is to report
to the dock as soon as I can, but I am afraid it will do no good."
The boy's distress was so moving that Mr. Becket had to look out of the
window to hide his own woe. Then he spun around and announced with a
shout that brought nurses and orderlies hurrying from the near-by wards:
"I have it, my boy. Abel Becket's intellect is on the mend. Send old
Thrasher a wireless, do you hear? Get the hospital folks to sign it."
With that Mr. Becket jerked a roll of bills from his waistcoat and
demanded a telegraph blank with so commanding an air that an orderly
rushed for the office. The sailor-man and David put their heads
together and composed this message to the _Roanoke_, which was speeding
hull down and under, far beyond Sandy Hook:
_Cadet Downes hurt on shore leave. Unable report because
senseless. Anxious to rejoin ship._
"No, that doesn't sound right," objected David. "He thinks I have no
sense anyhow. I can just hear him saying that he isn't in the least
surprised. Try it again, Mr. Becket."
"Time is up," put in the nurse. "And I ought to have cut it shorter,
with your friend bellowing at you as if he were in a storm at sea."
Mr. Becket looked repentant, as he whispered to David:
"Sit tight and keep your nerve. I'll get the wireless off all
shipshape. Good-by, and God bless you."
The patient soon fell asleep. It was late in the afternoon when he
awoke, hungry and refreshed. The nurse informed him:
"A dear old man and a sweet mite of a girl called to ask after you, and
I told them to come back in the morning and they might see you. Mr.
Cochran had you put in this private room and left orders that you were
to be made as comfortable as possible. So we will have to stretch the
rules a bit, I suppose, and let your friends call out of visiting hours
to-morrow."
David asked who the mysterious Mr. Cochran might be, but he could
learn nothing from the nurse, except that he was the wealthy gentleman
who had brought him to the hospital in his automobile. David tried to
be patient overnight, and was mightily cheered by the arrival of a
wireless message, which read:
_S.S. Roanoke. At sea._
_Have cadet repaired in first-class shape to join ship next
voyage. He is a nuisance._
_Thrasher, Master._
The news that he still belonged in the liner braced David like a strong
tonic. What did a cracked head-piece amount to now? Being called a
nuisance only made him smile. It was Captain Thrasher's way of trying
to cover every kindly deed he did. Next forenoon he was rereading this
message for something like the tenth time when Captain Bracewell was
shown into the room. Margaret followed rather timidly, as if she feared
to find her hero in fragments. The skipper looked even older than when
he had left the _Roanoke_, but the "little girl" looked more like a
June rose than a white violet, so swiftly had her sparkling color
returned. She had both her hands around one of David's as she cried:
"Are you always going to get banged up, you poor sailor boy? And we
were to blame for it again, weren't we?"
"You had no business to run away from me," returned the beaming
patient. "The worst of it was that I almost lost my own ship."
These were thoughtless words said in fun, but they stung Captain
Bracewell with remembrance of his own misfortune, and he stood staring
beyond David with troubled eye. Margaret was quick to read his
unhappiness, and brought him to himself with a fluttering caress. The
derelict shipmaster smiled, and said to David:
"Glad to find you doing so well, boy. You just take it that you are one
of our family while you are ashore. There is an extra room in our--in
our--" He hesitated, and a bit of color came into his leathery cheek as
he finished: "We can find a room for you close by us."
"He means that just now we can't afford to hire more than three rooms
to live in," explained Margaret without embarrassment. "But it will be
different when we get our ship."
They chatted for a few minutes longer and David promised to find a
room as near them as he could, while he waited for the return of the
_Roanoke_. It was easy to see that they wanted to take care of him,
but, for his own part, he felt a kind of guardian care for the welfare
of the two "Pilgrims," and he was very glad of the chance to be with
them at a time when Captain Bracewell was so pitifully unlike his
reliant self. After they had gone, David fell to wondering anew about
this unknown Mr. Cochran who had so lavishly befriended him. It was
enough to make even a sound head ache, and when the nurse brought his
dinner, David begged her:
"If you don't tell me something more about Mr. Cochran, I'll blow up."
"He telephoned about you this morning," she answered, "and wanted to
call, but you had visitors enough. The doctors have told him who you
are, of course, and he seemed very much interested. He said he would
bring his son to see you this afternoon. No, not another word. What
must you be when you are well and sound? I'd sooner take care of a
young cyclone."
Some time later the motherly nurse came in to say, with an air of
excitement that she could not hide:
"Mr. Cochran and his boy to see you. _It is the great Stanley P.
Cochran._ I knew him from his pictures in the newspapers and magazines."
The portly gentleman with the bald brow, gold-rimmed glasses, and
close-cropped gray mustache who entered the room with quick step
looked oddly familiar to David. Why, of course, he had seen his
portrait and his name as the head of a great Trust, and a director in
railroads, banks, and corporations by the dozen. He spoke with curt,
clean-clipped emphasis, as if his minutes were dollars:
"Pretty fit for a lad that looked as dead as a mackerel when I picked
him up. Sailors have no business ashore, but they are hard to kill.
Lucky I was so late in getting back from my country place the other
night. Wish I'd run over the scoundrels, but the police got two of
them. This is my boy, Arthur."
The delicate-looking lad, who had been hanging back, shook hands with
David and smiled with such an air of shy friendliness and admiration
that David liked him on the spot. He looked to be a year or two younger
than the strapping cadet, and lacked the hale and rugged aspect of
which his illness had not robbed him. Mr. Cochran resumed, as if
expecting no reply:
"I liked your looks and there was no sense in waiting for the
confounded ambulance. I told them to treat you right. If they haven't,
I'll get after the hospital, doctors, nurses, and all. When I found out
that you were a cadet from the _Roanoke_, my boy had to come along. He
is crazy about ships and sailors. Reads all the sea stories he can lay
his hands on. Well, I must be off. Arthur, you may stay, but not long,
mind you."
Mr. Stanley P. Cochran clapped on his silk hat and vanished as if he
had dropped through a trap-door. His son said to David, with his shy
smile:
"He is the best father that ever was, but he never has time to stay
anywhere. I wish you would tell me all about your scrape. It sounds
terribly interesting. Will it make your head hurt?"
The cadet had forgotten all about that hard and damaged head of his,
and he plunged into the heart of his adventure without bringing in
Captain Bracewell and Margaret. Their fortunes were too personal and
intimate to be lugged out for the diversion of strangers. Arthur
Cochran followed the flight from the sailors' eating-house with the
most breathless attention, and when David wound up with his head
against the iron post and a ship's fireman about to kick his brains
out, his audience sighed:
"Is that all? Things _never_ happen to me. I am not very strong, you
know, and they sort of coddle me, and trot me around to health resorts
like a set of china done up in cotton. It makes me tired. Tell me all
about being a cadet."
David fairly ached to spin the yarn of the _Pilgrim_ wreck, but the
cruel nurse cut the visit short, and Arthur Cochran had to depart with
the assurance that he would come back next day "to hear the rest of it."
He was true to his word and found David so much stronger that the
unruly patient was sitting up in bed and loudly demanding his clothes.
It was the patient's turn to ask questions this time, and he was eager
to know all about the occupations of a millionaire's son. The heir of
the Cochran fortune had to do most of the talking. David demanded to
know all about his automobiles, his horses, and his yacht, his trips
to Florida and California, his private tutors, and his several homes
among which he flitted to and fro like an uneasy bird. Before they
realized how time had fled Mr. Cochran came to take Arthur home. The
Trust magnate was in his usual hurry, and he volleyed these commands as
if argument were out of the question:
"I have looked you up, Downes. The Black Star office speaks very well
of you. Also the store in which you used to work. I sent a man out this
morning. My boy has taken a great fancy to you. He seldom finds a boy
he likes. I think it might do him good to have you around. I have told
the people here that you are to be moved to my house to-night. You will
stay there until you feel all right. If you wear well, and you are as
capable as you look, I shall find something better for you to do than
this dog's life at sea. Come along, Arthur. You shall see David this
evening."
David's head was in a whirl. A gentleman who belonged in the "Arabian
Nights" was bent upon kidnapping him. It seemed as rash to question the
orders of this lordly parent as to disobey Captain Thrasher, but there
was a look of stubborn resolution in the suntanned jaw of the young
sailor and he was not to be so easily driven. He wavered in silence
for a minute or two while Mr. Stanley P. Cochran eyed him with rising
impatience. Visions of an enchanted land of wealth and pleasure danced
before David's eyes, but even more clearly he saw the appealing figures
of Captain Bracewell and Margaret. They needed him and he had promised
to go to them. He looked up and shook his head as he said with much
feeling:
"I don't know what makes you so good to me, sir. I never heard anything
like it. But I can't accept your invitation. I can never thank you
enough, but I belong somewhere else."
"You have no kinfolk here. I found out all that," exclaimed Mr. Cochran
with a very red face. "Why can't you do as I tell you? Of course you
can. Not another word! Come along, Arthur."
"I mean it," cried David. "I promised to stay with friends I met on
shipboard."
He wanted to tell him about these friends, but the manner of Mr.
Cochran stifled explanation. The magnate was not used to such
astonishing rebellion, and it galled him the more because he felt that
he was stooping to do an uncommonly good deed.
"I seldom urge any one to enter my home," said he. "Nor will I waste
words with a boy I picked off the streets; no, not even to humor my own
son's fancies. Yes, or no!"
"_No_, it is," answered David, "but you mustn't be angry about it. You
don't understand it at all. Give me a chance to tell you why."
Arthur tried to put in an anxious plea, but his father brushed him
aside with the gesture of a Napoleon. "I never spoil an act of charity,
Arthur," said the captain of industry. "The lad shall stay in the
hospital until he is able to shift for himself, and I will pay his
bills. But nothing more! He is ungrateful and contrary. Come along,
Arthur."
David's wrath had risen to match the mood of the hot-tempered Mr.
Stanley P. Cochran.
"I will get out of here to-night," cried the cadet. "And I'll pay you
back every cent it has cost you as soon as I can save it out of my
wages. Good-by, Arthur. I am just as grateful as I can be, don't forget
that."
Arthur had little time to express his surprise and sorrow, for his
domineering parent was towing him down the hall under full steam.
David was left to puzzle his wits over his first acquaintance with a
millionaire. Of one thing he was sure. He must leave the hospital and
have done with Mr. Stanley P. Cochran's singular charity as soon as
ever the doctor would let him. But when he tried to rise, his head
was very dizzy and his legs were oddly weak. To make his way alone to
Captain Bracewell's lodgings was a task beyond his strength to attempt.
He must wait another day, and fretting at the thought of Mr. Cochran's
hasty misjudgments, the cadet's night was restless and slightly fevered.
Although Arthur Cochran sent him a cheery message by telephone next
morning, it hurt David to know that the boy had been forbidden to visit
him again. He longed for the sight of a friendly face, and his joy was
beyond words when the flaming thatch of Mr. Becket burst upon his sight
and dispelled the gloom like the sun breaking through a cloud. David
at once began to tell the wonderful tale of Mr. Stanley P. Cochran
before the seafarer could edge in a word. The listener chewed the ends
of his mustache for a while, and then his chin dropped and his mouth
stayed open in sheerest amazement. Before David had reached the climax,
Mr. Becket broke in:
"_Mr. Stanley P. Cochran_ asked you to bunk in his house, to be
mess-mates with him and his only boy? Pro-dig-io-ou-s! I'd let any gang
of roustabouts knock my head off, close behind the ears, for a gorgeous
chance like that. You are the makin's of a first-class sailor, Davy,
because you are so many kinds of a stark, starin' fool ashore."
"But I had to look after the 'Pilgrims,'" protested David.
"You aren't in shape to look after yourself, you poor idiot," cried Mr.
Becket. "You ought to see yourself in the glass, with your head all
tied in a sling. You look after anybody? Shucks! You turned down Mr.
Stanley P. Cochran? Why, he would ha' made you for life. Oh, my! Oh,
my!"
"But I couldn't feel right if I didn't stand by Captain John and
Margaret, Mr. Becket. I'll never be happy till he gets another ship."
Mr. Becket buried his face in a pillow and appeared to be wrapped in
hopeless dejection. When his florid countenance emerged from its total
eclipse he groaned twice, heaved a sigh that fairly shook him, and
glared at David with speechless reproach.
"What in the world has happened to you now?" peevishly quoth the
patient. "You don't come into this. And I haven't done anything to be
sorry for."
"I hadn't ought to tell you, Davy, and you sick in bed," confessed
the dismal Mr. Becket. "It's rubbin' it in too hard. Mr. Stanley P.
Cochran has just bought out the Columbia sugar refineries, hook, line,
and sinker. I read it in the _Shipping Gazette_ last week. And that
included the whole fleet of square-rigged ships that fetches their
cargoes from the Far East. He controls 'em all now, does Stanley P.
Cochran."
"You mean that I might have helped to get a ship for Captain John?"
David piteously appealed.
"Easy as robbin' a sailor," solemnly answered Mr. Becket. "That boy of
his can have anything on earth, up to a herd of white elephants, for
the simple askin'. And you could ha' had anything you wanted through
the young hopeful. It was a direct act of Providence that you had to go
and monkey with."
David was in the torments of regret. Yes, Arthur Cochran was just the
kind of a boy to feel an affectionate interest in the fortunes of
Captain John and Margaret, once he had a chance to know them. But the
opportunity was past and dead. Mr. Becket looked a little less hopeless
as he exclaimed:
"Is it too late to patch it up? Can't we charter a hack and overhaul
Stanley P. and tell him the prodigal is ashamed of the error of his
ways?"
"He is not that kind," said David. "He will never speak to me again. I
jolted his pride and he is done with me for good. Oh, but I did try to
do what was right. And I've done wrong to my best and dearest friends."
"I begin to think you were born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,"
was Mr. Becket's dreary comment.