ABOARD THE ARGOS
Blythe and I had agreed that an attempt would be made to relieve us of
the map while we were carrying it from the safety-deposit vault to the
ship. So far as we could see it was Bothwell's last chance to gain
possession of the coveted chart, and he was not the man to leave a stone
unturned.
At half past three we drove in the car of a friend to the International
Safe Deposit Company's place of business. He waited outside while we
went in to reclaim the document.
Five minutes later we reappeared, the paper in the inside pocket of my
tightly buttoned coat. My eyes explored to right and left.
The thunder of trolley cars, the rumble of wholesale wagons, the buzz of
automobiles, all made their contribution to the roar of the busy canon
up and down which men and women passed by hundreds. That Bothwell would
make an attempt at a hold-up here seemed inconceivable. But if not here,
then--where? He had to have the map or give up the fight.
Blythe followed me into the tonneau and our car swept out into the
stream of traffic. Less than a quarter of an hour later we stepped down
from the machine, shook hands with our friend, and took the boat which
was waiting for us at the wharf. Even now we were alert, ready for any
emergency that might occur.
Nothing happened, except our safe arrival at the _Argos_. Miss Wallace
and her aunt were on deck to welcome us. Sam and I exchanged rather
sheepish glances. Nobody likes to be caught making a mountain out of a
mole hill, and that was apparently what we had done. Our elaborate
preparations to defend the map during the past half hour had been
unnecessary.
"Tide right, Mr. Mott?" Blythe asked.
"All right, sir."
"Then we'll start at once."
I retired to my cabin, disposed of a certain document, and presently
returned to the deck. The engines were throbbing and the _Argos_ was
beginning to creep.
"We're off," I said to Miss Wallace, who was standing by my side on the
bridge deck leaning upon the rail.
"Yes, we're off. Luck with us," she cried softly with shining eyes.
I looked at her and smiled. The excitement that burned in her I could
understand, since I too shared it. We were answering the call of the sea
and its romance was tingling in our blood. Into what wild waters we were
to be whirled none of us had the slightest guess. It was fortunate that
the future was screened by a veil behind which we could not peep.
The quiver of the engines grew stronger. The _Argos_ was walking smartly
out into the bay, her funnels belching black smoke. A stiff wind was
blowing and the vessel leaped as she took the waves. Behind us in the
falling dusk the lights of the city began to come out like stars.
"I wonder when we'll see her again," my companion said softly, her gaze
on the hill of twinkling lights.
Like a Winged Victory her fine, lithe figure was outlined by the wind,
which had flung back the white skirt against the slender limbs, showing
the flowing lines as she moved. In her jaunty yachting cap, the heavy
chestnut hair escaping in blowing tendrils, a warmer color whipped into
her soft cheeks by the breeze, there was a sparkle to her gayety, a
champagne tang to her animation. One guessed her an Ionian goddess of
the sea reincarnated in the flesh of a delightful American girl.
It was this impression on me that gave the impetus to my answer.
"Not too soon, I hope."
Miss Berry joined us. I tucked her arm under mine and the three of us
tramped the promenade deck. Mott went down to his dinner and Blythe took
the wheel. My friend was an experienced sailor, and he had that dash of
daring which somehow never results in disaster. We could see the men
scurrying to and fro at his orders. The white sails began to belly out
with the whistling wind.
Blythe roared an order down the speaking tube and swung round the spokes
of the wheel. Straight toward the Golden Gate we sprang, bowling along
with increasing speed. Past Tamalpais we scudded and through the
narrows, out to the fresh Pacific like a bloodhound taking the scent.
"By the way she's going the _Argos_ smells treasure at our journey's
end," I laughed.
"Oh, I like this! Isn't it glorious?" the girl murmured.
"You come of sailor blood," I reminded her. "Many a girl would be in the
hands of the ship's doctor already."
"Didn't know we had a doctor on board."
"Morgan will have to serve in lieu of one. But there goes the dinner
gong. We must go and get ready."
"I suppose so," she sighed regretfully. "But it's a pity to miss a
moment of this. Do you see that glow on the water? Is that why it's
called the Golden Gate?"
"I fancy the argonauts called it that because it was the passage through
which they passed on their way to the gold fields. And for the same
reason we can give it that name too."
We moved to the stairway, which was in the pavilion, and descended to
our rooms on the main deck.
As soon as I had entered mine I switched on the light and threw off my
coat. Collar and tie followed the coat into the berth. I passed into the
bath room and washed. At the moment I flung the towel back on the rack a
sound came to me from my bedroom. I turned quickly, to see a diminutive
figure roll from the back of the bed and untangle itself from my coat.
"Please, I'm awful sick, Mr. Sedgwick," a voice lugubriously groaned.
I stood staring at the little yellow face. The forlorn urchin was our
office boy, Jimmie Welch.
"You young cub, what are you doing here?" I demanded.
"I'm a stowaway," he groaned. "Like Hall Hiccup, the Boy Pirate, you
know. But, by crickey, I wouldn't a come if I'd a known it would be like
this."
"Didn't I tell you that you couldn't come? How did you get here?"
"Golly, I'm sick! I'm going to die."
"Serves you right, you young rascal."
I didn't blow him up any more just then. Instead I hurriedly offered
first aid to the seasick. He felt a little better after that.
"I told Mr. Mott you had sent me on an errand. He thought I'd gone
ashore again, mebbe."
"That's where you'll go as soon as we reach San Pedro."
"Yes, sir. Hope so." He groaned woefully. "Thought you'd need a cabin
boy, sir, but I'll never do it again, s'elp me."
"I'm going to give you a licking as soon as you get well. Don't forget
that. Now I have to leave you. I'll be back after a while. Go to sleep
if you can."
By reason of Jimmie I reached the dinner table as the soup was being
removed. Only four of us messed in the cabin. Mott, the engineers, and
Morgan had a separate table of their own aft.
"Late already, my boy. This won't do. Ship's discipline, you know. Make
a report and clear yourself," Blythe called out as I entered.
"My patient seems a bit better," I announced, sitting down opposite Miss
Wallace.
"Your patient?" that young woman repeated.
"Yes, I find I have a guest to share my cabin with me, and he has begun
by yielding to an attack of _mal-de-mer_."
"Is this a conundrum? I'm not good at them." This from Miss Berry.
"No, it's a stowaway. The conundrum is to know what to do with the
little rascal."
"Meaning who?"
"James A. Garfield Welch. I found him tucked away in my berth, very much
the worse for wear."
The Englishman helped himself to asparagus tips and laughed.
"He's certainly a persevering young beggar. He hung around me for three
days trying to persuade me to take him. Now he's here on French leave."
"He'll have to make himself useful, now he's here. The little idiot
imagines himself a sort of boy pirate, so he explained to me. I'm going
to try to introduce a little sense into his system by means of a strap
applied to the cuticle."
"Oh, I wouldn't," Evelyn begged quickly. "Poor fellow! I daresay he
wanted to come as badly as we did."
"He happens to have a mother," I added dryly. "She's no doubt worrying
her life out about the young pirate. I really think we owe him a licking
on her account."
"Poor woman! She must be feeling dreadfully. Isn't there any way of
letting her know that he is safe?" Miss Berry asked.
"We'll have to call in at San Pedro, though that means the loss of a
day. We can send the youngster home from Los Angeles," Blythe suggested.
"If his mother is willing, Jimmie might go on with us. He would be
useful to run errands," Evelyn proposed.
"Jimmie has a staunch friend in you, Miss Wallace. We'll think it over.
There's plenty of time before we reach Los Angeles," our captain
answered. "He can take the upper berth in the cook's cabin. Have him
moved after dinner, Morgan."
We lingered after dinner till the second dog watch was over, when Blythe
excused himself to go on deck. I soon followed him, for though I am no
sailor I was rated as second officer on the _Argos_, Mott being the
first.
I had not yet had a good view of the crew and I looked them over
carefully as Blythe divided them in watches. They appeared a lively
enough lot, though it struck me that one or two showed sullen faces.
Caine, the boatswain, was a villainous looking fellow, due in part to
the squint of his eyes that set them at different angles. But he turned
out a thoroughly capable man with a knack of getting out of the men all
that was in them.
Under Mott's supervision I took a turn at the wheel, for I did not
intend, if I could help it, to be deadwood throughout the whole cruise.
I could see Miss Wallace pacing the deck with Blythe for hours, his
cigar tip glowing in the darkness as they advanced toward the wheel
house. I would have liked to join them, but I had set out to make of
myself enough of a sailor to serve at a pinch, and I stuck to my task.
It was late when I reached my cabin. I must have fallen asleep at once,
for it was day again before I knew anything more.
We met at breakfast, the four of us, and not one but was touched by the
loveliness of which we were the center. It was not a new story to
Blythe--this blue arched roof of sky, this broad stretch of sea, this
warm sun on a day cool enough to invigorate the blood--but he too showed
a lively pleasure in it.
Miss Berry took some fancy work and a magazine with her on deck and
spent the morning placidly in a steamer chair, but her niece and I were
too full of our pleasure to rest so contentedly.
To any who have sailed on the glassy breast of the Pacific day after
day, knowing all the little pleasures of life aboard a well-found
turbine yacht, a description would be superfluous; to one who has never
known it, such an attempt would be entirely futile. By either
alternative I am debarred from trying to set down the delight of our
days, the glory of our nights of stars.