THE BOAT
It was odd how the memorable series of adventures which befell Tom was
thus started by that blithesome visitor at camp, whom they called the
wandering minstrel. He set fire to Tom’s imagination in the same
careless fashion that characterized all his artless, irresponsible acts,
and ambled away again leaving poor Tom to his fate.
Tom went down to Catskill Landing to look at the boat. He did not tell
any one he was going because he realized the absurdity of a young camp
assistant with thirty dollars a week going to inspect a boat which was
for sale for two thousand dollars. He just wanted to look at it; a cat
can look at a king.
He did not go about his inspection in Hervey’s original way; he secured
permission from the man in whose care the boat had been left, and this
man rowed him out to the boat which lay at anchor a hundred feet or so
from shore.
Tom felt rather embarrassed at finding that some one representing the
owner was to accompany him, and he had an unpleasant feeling that the
man knew he was not a likely customer.
“They thinking of buying a boat for the camp?” the caretaker asked as
they rowed out.
“Oh, I just thought I’d look her over,” said Tom, non-committally. “It’s
a bargain, I hear.”
“These rich fellers get tired of their toys, you know,” said the man. “I
suppose if that boat was down New York and he advertised her, she’d be
snapped up quick enough.”
“Who is the owner?” Tom asked.
“Homer, his name is; folks got a big place near Greendale. Oak Lodge
they call it. He’s in Europe now.”
Tom climbed up on the deck of the boat with more reverence for it than
ever Hervey Willetts had shown.
It was a cabin cruiser, one of those palatial motor-boats which seem all
the more luxurious and attractive for being cosy and small. It had a
quaint name, _Goodfellow_, which somehow seemed appropriate to its
combined qualities of snug comfort and sporty trimness. It looked a wide
awake, companionable boat.
It seemed to Tom that the owner must be a young man with a predilection
for camping, and all the wholesome sport which goes with it, for in the
little cabin there were fishing tackle, crab-nets, a tent and all the
usual paraphernalia of the scout and adventurer. A mere glimpse at the
tiny galley with its oil stove and spotless tins was enough to arouse an
appetite.
“It’s a peach all right,” said poor Tom; “it’s a bargain at two
thousand, I’ll say that. I wonder why he wants to get rid of it?”
“Got the airplane bug, I guess,” said the man.
“He’s in Europe?” Tom asked.
“Climbin’ mountains in Switzerland; last card I got from him said
Loosarne or some such place. If all them mountains was stamped out flat
I reckon Switzerland would be as big as the United States. Folks get
crazes fer climbin’ them mountains; they got ter go roped together, I
hear. What rich folks is after is excitement, I reckon. They go sailin’
on the streets in Veenus, judgin’ from the post cards.”
Tom did not hear these comments on European travel. He was gazing about,
feasting his eyes on every enchanting detail and appurtenance of the
boat. He derived a kind of foolish comfort from the fact that, the owner
being away, the sale of this trim little floating palace could not be
consummated for a while at least. Yet he stood a better chance of being
struck by lightning than of being able to buy it.
“Well, you couldn’t sell it anyway?” he said in a wistfully, questioning
way.
“Couldn’ give no bill o’ sale,” said the man.
“And she won’t go yet then—anyway?”
“Not ’nes she slips her anchor.”
Poor Tom could not drag himself away from the handsome little craft. He
vaulted onto the cabin roof and sat with his legs dangling over the
cockpit, gazing about at the accessories which spoke so seductively of
nautical life; the anchor, the bell, the compass, the brass fog-horn in
its canvas cover, the life preservers with _Goodfellow_ printed on them.
Then, like a flash, he ceased his day dreaming and became the practical,
alert young fellow that he was. He jumped down off the cabin roof, fully
awake to his poverty and the fact that he was wasting this honest man’s
time.
“She’s the kind of boat you read about, all right,” he said.
As they rowed shoreward the man gave a little dissertation on boats
which Tom later had cause to remember.
“Well, there’s somethin’ about a boat,” he said, “yer fall in love with
it. Now nobody ever loved a automobile. I guess that’s why boats is
called females in a way of speakin’; named after women and all that. Yer
go crazy over a boat. I knowed men, I did, would let their boats rot,
’fore they’d sell ’em. You wouldn’ hear uv nobody doin’ that with a
airplane. It’s human natur’, as the feller says.
“You never heered nobody speak affectionate about a automobile, now did
yer? Yer heered ’em praise it ’n say it could make the hills ’n all
that, but yer never heered nobody speak soft like ’bout one, now did
yer? Folks get new autos every year or two, but they stick ter their ole
boats.
“When a boat brings a man in out uv a storm he jes’ kind uv loves that
boat. He don’t look at his speedometer and say, ‘She done three hundred
miles ’n she’s worth that much less.’ No sir, I can show yer half a
dozen men ’bout here, up ’n down the river, wouldn’ sell yer their ole
scows, no _sir_, not fer love or money, they wouldn’.
“Take Danny Jellif up here, owns the _Daisy_; you couldn’ buy the
_Daisy_. ’Cause money don’t count fer nothin’ where there’s love; that’s
how I dope it out. Mebbe these rich fellers is different, but not
always, I guess. Leastways, yer get ter love a boat, she’s kind uv
human. Mebbe Ted Homer is different; he didn’ name her a female name
anyway.”
“Oh, lots of girls are good fellows,” said Tom. “Well, I reckon you know
more about ’em than I do,” said the man as he rowed.
This was not the case, for indeed Tom knew very little about them. This
was his first love affair. He was madly in love with _Goodfellow_. And
it was pathetic that this beauteous damsel of his heart was so far
beyond his reach. He was like a pauper in love with a princess and he
felt that he would do anything in the world to win her. Anything? Well,
most anything....