Captain Bill Flanders walked down East Twenty-third Street toward
the Yacht Club dock, tired, mentally and physically. Back and forth
from the big steam yacht which he commanded, to ship chandler, boss
carpenter, boss painter and boss rigger, he had traveled, night and
day, for four weeks; but at last the work was done, and the yacht,
shining like a piece of cabinet work, waited at anchor off the landing
for the owner and his daughter, who, with other guests, were to make
the Mediterranean cruise.
Bill had not slept for the last two nights, nor bathed nor shaved for
the last four. He was irritable, cranky, and when he came upon a crowd
of half-grown hoodlums egging a mongrel dog on to a small black kitten
in the clutches of one, Bill gave way. He spared the dog, for the dog
was palpably not in sympathy with the project, but he mercilessly
punished the rest. First, he grabbed the kitten, and stowed the wee
creature in his pocket, then he went for the gang, and, with fists and
boots, so afflicted them that they fled, howling and swearing, from his
vicinity. He sped them with stronger profanity, and when the last rowdy
had disappeared around the corners or into saloons, Bill went his way
with the kitten purring gratefully under his big but soft hand.
Bill felt better for the experience. Bill was a bachelor, whose life's
experiences had been sadly devoid of sentiment. He was, or had been,
a "bilge midshipman," as they say in the navy--that is, a student at
Annapolis who had failed to pass the final examination, and had then
gone to sea as he could, simply for the love of the sea. He had put in
one voyage before the mast in a Yankee ship, and learned self-control;
had sailed in English ships, and learned to eat anything edible not
named in the Board of Trade allowance; had tried Norwegian, German,
Italian, Scotch, and Russian craft, and learned the fundamentals of
the Brotherhood of Man; and then, waking up, he had taken to American
yachts, and soon risen to command. He was a blond giant, smooth-shaven
and gentle of speech, except when aroused; then his face grew dark, and
his voice took on the accents of a fireman's trumpet.
It was late in the evening; he hailed the anchor watch, and the dingey
put off and took him aboard. He saw that all was well, and turned in,
first feeding the kitten and stowing it in his berth. In the morning
the little black mite was still with him, and he fed it again, then
shut it in his room while he attended to business. And it may be
mentioned here that, as the days went on, the kitten grew plump and
playful and lovable, while Big Bill Flanders' big heart grew bigger as
it infolded the pet.
But the business of that morning was the cleaning up of the yacht, and
the taking aboard of the owner and guests. They came, at ten o'clock,
and Captain Bill and the steward received them at the gangway. The
owner was the conventional wealthy man, dignified and severe, who spoke
sternly to his sailing-master, politely to his guests, and smiled
only upon his daughter, a person who invited and demanded smiles. The
abashed steward smiled, as he took her bundle of shawls from her; Big
Bill smiled, as he sent forward a thundering order for men to lift the
baggage out of the boat; and the cabin-boy smiled, as he opened the
companion door for her. She was about twenty-one, with dark hair and
eyes, and of medium height and build, beautiful, as men value beauty,
but with the additional charm of presence that we cannot name except
as personality. The friends of such people smile with them, laugh with
them, frown with them, and suffer with them, and each thinks it emotion
of his own. She had smiled upon Bill, and he went forward, smiling
himself, and happier than he had been for years--for all the years
since he had hoped for his commission, and failed to pass the test. He
spared a few moments to the kitten, fondling, stroking, and caressing
it, then tucking it snugly beneath his blanket against the time when he
would come again.
In bringing this kitten aboard, Bill was guilty of disobedience; the
owner had told him explicitly that the big yacht was to be kept clear
of cats. But as the owner had given no reason for this embargo, he had
considered it merely the whim of the moment, expressed by an irritable
old man, and forgot it quickly.
Bill conned the big steam yacht down the river, through the Narrows,
and out to sea by the Ambrose Channel; then, just a little tired, and
able to enjoy a smoke, he was about to call the mate to the bridge,
when Miss Mayhew appeared. She climbed the steps, rigged out in a
hooded mackintosh--for there was a Scotch mist in the air--and with her
was one of the guests--a tall, well-built, intellectual-looking fellow
named Pearson, a lawyer, as Bill knew by the steward's gossip, and a
devoted attendant on Miss Mayhew.
"You are the captain, aren't you?" ventured the girl. "Do you know,
Captain Flanders, that I've never met a real captain in my life, until
now, though I've read of so many? Have you ever led a cavalry charge?"
"What?" gasped Bill. "Why, Miss Mayhew! No, I'm a seafaring man, not a
soldier."
"There are several kinds of captain, Miss Mayhew," interposed the
lawyer, smiling. "There is the captain of a battleship, we'll say, or
of a cruiser, a destroyer, or the captain of a merchant ship, a North
River sloop, a mud scow, a tug, or a canal boat; then we have captains
in the army, who might lead cavalry charges and we have captains of
militia--tin soldiers, some call them--and captains of industry,
captains in the Salvation Army, captains of police, and captains of boy
soldiers in the parochial and industrial schools."
"And where, and how, do you classify me?" said Bill, his eyes opened
wide, and his voice tense and restrained.
"You?" said the lawyer. "Why, under the rules of the New York Yacht
Club, you are not a 'captain,' but a 'mister.' You are Mister Flanders,
not Captain Flanders."
"I am?" stuttered Bill, in a suppressed fury of rage. "Yes, you're
right. Under the rules of the club I am mister, while the owner is
captain, but in the minds of my crew I am called captain of this ship,
and away from soundings, under the law, I _am_ captain, with power,
backed by the law, to put a recalcitrant guest in irons if he gets too
fresh. Get off this bridge instantly, or I'll call my men; and if you
resist, I'll have you in irons."
"You will?" asked the smiling Pearson. "Well, all right; put me in
irons, and I will deprive you of your license."
"You will not!" stormed Bill. "We're off the three-mile limit, and on
the high seas. Get off this bridge, or I will confine you for mutinous
insubordination. Go, and go quickly, or I'll call the boatswain."
"Gentlemen, Captain Flanders, Mr. Pearson," interposed the girl,
anxiety and apprehension in her face. "Please do not quarrel. Why
should you?"
She looked appealingly at Bill, and his rage left him. Yet it took a
moment or two before he could speak sanely, then he said:
"Of course not. Mr. Pearson, I apologize for my share in this."
"And I apologize for mine," responded the lawyer; "but I think it best,
Miss Mayhew, that we go down now. Good afternoon, Mister Flanders."
He smiled sweetly as he spoke, and turned his back; the girl smiled,
too, but from a different motive, as Bill could readily perceive.
There was trouble in her face--embarrassment, shame, and sympathy--and
something else which Bill could not analyze.
"Don't mind," she whispered, then followed her escort down the steps.
Bill called his first mate, gave him the course, and went to his
room abaft the pilot house. Here he lit his pipe, and lay down--all
standing--in his berth; but not to sleep, only to think of the bright
face peeping out of the mackintosh hood, and the troubled smile, and
the whispered admonition. He thought, too, of the blackness of lawyers,
and dozed off profanely reviling them to be wakened by the purring and
caresses of the kitten. Bill petted the small thing, and forgot Mr.
Pearson, but remembered the troubled smile and the whispered words.
After that the girl came many times to the bridge, and always without
escort of father or admirer. There were plenty of these, and Bill
took the measure of all, as he glanced aft occasionally, and saw
them dancing attendance upon her. There was a little slim fellow,
named Arsdale, whom the steward described as an artist; a big, portly
gentleman, named Muggins, who was a famed short-story writer--and
Bill, as he looked at him, wondered why he himself could not write
short stories and be famous--and a magazine editor on his vacation,
a fine fellow, as men go, one who had especially commended himself
to Bill by his tact, his appreciation of the big fellow's inborn
qualities, and by his deprecation of his own. "I'm only an editor," he
had said, "a critic of other men's work. I'd give my job if I could do
something original, if I could write something, or do something, or
paint something, or kill something. I have tried the last, but never
succeeded; the authors I tried to kill got new life from other editors,
so--what's the use?" This man's name was Elkins, and Bill liked him,
until he saw Miss Mayhew smiling on him; then he classed him in with
the rest. A man in love is not reasonable, and this was Big Bill's
condition, as he was forced to remind himself when the gossipy steward
informed him that, to the best of his understanding, Miss Mayhew was
an adopted daughter, and in no way likely to inherit the vast wealth
of the father--stocks and bonds, steamship lines, railroads, and such
things. As a rich man's daughter, she was out of his reach, and, as an
honorable man with a full supply of self-respect, he could not make an
advance. But as a ward, a poor dependent, she was on his level, and the
big soul of the big boy rejoiced. He loved her, and he would have her.
So he told himself, joyously and courageously.
Another man among the guests worried Bill, until he learned that he
was the family doctor; he worried him by his assiduous attentions to
the girl, even against the presence of his own wife in the party, and
it was the owner himself who set the matter right. Doctor Calkins, it
transpired, had been a member of the family, practically, since the
girl was born. So, with his rivals all placed and classified, Big Boy
Bill grew tranquil. But he still kept his eye on Pearson.
And so the big yacht charged across the Atlantic, with Bill on the
bridge or in his room with the kitten, the male contingent of the
guests attending upon Miss Mayhew, and Miss Mayhew herself seemingly
indifferent to their attentions, manifesting a strong desire for Bill's
society on the bridge. She came, as often as she could, to talk with
him, to scold him for imagined masculine peccadilloes, and to smile
upon him. And Bill went under.
He knew, as all men know under such conditions, that the small, sweet
girl loved him as the little kitten loved him, just because he was
big, and strong, and protective. And while he could not, under the
circumstances, manifest his response to the girl, he took it out of
the kitten when off duty; he would grab the little thing, bring it up
to his lips, kiss it, and fondle it, and hug it--all of which brought
response from the cat in the shape of scratch marks on Bill's face; for
cats are not psychologists; they know nothing of the workings of the
male human mind.
But still the cat was fond of Bill, as manifested by purrings and
kittenish advances, and Bill was no less fond of the cat, in spite of
the scratches on his face. He gave the small creature the caresses that
he would have given the girl that he loved, had he have been allowed
to. Yet there came a moment when he was perilously near to being
allowed to.
She joined him on the bridge, when his first mate was asleep, the
guests aft in deck chairs, and the father and owner below in his room;
she had brought her fancywork--mysterious to Bill, for he saw nothing
but scissors, needles, and an expanse of white cloth, all of which he
knew nothing about.
There was a half gale of wind blowing; the awning was furled, the
weather cloths stretched along the bridge railing, and the deck chairs
of the guests placed in snug positions under the lee of the houses;
there was a lively sea rolling, which prevented any great activity of
mind or body in the guests, and no one seemed to care that the owner's
daughter came to the bridge. Bill brought her a chair from his room,
and incidentally aroused the kitten from sleep; the kitten purred, and,
receiving only one pat and stroke, followed her big master to the door
of the room. There she stood, looking out on the stormy sea, and, no
doubt, jealous of the other kittenish creature in the mackintosh, whom
Bill was seating in the chair.
The small fluffy lump of darkness saw her lord and master apparently
petting another creature, and came out on the bridge, shivering with
cold, yet animated by a purpose of protest. She crept up to the pair,
out of sight of the man at the wheel in the pilot house and sprang on
to Bill's shoulders, purring contentedly, and giving him a tentative
dig of admonition with her sharp claws. Bill reached up, to pet her and
bring her down--possibly to introduce her to the girl. But this was
not permitted. Miss Mayhew screamed, stood up, and backed away, her
eyes wide open in terror and dismay; then Bill, dimly understanding
that the cat was an interloper, took it down, and tossed it toward the
door of his room. Then the girl, uttering incoherent little cries, of
terror, flung herself into his arms and the big fellow infolded her,
kissing and comforting her, and promising protection from danger which
he did not sense or understand. The man at the wheel was busy, the
guests more or less asleep; no one saw but the slighted kitten. Bill
kissed the frightened little face again and again, and the outraged
kitten acted. With one leap she reached Miss Mayhew's shoulders, and,
spitting and purring her hatred and love, she separated the two. The
girl, gasping and choking, shrank back, struck the small creature a
blow that sent it flying three yards away, and went insane. She turned
on Bill in a fury of rage, and, while she uttered no word that could
not be printed in a modern novel, yet there was enough of invective,
threat, and menace in her attitude to make the big man back away from
her, shocked and horrified beyond conception. The girl followed him,
waving her scissors, tightly clutched in her hand, her eyes blazing,
her face distorted in furious rage, and her small body quivering with
the emotions that racked it.
"You cowardly dog!" she screamed. "You dared to play this trick on me?
If God will help me, I will kill you."
She lunged at Bill with the scissors, and he dodged. He could not speak
in protest or argument; he was too surprised and shaken. All he could
do was to run to the door of his room. She followed part way, and then
paused, her eyes still blazing, and her face distorted; yet she seemed
to be trying to control herself.
"Don't ever, while you live," she said calmly, "speak to me again, or
attempt to."
"Very well, Miss Mayhew," answered Bill gravely. "I'm sorry, but I do
not understand."
He turned into his room, as the best place for him, and noticed the
black kitten darting out. Then he heard a scream from the girl, and
turned to look. She was making for the bridge stairs, her scissors
still tightly clutched, and the wee, black cause of the trouble chasing
her. Bill caught his pet, and shut it in with him, while he smoked, and
thought, and deduced, with the logic of a poor man, on the never-solved
problem--the inscrutability of women.
In half an hour he was aroused by a shout, and went on deck. His men
were tumbling out of the forecastle; stewards, cooks, and guests were
scrambling forward, and a glance down from the head of the steps showed
Bill the cause. Miss Mayhew lay prone on the deck, the scissors still
gripped in her small hand, but the points driven into her side, and a
pool of blood drifting down to the scuppers from the wound. Bill jumped
clear of every step, and, landing beside her, picked her up. She was
unconscious, and her eyes were closed. It took an effort of strength,
but he drew the scissors out of the wound, and looked helplessly into
the face of the doctor.
"What happened?" asked the latter. "Well, never mind what happened. She
has fallen down the stairs and wounded herself with her scissors. Carry
her aft. We must stop this effusion of blood. Heavens"--he looked at
the deck--"she has bled a quart already. Aft with her quickly."
Bill carried the limp and bleeding form back to the cabin, and, having
laid it gently on the bed in her stateroom, was moved to go. He was
sailing master; the agonized father was there, the doctor, a member
of the family and acting the part; the doctor's wife, a motherly and
practical old lady, and a group of quiet, gentlemanly, and questioning
rivals, whom Bill had no love for and who invited their own destruction
by the looks they gave him. Bill went to the bridge, called his mate,
then, capturing the steward on his way forward to the galley, ordered
him to report, as he valued his life, on the condition of the sick
girl. The steward promised, and Bill waited on the bridge.
The steward went aft, and Bill watched him come up on the run and race
forward. Bill again cleared the bridge stairs at a jump, and met him.
"Dying, captain," gasped the steward. "Dying from loss of blood."
Bill went aft--he never remembered whether he walked or ran--and bolted
down the stairs, shoving aside the small Arsdale, the big Muggins, the
athletic Parsons, and even the gentlemanly Elkins, all of them white
in the face, as they hovered near the stateroom door, and burst into
the room, where the grief-stricken father, the anxious doctor, and the
weeping Mrs. Calkins hovered over the quiet, unconscious form on the
bed. The rivals followed him in, but did not attempt to get between him
and the girl. The doctor looked around at them, while Bill leaned over
and raised the girl's head in the palm of his hand. He choked, but did
not speak.
"Nothing but transfusion of blood will save her," said Doctor Calkins.
"Who will volunteer?"
"I will," stuttered young Arsdale.
"You won't do, young man," said the doctor, coldly. "You're not big
enough, and need all the blood you have for yourself."
"Then I'm the man," said Muggins, the author. "Heavens, what an
experience! What a story I can make of it!"
"You won't do, sir," repeated the doctor to this aspirant. "Your blood
is impregnated with alcohol, and Lord knows what. I would as soon
inoculate her with vitriol." Mr. Muggins left the room.
Mr. Pearson drew back, very pale in the face, evidently impressed with
the thought that he was expected to offer himself to the sacrifice; but
no one seemed to notice, and Mr. Elkins, the editor, faced the doctor.
"I have mentioned to the captain," he said, "my wish to do something,
be something, make something, before I die. I am a healthy man, Doctor
Calkins, and I offer myself."
The doctor looked him over approvingly.
"It will take a full quart of your blood. You may not survive."
"Take it," said Elkins firmly. "I will run the chance."
Bill looked up, dazed and shaking. He had dimly recognized the drift of
the talk, but now grasped the fact in its entirety that a man--another
than himself--was ready to die for this girl that he loved. It was
preposterous, unthinkable, and impossible. He laid the girl's head back
on the pillow, and motioned Mr. Elkins out of the room. Mr. Elkins went
quickly and quietly. There was that in Bill's face that induced him to
obey the gesture.
Pearson and Arsdale followed as quickly, stumbling somewhat in their
haste, and even the stern old father drew away from Bill.
"Does she need my blood?" asked Bill grimly. "I've plenty to spare.
Take it all."
"You are needed to command this boat," said the doctor.
"I am not. My two mates can navigate. Get ready quickly, or she may die
while you're talking."
Bill threw off his coat and rolled up his sleeve, showing an arm as big
as an ordinary leg. The doctor rushed for his instruments, and while
he was gone the owner asked brokenly of Bill how it happened.
"I do not know, sir," he answered, resolved not to describe the scene
to her disadvantage. "I did not see her fall. I think nobody saw her
fall."
"God grant that she lives!" said the old man, all the austerity gone
from his face. "I can do nothing, willing as I am, for I am old and
feeble; but you are young and strong. You see, there is much at stake
beside by own grief and suffering. She is my daughter, and the real
owner of this yacht, and every bond, and share, and mortgage that I
control. Should she die, I would die myself--from poverty and want,
while her relatives would obtain control. Still," and the old man
stiffened up, "why should I speak of this? She is my daughter. I love
her, for she is all I have left. Save her life, and while I live I am
at your command."
"The hell you say!" said Bill. "I thought she was your ward."
"My daughter by my second wife," said the old gentleman, with dignity.
"My first wife, with all her relations, is still alive and fighting me."
"I think," said Bill reflectively, "that I understand. Well," and here
the doctor appeared with his appurtenances, "you don't love this little
girl any more than I do, and I'll do my part."
"Lie down beside her quickly," ordered the doctor. Bill did so.
"Can you stand pain?" asked the doctor of Bill. "Or do you want an
anæsthetic?"
"Go ahead," growled Bill, between his teeth. "Work quickly."
"I am going to sever a vein in both your arms, and connect them by this
tube. Miss Mayhew is unconscious, and will feel no pain. But _you_
will."
"Go ahead," yelled Bill. "What do I care for pain? Use your surgical
skill, and save her life, or, by God, I'll toss you overboard. Quickly,
now. Go ahead, before she dies."
"I will," answered the doctor grimly, as he picked up his lancet.
Bill felt pain; he felt that his arm was being torn from his shoulder,
as the doctor severed a large vein, and dragged the upper end out from
the bleeding wound. He gritted his teeth, however, and closed his eyes
tightly, while the doctor ligatured the vein and bound its end around
the tube; then, shivering in every muscle of his body, he waited while
the same operation was performed on the arm of the girl. Then the
ligatures were removed, and Bill slowly went to sleep, the pain and
distress, love of the girl, and interest in life leaving him as the
somnolence increased.
He awakened a few years later, as he thought, lying in his own berth
abaft the pilot house, his arm bound to his side, and the black kitten
nestling upon his chest. He looked at the little creature, and an
ungovernable hatred overcame him. He could barely lift his free arm,
but with this arm and hand he brushed the kitten off to the floor. Then
he tried to pull himself together, but did not succeed; things were
obscure, he could not remember, and all he felt was hatred of the cat,
now glaring at him from under the chart table. There was a nautical
almanac in the berth, and Bill flung it at the cat; but she dodged,
and ran out on deck. Then she came back in the arms of Miss Mayhew,
or, rather, in one arm, for the right was strapped to her side, as was
his left; she was not exactly rosy of face, still there was color in
it, and a soft light in her eyes, and a sweet smile on her lips, that
robbed Bill of his resentment toward the cat. She fondled the small
creature, and came toward his couch; then, bending over him, she
deposited the kitten on his chest and kissed him on the lips. Bill
choked and gasped.
"You mustn't mind," she said, rosy now, "if I kiss you. The doctor told
me. You gave me most of your blood, and I lived. I was well in a day."
Before Bill could formulate an answer the father came in.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "you've waked up, have you? Good! We had
our doubts about it; for it took three days. We're almost to Gibraltar,
as the mate says."
"That's good," said Bill wearily, "but--is Miss Mayhew all right?"
"Got a hole in her side," answered the father, "and a hole in her arm;
but, tell me, you folks. Something happened, and I want to know."
"It was all my fault, daddy," said the girl. "This little cat
frightened me, and I think I went crazy again."
"I see," said the father, his face clouding. "I told you, Mr. Flanders,
to have no cats on board. Why is this?"
"Why," said Bill, "I'm sorry now, of course, but I found the brute
being tormented by a gang of toughs, and brought it with me. I never
dreamed that there would be any unpleasant consequences."
"But I knew," said the owner warmly. "This little girl of mine was
marked by her mother, who was frightened into insanity by a mad cat.
She has gone crazy several times at the sight of a cat."
"But not any more," said the smiling girl. "Come here, kitty, and let
me love you." She picked up the kitten, and fondled it. Then the doctor
appeared, and looked them all over with a stern, scientific eye.
The girl placed the kitten on Bill's chest, close to his chin, and
smilingly bade him pat it. But Bill, with a furious, though not
profane, exclamation, struck his former pet from him. The girl picked
it up, and consoled it, looking down on Bill with mild disapproval.
"Please pardon me," he said weakly, "but I hate the thing. I cannot
stand it."
"Don't worry, young man," said Doctor Calkins. "You'll come around all
right, and be as merciful to dumb animals as you have been, while our
little girl here is relieved from the obsession of her life. It has
never before come into my experience, but I have read about it in my
studies--transfusion of blood carries with it transference of psychic
qualities. This girl, in taking into her veins some of your blood, has
taken your love of cats--I know all about it, because I talked with the
mess boy--and you, in giving your blood to her, took something of her
obsession. But you will both get over it. Come, Mr. Mayhew, and leave
these people alone with the cat."
They went out, and the girl sat beside the weak and helpless man,
stroking his face and caressing him for an hour before he spoke a vital
word.
"Say," he said, at last. "Tell me, what is your first name?"
"Kitty," she answered.