THE HAWK SEEKS ITS PREY
As far back as he could remember, Alexander Barbour had fished for the
New York Market in the waters of Great South Bay--likewise his father
and grandfather before him. A vast area of fishing ground stood just off
Patchogue, then a tiny village, near which flounders were seined in
enormous quantities. They were nearest in flavor and delicacy to the
famous sole of English waters, and the great restaurants and hotels of
the day vied with each other in devising new ways to serve them.
Alexander Barbour, with all of the vim and courage of youth, took the
business when his father died and forthwith married the girl of his
choice, whose personality and charm made of him a fond and loving
husband. His greatest hope was that she might bear him a male child,
that the line of succession in the Barbour family should go on through
another generation. Unhappily for him the first born was a girl, and
before a week had rolled around the mother died--and Barbour, the
fisherman, drooped into a physical and mental decline.
Only a winsome baby girl was left to cheer his lonely heart. He strove
hard to conceal his disappointment but the habit of brooding increased,
for he had prayed for a son, but alas, his prayers had been denied.
Before her death Mrs. Barbour gave to her babe the name of Winifred,
and, as the end drew near, a village parson performed a christening
service in the presence of weeping neighbors who pledged loyalty to the
mother's memory, and to the welfare of her little one, thus comforting
the dying woman as she passed on to another world. From the shock of it
all Alexander Barbour shrank into a pitiful state, having failed in his
attempts at reinstating his prestige. Finally competitors controlling
great storage warehouses and banking facilities drove him practically
out of the field. The interest on his savings did not suffice to live
upon the liberal basis of past years, and as Patchogue grew in
population the name of Barbour receded from public concern.
As a babe in arms little Winifred cooed her way, laughed as a child,
and as a school girl finally sang herself into her father's good graces.
At ten years of age she had mastered the art of housekeeping, and with a
wisdom far beyond her years, encouraged her father, as best she could,
to keep up his spirits and not give way to despair.
"I know where you can gather some wild cherries," she volunteered to him
one day; "they are just thick along the inlet, and everybody is out
picking them for the market. They bring a good price in Patchogue."
By the time Winifred reached her fifteenth birthday she had graduated
from high school, and in addition to that had "kept the home fires
burning" with a knowledge that surprised her friends. But all through
those years under the home roof she had maintained the practice of
conversing with her dead mother. This she began in her eighth year, as a
child would talk with its doll and answer back as its mother. The habit
had continued through girlhood into young womanhood, minus the doll, but
at the age of eighteen she made the startling claim to her father that
she could converse with her dead mother at will. While humoring her
belief, he nevertheless was skeptical, and shook his head indicating his
doubt.
"But there are certain hours of the night, when the great stillness
comes on, that I can hear her voice just as plainly as I can hear yours
now," said she, quite convincingly. "Why, I talked with mamma last
night!" she declared with girlish vehemence.
"What did she say, Winifred?"
Mr. Barbour allowed himself to appear somewhat convinced by her
statement. It would do her no real harm, and she would outgrow the
vagary of such dreams as she grew older, according to his belief. Then,
too, thoughts about her mother were for the good of the girl--an
influence that should be encouraged.
"She told me to study hard and become a teacher--and----"
"Yes, dear--and, what?"
"Well, I've been thinking how to tell you--the last message was about
you," said she, smiling up into her father's eyes.
"Are you at liberty to tell me?" he asked, bracing himself against the
choking grief which suddenly seized him.
"Yes, indeed--but you mustn't mind her solicitude for your future. She
thinks you are aging too rapidly and that you must find a way out of
your sorrow. She asked me to give you more companionship, and to lead
you into a firm belief of the hereafter. Your lack of sincere belief
leaves a gap in the way of your communicating directly with her."
All this was said in a voice of sweet modulation and assuredness, a
smile lighting up her face as she spoke. There was no question of her
absolute convictions.
"What would you suggest, Winifred?" replied her father, his voice
broken, and his eyes filmed with tears.
"I don't know, but mother thinks the waters of South Bay hold the
solution. What could she mean by that?"
"I hardly know what to think. Did she suggest any particular reason for
that answer?"
"Oh, yes--she said that they would bring you back to the land in time. I
am glad I didn't forget that," said Winifred, jubilantly. "Let us think
it out some way. Perhaps she meant that you should keep on fishing and
sell your catch to the market men. Afterwards buy a farm with your
earnings."
In the conversation that followed Winifred took no small part in
calculating a plausible solution to her dead mother's advice. The waters
of Great South Bay at once suggested fish, oysters--wild ducks in the
fall of the year, and in the early spring. These would sell to local
buyers for ready cash. But what of the land? They had none! In her own
heart she knew that her mother had meant to arouse her father into
physical activity.
"Couldn't we rent some ground?" suggested Winifred--"and send our
produce to market by boat from Patchogue? Other people do."
"Indeed we could, my dear child," exclaimed Alexander Barbour,
straightening his shoulders. "We will do that very thing, with the city
of New York to back us in our enterprise. We can sell all we raise,
surely, for there is no vegetable trust to squeeze us out of business,
as there is in fish and oysters."
"And when I begin teaching school we will put my earnings away, too,"
echoed Winifred--"and, oh, won't mother be glad when I tell her of our
plans?"
With that enthusiastic speech she jumped from her chair and wound her
arms about her father's neck. The kisses she showered upon him
electrified him, and from that moment his resolve to succeed never
waned.
And all went well with the Barbours, father and daughter clinging to
each other, avoiding all tendencies toward extravagance, so that within
the space of a few months they found themselves in more comfortable
circumstances. Throughout the next two years "messages from mother"
inspired them and cheered their way, and all of a sudden the village of
Patchogue began to grow by leaps and bounds. Substantial hotels sprang
up, subdivisions were platted, cottages and villas builded up on every
side. Taking advantage of "the boom" the Barbours bought lots and sold
them at a profit, and Barbour himself built a refreshment booth on the
motor parkway near the beach, and Winifred helped in its management. No
longer could she devote her time to household duties, for sales at the
booth dropped off when she was away, whereupon a housekeeper was
selected and put in charge of the home. Winifred's bright face and
unfailing humor had worked wonders financially. People came back to the
stand from time to time, mostly automobilists, who always seemed to know
where the best could be had, and--never mind the price! One of
Winifred's most persistent and profitable customers, Mr. William Parkins
of New York, had expressed the same thought in another way.
"We want what we want and we get it," said he, with a jolly laugh, at
the young girl in charge. "Better look out, little sister, or some one
will come along and steal you!"--and that was the first effrontery
Winifred had ever experienced.
Abashed she turned her attention to other customers, but the heightened
color in her cheeks showed her indignation. Nevertheless Parkins stood
around, picking out this box of candy, and that bag of salted almonds,
to say nothing of homemade pies and cakes, each to be wrapped
separately, thus to gain her attention as many times as possible.
"I need these out at my fishing hut over on the ocean side," said he
smiling into her eyes, but they were cold. "Don't be angry," he pleaded.
"I had no intention of being rude--I apologize most sincerely."
Parkins' voice was so kindly and his smile so winning that Winifred's
face relaxed into its natural sweetness of expression. But she said
nothing and found things to do which kept her busy. Parkins, gay New
Yorker, with money galore, was not of the kind who accepted defeat. Here
was a dainty little maid and he wanted to know her.
"I'll stay here until you tell me I'm forgiven," he persisted. "Why,
little woman, I am the last man on earth to suspect of willful rudeness.
I'd rather jump in the bay, and say to myself 'here goes nothing,' than
to offend you. Honor bright! Now do please say it's all settled, so I
won't go away feeling ashamed of myself."
Unused to familiarity from strangers Winifred remained silent for a time
in order to think out the best plan to pursue. She wished her father had
been there, then the incident would not have occurred. But he was
absent--therefore the necessity of taking care of herself.
"No further apology is necessary, sir," she found herself saying. "I
presume you live in New York, and your ways are different from our ways.
Our men folk are always respectful to women, and we very naturally cling
to the amenities even though we are country folk."
"Of course you do!" exclaimed Parkins, "and that is the right course,
always--but this is the holiday end of a busy week of hard grind, and my
outing has been so delightful I just feel friendly to everybody. Do you
live here?"
"I was born here, and have always lived here. For three generations my
people have been settled in this locality," she concluded, as customers
were crowding her stand; but when the rush was over she found, to her
surprise, that the man she had upbraided still remained.
"I have been coming to Patchogue for several years but I never saw you
until to-day. I thought you might be one of the new crowd. The place is
having a sort of boom period, lots of new home builders, and all that.
Hard work, standing up all day, isn't it?" he suggested, with a little
touch of sympathy in his voice.
"Not very, sir--my father relieves me several times during each day,
and if there is anything going on at night, he attends to the stand."
"Good money in this business while the season is on, I imagine,"
persisted Parkins, by way of keeping the conversation going. "Strange I
have never seen you until to-day," he reiterated.
"We are new in this business. Heretofore our family has been in the
fishing industry. And latterly, truck farming also. We still ship some
vegetables to New York by boat, and sometimes by express. But we are
practically out of that business now."
"I suppose you run over to New York once in a while," he smiled.
"No, the farthest trip we've made was to Riverhead, and it's beautiful!
Such a pretty park--and a tremendous court house! But we've never been
off of the Island, none of us--except mother, who was born in
Connecticut."
Parkins, a man of quick discernment, caught a sad expression in the eyes
of the girl behind the counter of "The Goody Shop," so named on a neat
little sign hinged to the eaves of the sheltering overhang.
"I suppose your mother stays at home and takes care of the family?" he
suggested, enquiringly.
"Mother is dead," replied the girl, calmly, a far-away expression in her
eyes, as she glanced at the sky. "She died when I was a baby."
Now was Parkins' chance to impress the girl with his "sympathetic"
nature. He sighed deeply, and for several moments looked at the ground
and said nothing. When, finally, he did speak there was pathos in his
voice.
"My mother died when I was a child in arms. I have no memory of her
whatever, but her photograph seems to speak to me at times," said he,
dreamily.
"I talk to my mother every night," replied Winifred, happily. "She sends
messages through me to my father, and tells me what to do for him. He
isn't very strong, but that comes from grief over her death. Now he is
much better. It was such a long time before she could reach us," she
confided, artlessly.
And so began the acquaintance of a man of the world and a country lass,
the man halting between two emotions. In determining the course of his
further acquaintance with the sweet little maid the best bargain he
could make with himself was--"I'll think it over." So, with perfect
decorum, and bowing and scraping he bade the young woman good-by, adding
the hope that all was square between them--since his apology. He reached
out his hand as a final test of his theory that he "had won out with
her," and was delighted when she accepted his overture politely. He
bowed most courteously as he sprang into his wonderful new roadster and
plunged forward along the asphalt road. For miles Winifred could hear
the roar of its exploding cylinders, as, with mufflers "cut out," the
car raced along to his fishing hut on the ocean side of the bay.
"I'll be back to-morrow," he had said on leaving, but she only smiled in
reply, for "to-morrow" would be Sunday, and her duties were
elsewhere--at church and Sunday school--where she taught a class--and
then home to a noon dinner with her father.
As time went on Parkins' week-end excursions increased, and various were
the cars he used. A big black mahogany limousine and a two-seated
roadster, with rakish hood and brass trimmings that glistened like
gold, were his favorites.
He never failed to call at "The Goody Shop," and after an acquaintance
of several weeks with Winifred she accepted an invitation for a spin
along the outer drive which she had never seen. Henry Barbour, now well
acquainted with the wealthy New Yorker, esteemed him a gentleman, and
consented to her going. When she returned with face aglow, and with
enthusiastic praise for the skill of the owner of the car, her father
patted her cheeks and smiled. He was glad of her happiness and his trust
in Parkins became absolute.
As the season advanced and profits had been large, Henry Barbour
expressed his opinion to the effect that to buy direct from New York
wholesalers would save him much in the way of extra earnings upon his
capital. Buying from salesmen gave him no chance to bargain. They sold
from printed lists, but by going to New York he could make selections
and find right places to trade.
"I'll take you over any time you want to go," said Parkins,
affably--"and Miss Winifred, too, if she so desires."
"Oh, I do so want to go, Father!--say that I may, won't you dear?" she
pleaded, putting her arms about his neck.
"But who will take care of the stand?" he queried. "We can't close it up
for two days. Our friends will think we have quit, and we'll lose
trade!"
"Oh, I can manage that beautifully," pleaded Winifred. "One of the girls
in my Sunday school class, Julie Hayes--you know her, father--she can be
taught in an hour just what to do."
"By all means allow her to come along," seconded Parkins, and his appeal
seemed to settle the matter.
Winifred was to wear her new blue silk coat suit, and a retrimmed hat
that had been retired, despite the fact that Parkinson suggested--"we
never put on our best when we ride in a touring car."
But to Winifred the trip was more than an outing, for her father had
some business to attend to, and happily, there would be plenty of time
to see the "greatest little town in the world," as Parkins called his
New York.
And so the date was set, and as fate often decides, it fell upon the
second day following Parkins' ride from Dreamy Hollow, under the
watchful eye of Santzi--Japanese body-servant to Drury Villard. Had his
plans gone through, Villard, by now, would have been an inmate of a
certain Long Island asylum, whose proprietor Parkins well knew, but in
his jaded condition, he decided to run his car straight out to his hut
and thereby thoroughly refresh himself for the excursion to New
York--planned for the following day.
His inner consciousness troubled him more than he could account for, man
of the world that he was, whose morals had long since hardened against
the scruples of his younger days.