Although Monday was practically a holiday for the Sunday-supplement
staff of "The Times," Condy Rivers made a point to get down to the
office betimes the next morning. There were reasons why a certain
article descriptive of a great whaleback steamer taking on grain for
famine-stricken India should be written that day, and Rivers wanted his
afternoon free in order to go to Laurie Flagg's coming-out tea.
But as he came into his room at "The Times" office, which he shared
with the exchange and sporting editors, and settled himself at his
desk, he suddenly remembered that, under the new order of things, he
need not expect to see Travis at the Flaggs'.
"Well," he muttered, "maybe it doesn't make so much difference, after
all. She was a corking fine girl, but--might as well admit it--the
play is played out. Of course, I don't love her--any more than she
loves me. I'll see less and less of her now. It's inevitable, and
after a while we'll hardly even meet. In a way, it's a pity; but, of
course, one has to be sensible about these things. . . . Well, this
whaleback now."
He rang up the Chamber of Commerce, and found out that the "City of
Everett," which was the whaleback's name, was at the Mission Street
wharf. This made it possible for him to write the article in two ways.
He either could fake his copy from a clipping on the subject which the
exchange editor had laid on his desk, or he could go down in person to
the wharf, interview the captain, and inspect the craft for himself.
The former was the short and easy method. The latter was more
troublesome, but would result in a far more interesting article.
Condy debated the subject a few minutes, then decided to go down to the
wharf. San Francisco's water-front was always interesting, and he
might get hold of a photograph of the whaleback. All at once the
"idea" of the article struck him, the certain underlying notion that
would give importance and weight to the mere details and descriptions.
Condy's enthusiasm flared up in an instant.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed; "by Jove!"
He clapped on his hat wrong side foremost, crammed a sheaf of
copy-paper into his pocket, and was on the street again in another
moment. Then it occurred to him that he had forgotten to call at his
club that morning for his mail, as was his custom, on the way to the
office. He looked at his watch. It was early yet, and his club was
but two blocks' distance. He decided that he would get his letters at
the club, and read them on the way down to the wharf.
For Condy had joined a certain San Francisco club of artists,
journalists, musicians, and professional men that is one of the
institutions of the city, and, in fact, famous throughout the United
States. He was one of the younger members, but was popular and well
liked, and on more than one occasion had materially contributed to the
fun of the club's "low jinks."
In his box this morning he found one letter that he told himself he
must read upon the instant. It bore upon the envelope the name of a
New York publishing house to whom Condy had sent a collection of his
short stories about a month before. He took the letter into the "round
window" of the club, overlooking the street, and tore it open
excitedly. The fact that he had received a letter from the firm
without the return of his manuscript seemed a good omen. This was what
he read:
Conde Rivers, Esq., Bohemian Club, San Francisco, Cal.
DEAR SIR: We return to you by this mail the manuscript of your stories,
which we do not consider as available for publication at the present
moment. We would say, however, that we find in several of them
indications of a quite unusual order of merit. The best-selling book
just now is the short novel--say thirty thousand words--of action and
adventure. Judging from the stories of your collection, we suspect
that your talent lies in this direction, and we would suggest that you
write such a novel and submit the same to us.
Very respectfully,
THE CENTENNIAL CO.,
New York.
Condy shoved the letter into his pocket and collapsed limply into his
chair.
"What's the good of trying to do anything anyhow!" he muttered, looking
gloomily down into the street. "My level is just the hack-work of a
local Sunday supplement, and I am a fool to think of anything else."
His enthusiasm in the matter of the "City of Everett" was cold and dead
in a moment. He could see no possibilities in the subject whatever.
His "idea" of a few minutes previous seemed ridiculous and overwrought.
He would go back to the office and grind out his copy from the exchange
editor's clipping.
Just then his eye was caught by a familiar figure in trim, well-fitting
black halted on the opposite corner waiting for the passage of a cable
car. It was Travis Bessemer. No one but she could carry off such
rigorous simplicity in the matter of dress so well: black skirt, black
Russian blouse, tiny black bonnet and black veil, white kids with black
stitching. Simplicity itself. Yet the style of her, as Condy Rivers
told himself, flew up and hit you in the face; and her figure--was
there anything more perfect? and the soft pretty effect of her yellow
hair seen through the veil--could anything be more fetching? and her
smart carriage and the fling of her fine broad shoulders, and--no, it
was no use; Condy had to run down to speak to her.
"Come, come!" she said as he pretended to jostle against her on the
curbstone without noticing her; "you had best go to work. Loafing at
ten o'clock on the street corners--the idea!"
"It IS not--it can not be--and yet it is--it is SHE," he burlesqued;
"and after all these years!" Then in his natural voice: "Hello T.B."
"Hello, C.R."
"Where are you going?'
"Home. I've just run down for half an hour to have the head of my
banjo tightened."
"If I put you on the car, will you expect me to pay your car-fare?"
"Condy Rivers, I've long since got over the idea of ever expecting you
to have any change concealed about your person."
"Huh! no, it all goes for theatre tickets, and flowers, and boxes of
candy for a certain girl I know. But"--and he glared at her
significantly--"no more foolishness."
She laughed. "What are you 'on' this morning, Condy?"
Condy told her as they started to walk toward Kearney Street.
"But why DON'T you go to the dock and see the vessel, if you can make a
better article that way?"
"Oh, what's the good! The Centennial people have turned down my
stories."
She commiserated him for this; then suddenly exclaimed:
"No, you must go down to the dock! You ought to, Condy. Oh, I tell you,
let me go down with you!"
In an instant Condy leaped to the notion. "Splendid! splendid! no
reason why you shouldn't!" he exclaimed. And within fifteen minutes
the two were treading the wharves and quays of the city's water-front.
Ships innumerable nuzzled at the endless line of docks, mast
overspiring mast, and bowsprit overlapping bowsprit, till the eye was
bewildered, as if by the confusion of branches in a leafless forest.
In the distance the mass of rigging resolved itself into a solid gray
blur against the sky. The great hulks, green and black and slate gray,
laid themselves along the docks, straining leisurely at their mammoth
chains, their flanks opened, their cargoes, as it were their entrails,
spewed out in a wild disarray of crate and bale and box. Sailors and
stevedores swarmed them like vermin. Trucks rolled along the wharves
like peals of ordnance, the horse-hoofs beating the boards like heavy
drum-taps. Chains clanked, a ship's dog barked incessantly from a
companionway, ropes creaked in complaining pulleys, blocks rattled,
hoisting-engines coughed and strangled, while all the air was redolent
of oakum, of pitch, of paint, of spices, of ripe fruit, of clean cool
lumber, of coffee, of tar, of bilge, and the brisk, nimble odor of the
sea.
Travis was delighted, her little brown eyes snapping, her cheeks
flushing, as she drank in the scene.
"To think," she cried, "where all these ships have come from! Look at
their names; aren't they perfect? Just the names, see: the 'Mary
Baker,' Hull; and the 'Anandale,' Liverpool; and the 'Two Sisters,'
Calcutta, and see that one they're calking, the 'Montevideo,' Callao;
and there, look! look! the very one you're looking for, the 'City of
Everett,' San Francisco."
The whaleback, an immense tube of steel plates, lay at her wharf,
sucking in entire harvests of wheat from the San Joaquin
valley--harvests that were to feed strangely clad skeletons on the
southern slopes of the Himalaya foot-hills. Travis and Condy edged
their way among piles of wheat-bags, dodging drays and rumbling trucks,
and finally brought up at the after gangplank, where a sailor halted
them. Condy exhibited his reporter's badge.
"I represent 'The Times,'" he said, with profound solemnity, "and I
want to see the officer in charge."
The sailor fell back upon the instant.
"Power of the press," whispered Condy to Travis as the two gained the
deck.
A second sailor directed them to the mate, whom they found in the
chart-room, engaged, singularly enough, in trimming the leaves of a
scraggly geranium.
Condy explained his mission with flattering allusions to the whaleback
and the novelty of the construction. The mate--an old man with a
patriarchal beard--softened at once, asked them into his own cabin aft,
and even brought out a camp-stool for Travis, brushing it with his
sleeve before setting it down.
While Condy was interviewing the old fellow, Travis was examining, with
the interest of a child, the details of the cabin: the rack-like bunk,
the washstand, ingeniously constructed so as to shut into the bulkhead
when not in use, the alarm-clock screwed to the wall, and the array of
photographs thrust into the mirror between frame and glass. One, an
old daguerreotype, particularly caught her fancy. It was the portrait
of a very beautiful girl, wearing the old-fashioned side curls and high
comb of a half-century previous. The old mate noticed the attention
she paid to it, and, as soon as he had done giving information to
Condy, turned and nodded to Travis, and said quietly: "She was pretty,
wasn't she?"
"Oh, very!" answered Travis, without looking away.
There was a silence. Then the mate, his eyes wide and thoughtful, said
with a long breath:
"And she was just about your age, miss, when I saw her; and you favor
her, too."
Condy and Travis held their breaths in attention. There in the cabin
of that curious nondescript whaleback they had come suddenly to the
edge of a romance--a romance that had been lived through before they
were born. Then Travis said in a low voice, and sweetly:
"She died?"
"Before I ever set eyes on her, miss. That is, MAYBE she died. I
sometimes think--fact is, I really believe she's alive yet, and waiting
for me." He hesitated awkwardly. "I dunno," he said pulling his beard.
"I don't usually tell that story to strange folk, but you remind me so
of her that I guess I will."
Condy sat down on the edge of the bunk, and the mate seated himself on
the plush settle opposite the door, his elbows on his knees, his eyes
fixed on a patch of bright sunlight upon the deck outside.
"I began life," he said, "as a deep-sea diver--began pretty young, too.
I first put on the armor when I was twenty, nothing but a lad; but I
could take the pressure up to seventy pounds even then. One of my very
first dives was off Trincomalee, on the coast of Ceylon. A mail packet
had gone down in a squall with all on board. Six of the bodies had
come up and had been recovered, but the seventh hadn't. It was the
body of the daughter of the governor of the island, a beautiful young
girl of nineteen, whom everybody loved. I was sent for to go down and
bring the body up. Well, I went down. The packet lay in a hundred
feet of water, and that's a wonder deep dive. I had to go down twice.
The first time I couldn't find anything, though I went all through the
berth-deck. I came up to the wrecking-float and reported that I had
seen nothing. There were a lot of men there belonging to the wrecking
gang, and some correspondents of London papers. But they would have it
that she was below, and had me go down again. I did, and this time I
found her."
The mate paused a moment
"I'll have to tell you," he went on, "that when a body don't come to
the surface it will stand or sit in a perfectly natural position until
a current or movement of the water around touches it. When that
happens--well, you'd say the body was alive; and old divers have a
superstition--no, it AIN'T just a superstition, I believe it's so--that
drowned people really don't die till they come to the surface, and the
air touches them. We say that the drowned who don't come up still have
some sort of life of their own way down there in all that green
water . . . some kind of life . . . surely . . . surely. When I went
down the second time, I came across the door of what I thought at first
was the linen-closet. But it turned out to be a little stateroom. I
opened it. There was the girl. She was sitting on the sofa opposite
the door, with a little hat on her head, and holding a satchel in her
lap, just as if she was ready to go ashore. Her eyes were wide open,
and she was looking right at me and smiling. It didn't seem terrible
or ghastly in the least. She seemed very sweet. When I opened the
door it set the water in motion, and she got up and dropped the
satchel, and came toward me smiling and holding out her arms.
"I stepped back quick and shut the door, and sat down in one of the
saloon chairs to fetch my breath, for it had given me a start. The
next thing to do was to send her up. But I began to think. She seemed
so pretty as she was. What was the use of bringing her up--up there on
the wrecking float with that crowd of men--up where the air would get
at her, and where they would put her in the ground along o' the worms?
If I left her there she'd always be sweet and pretty--always be
nineteen; and I remembered what old divers said about drowned people
living just so long as they stayed below. You see, I was only a lad
then, and things like that impress you when you're young. Well, I
signaled to be hauled up. They asked me on the float if I'd seen
anything, and I said no. That was all there was to the affair. They
never raised the ship, and in a little while it was all forgotten.
"But I never forgot it, and I always remembered her, way down there in
all that still green water, waiting there in that little state-room for
me to come back and open the door. And I've growed to be an old man
remembering her; but she's always stayed just as she was the first day
I saw her, when she came toward me smiling and holding out her arms.
She's always stayed young and fresh and pretty. I never saw her but
that once. Only afterward I got her picture from a native woman of
Trincomalee who was house-keeper at the Residency where the governor of
the island lived. Somehow I never could care for other women after
that, and I ain't never married for that reason."
"No, no, of course not! exclaimed Travis, in a low voice as the old
fellow paused.
"Fine, fine; oh, fine as gold!" murmured Condy, under his breath.
"Well," said the mate, getting up and rubbing his knee, "that's the
story. Now you know all about that picture. Will you have a glass of
Madeira, miss?"
He got out a bottle of wine bearing the genuine Funchal label and
filled three tiny glasses. Travis pushed up her veil, and she and
Condy rose.
"This is to HER," said Travis gravely.
"Thank you, miss," answered the mate, and the three drank in silence.
As Travis and Condy were going down the gangplank they met the captain
of the whaleback coming up.
"I saw you in there talking to old McPherson," he explained. "Did you
get what you wanted from him?"
"More, more!" exclaimed Condy.
"My hand in the fire, he told you that yarn about the girl who was
drowned off Trincomalee. Of course, I knew it. The old boy's wits are
turned on that subject. He WILL have it that the body hasn't
decomposed in all this time. Good seaman enough, and a first-class
navigator, but he's soft in that one spot."