WRECKING AND WALTZING.
It was a May morning off Setuckit Point. The Point itself was in the
middle distance, with the lighthouse top shining black against the sky,
and the little cluster of fishing shanties showing brown amid the white
sand dunes and green beach grass. The life-saving station was perched
on the highest of the dunes and its cupola was almost as conspicuous
as the lighthouse. The thick cloud, apparently of mosquitoes, hovering
over the Point, was, in reality, the flock of mackerel gulls that are
always hunting for sand eels on the flat. Low down across the horizon
miles beyond was smeared the blue and yellow streak that marked the
mainland of the Cape.
To the right, only a half mile away, but through the darker water that
indicated the ship channel, a four-masted schooner was moving swiftly,
the sunshine flashing sparks from her cabin windows and marking high
lights and shadows on her swelling canvas. Ahead of her, against the
sky line, was the light-ship that marked the turning point in the
course; behind, not quite so far away, was the other light-ship that
she had just passed. More schooners were following her, strung out in a
long line, and others, bound in the opposite direction, were standing
inshore or heading out to sea as they beat up in the face of the brisk
wind. An occasional steamer or an ocean tug with a tow flaunted a dingy
streamer of smoke here and there amid the graceful schooners.
Along the edge of the channel, and sprinkled amid the blue, were
patches of light green water where the waves ran higher and broke
occasionally. There were the shoals, the “Razorback,” the “Boneyard,”
and the rest. If it were possible, and fashionable, to erect tombstones
for lives lost at sea, these hidden sandbars would bristle with them.
Not a winter month that passes but vessels are driven ashore here, and
the wicked tides and winds scatter their timbers far and wide. The
Setuckit life-saving crew have few restful hours from October to May.
On the edge of one of these shoals, just over in deep water, a little
schooner lay at anchor, rocking and plunging incessantly. Her sails
were down and only one man was aboard. Half a mile away, just where
the tail of the shoal made out into the channel, two dories were moving
slowly in parallel courses, trailing a rope between them. The schooner
was the _Lizzie_, the man aboard her was Barney Small, once a stage
driver, but now, forced out of business by the new railroad, back again
at his old trade--wrecking. Captain Ezra Titcomb was rowing one dory
and Bradley Nickerson the other. They were “anchor dragging.”
When the gales begin in the fall, Setuckit Point, lying as it does
at the edge of the fairway between Boston and New York, is sometimes
a natural breakwater and forced anchorage for the coasting vessels.
Perhaps the skipper of a large three or four-masted schooner, caught
just at night by a heavy sea and a rising gale, doesn’t relish the idea
of passing through the shoals and over the dangerous “rips” beyond.
He determines to anchor in the lee of the Point and wait for daylight
or to ride out the gale. The sandy bottom is bad holding ground for
anchors. By and by the wind and the roaring tide get their grip on
the schooner and the skipper sees that she is slowly but surely being
forced on the shoals. Perhaps he tries to haul the anchor inboard
again; perhaps time is too short to risk in the attempt, and the chain
is let go entirely. At any rate, a big anchor, with fathoms of heavy
chain, is left fast in the sand, and the schooner--well, if she is
lucky, she makes an offing or finds better holding ground at another
place.
Big anchors and chains are worth money, and it may be that the skipper
writes to a wrecking company telling where the anchor may be found and
what he will pay for the recovery. Or, just as likely, he says nothing
about it, and then “findings are keepings,” and the wrecker who dredges
up the anchor makes whatever he can sell it for at Vineyard Haven or
Boston. Anchor dragging fills in time between salvage jobs and it pays.
Bradley and the Captain were anchor dragging merely on speculation
this time. There had been a dozen wrecks off the Point the previous
winter and a number of anchors lost beside. They had already picked up
two--one by the Boneyard shoal and one, a big fellow, away out on the
rips.
The two dories moved slowly down the edge of the shoal, separated by a
distance of perhaps a hundred yards. The line between them, weighted
with a lead sinker at each end, was dragging along the bottom.
“Fisherman’s luck,” shouted Captain Ezra from his dory. “Queer we
ain’t found it yit, Brad. We’re right on the range Eldredge gave
me--the P’int Lighthouse and the pole on Black’s shanty, in line to the
no’theast, and the Harnissport steeple and Thompson’s windmill to the
no’th. I suspicion that we’re too nigh inshore. Never mind; we’ll keep
on for a little ways further.”
They were dragging for an anchor lost by the coasting schooner _Mary
D._ a month before. She had been caught by the tide and the chain had
been let go with a run. One of the hands aboard--Eldredge by name--was
an Orham man, and he it was who had had the presence of mind to take
the “ranges” mentioned by the Captain, which information he had sold to
his fellow-townsmen for a five dollar bill.
Bradley and the Captain began rowing once more. They had gone but a
little way when, slowly but surely, the dories began to draw nearer to
each other. Bradley, looking over the side, saw that the “drag line”
no longer hung straight down, but, tightly stretched by whatever was
holding it on the bottom, led off diagonally astern.
“Got a bite!” he shouted.
“Yup,” replied the Captain, shortly.
They kept on rowing easily, and in a few minutes the pressure on the
line had brought the dories side by side. Then Bradley passed his end
of the rope to his partner, who began hauling in with care. By this
operation the skipper’s dory was soon brought directly over the spot
where lay the hidden object. Bradley rowed his own boat alongside.
“Now, then,” said Captain Titcomb; “let’s see if she’s got the right
complexion.”
He leaned over the side, and, taking one end of the line in each hand,
pulled them tight and sawed vigorously back and forth, thus drawing a
section of the rope again and again under the treasure-trove below.
Then he paid out one end of the line and hauled in the other until this
section came to the surface; it was marked with a dull red stain--iron
rust.
“And that’s all right so fur,” commented the Captain. “She’s a lady of
color, anyhow. Looks to me as if that bread on the waters that I cast,
in the shape of a fiver, to Brother Eldredge, had brought forth fruit
in due season; hey, Brad? Pass me that way line.”
The smaller end of the “way line,” a stout rope tapering from one inch
to three inches in thickness, was spliced to the “drag line,” and drawn
down and under the supposed anchor until the latter was looped by it.
Then the “messenger,” an iron shackle or collar fastened by a bolt or
pin, was clamped about the upper parts of the loop. To this “messenger”
was also attached a small cord.
“Now then, Brad,” said the Captain, “we’ll put on her necktie.”
The “way line” was drawn tight and the heavy “messenger” plunged out
of sight beneath the water. It slid down to the end of the “way line,”
thus holding with a tenacious grip the submerged object. They tested
with the “messenger,” pulling it up with the cord and letting it drop
again. It struck solidly and with the tingle of metal against metal.
“’Sartinly feels promisin’, as the boy said when he crept down in the
dark the night afore Christmas to paw over his stockin’. Better bring
up the schooner, Brad.”
Bradley pulled down to the _Lizzie_. Barney and he hoisted canvas
enough to give them steerage way and the little vessel ran alongside of
the Captain’s dory. Then the ropes were rigged through the block in the
forerigging, and Bradley and Barney fitted in the brakes of the clumsy
hand-windless, while Captain Titcomb stood by the bulwark.
“H’ist away!” commanded the skipper.
The windlass creaked, the cable tightened and the blocks groaned as a
heavy weight was lifted from the bottom. A minute or two more, and the
Captain signalled to ease up.
“Brad,” he said, “come here a minute. This ain’t any anchor.”
Barney held the windlass brake while Bradley moved to the rail.
“Look at that,” said Captain Ezra, pointing.
Through the green water the “messenger” showed dimly, holding in its
grip the upper part of a three-cornered iron frame, as unlike an anchor
as anything could be.
“What on earth----” began Bradley. The Captain grinned.
“Never saw anything like that afore, hey? Well, I cal’late I have. What
do you say to a bell-buoy frame?”
“Why, sure!” Bradley’s tone was a disgusted one. “No wonder we thought
it was an anchor. Got adrift and smashed up by the ice somewhere. Well,
we’ve had our work for nothing. Shall we cast off?”
“Not yet, son. You and Barney heave a little more elbow grease into
that windlass. Might as well shake hands with the critter, now we’ve
got him nigh enough to see his face.”
“But that framework isn’t worth anything.”
“’Tain’t the stockin’ that counts always; it’s what Santa Claus puts
inside of it. I have a notion this feller may be a s’prise package.
H’ist away!”
More of the wet rope came aboard. Captain Ezra chuckled.
“I guessed pretty nigh that time,” he muttered. “Now, Brad, come here.”
The iron frame, green with seaweed and trimmed with kelp and shells,
hung half out of the water. At its base, just above the battered and
crushed cone that had been the buoy, a big bronze bell glistened and
dripped.
“And I can git twenty-five dollars for that bell,” crowed the Captain.
“Which, in the present state of this corporation’s finances, mustn’t be
considered a widow’s mite. Well, this ain’t what I was after, but it’s
none the less welcome, as the cat said when it found the mouse swimmin’
in the milk pail. Swing her in, Barney! Now we’ll go back and have
another try for the _Mary D.’s_ anchor.”
The bell-buoy was not the only surprise that old ocean gave them,
although it was the only one in which there was any money. Once they
dragged to the surface the rusted remnant of a galley stove, and once,
when the “drag line” was hauled in, at the end of an unsuccessful day’s
work, wrapped about it was the torn and draggled remnant of a woman’s
apron, and tangled in that a child’s toy--a little railway car. This
last happened in the Sound off Nantucket.
Captain Titcomb carefully disentangled the odd find from the line.
“Humph!” he mused, balancing the battered plaything in his hand.
“Somebody’s wife and baby was aboard the vessel that those came from. I
don’t remember a wreck of that kind nigh here of late years. But the
tide carries things a long ways, and these might have been rolled along
the bottom for miles, or they might have been carried here on a piece
of drift. And then again, it might be one of those wrecks you never
hear off: black night, gale blowin’, snow so thick you can scarcely see
the jibboom, and there’s a smash and a tramp steamer backs off with
her nose busted, not knowin’ what she hit. And then in a little while
there’s a piece in the paper sayin’ that the schooner So and So is
missin’; ain’t been heard of for two or three weeks; it’s feared she
must have foundered in the big gale of January tenth. Skipper had his
wife and children with him, and so forth. Brad, God moves in a curious
way His wonders to perform, don’t He? Maybe it’s jest as well you and
me don’t know the real story of these things. Sometimes I think there
ought to be a law against sailors gittin’ married.”
They had some long talks together concerning their new venture, which,
up to date, although they had made some money, had not given them the
opportunity for a “big job” that they hoped for.
“Brad,” observed the Captain, as they were walking up from the wharf
one evening, “are you gittin’ discouraged?”
“No, not yet. I didn’t expect anything different this first summer.”
“Well, I jest asked. You see, there’s a barrel of folks in this town
who are sayin’ that I’m a fool to think that I can make money out of a
trade that other folks have barely kept body and soul together in. And
they’re sayin’, too, that you’re a bigger fool for goin’ in with me. I
s’pose you’ve heard that as much as once from some of these kind souls,
haven’t you?”
Bradley laughed. “Well,” he answered, “I listened to a long sermon from
that text the other night at the postoffice.”
“Humph! Henry Simmons occupied the pulpit in response to a unanimous
call from himself, I s’pose?”
“How did you know?”
“Oh! I jest put two and two together, like the woman that made some
stockin’s for herself out of a couple of pair that belonged to her
little girl. I saw Henry headin’ over in your direction that night,
and I know his advice pumps are always workin’. Henry’s what you might
call a quitter. The only time he ever stuck to anything was when he set
down on the fly paper. He was a sailor for three v’yages and then gave
it up ’cause he hadn’t been made skipper. Then he raised hens, but got
discouraged ’cause the roosters wouldn’t lay--some such reason, anyhow.
He’s done a little of ’most everything sence, but he’s given ’em up
one after the other; the only trade he ain’t peeked in at is the one
he was cut out for--that’s roostin’ on top of the church steeple for a
weather vane. Consequently he knows from experience that it’s time to
give up afore you begin. He always said ’twas a crazy thing to do, this
wreckin’, didn’t he?”
“Always.”
“Well, when I first made the deal for the _Lizzie_ with Caleb, Simmons
come ’round to me, havin’ heard of it, and breathed into my ear, in
confidence, that he’d been thinkin’ of doin’ the same thing himself;
knew for sure that there was money in it.”
“You don’t mean it?”
“If I didn’t I wouldn’t say it. And Henry’s not the only one--though
he’s the prize-winner in his partic’lar class. There’s lots of folks in
Orham that think because a thing’s been done afore by somebody else,
who didn’t know how to do it, that another man who tries it is a fool.
A pullet can lay eggs, but she can’t sing for a cent, whereas a canary
bird makes a pretty good shy at it. I went into the wreckin’ business
with my eyes open, and I knew ’twould be hard sleddin’ first along. But
I tried to make that clear to you, didn’t I?”
“Look here, Cap’n Ez, if you think I’m afraid because we haven’t struck
on yet, then----”
“I ain’t afraid of you, Brad. I jest wanted to boost up my own spunk a
little, I guess. Give you and me a year or so to git our nets out, so
to speak, and a grain or two of luck for seas’nin’, and we’ll make this
village man the yards when we come into port; see if we don’t. What do
the old maids say?”
“Oh! they believe I’m going to get rich, of course.”
“_Of_ course. Well, maybe they ain’t any further out in their reck’nin’
one way than Simmons and the rest are the other. What does that little
Baker girl have to say about it?”
Bradley looked at his friend in surprise. “What?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the Captain.
“Oh! well, she didn’t quite like it at first, but the more we talk
about it together the better the plan seems to her.”
“I presume likely you and she talk about it a good deal?” There wasn’t
the slightest flavor of sarcasm apparent in this question, so Bradley
admitted that he and Gus did have a good many talks on the subject.
And this statement wasn’t an exaggeration. It had become a regular
thing for the junior partner in the anchor-dragging concern to drop in
at the Baker homestead of an evening after supper was over and discuss
happenings and plans with Gus. The feeling that the girl was not so
wholly at one with him in his hopes and ambitions as she used to be
had galled Bradley. He resented her criticisms of the new venture on
the evening when he first told her of it. Five years before, he knew,
she would have thought it “splendid” simply because he thought so. He
had come home expecting to find her unchanged--forgetting how much he
had changed, himself--and now he determined that he would compel her
to believe in him and his work. So he called evening after evening,
and, in a measure, succeeded in his object; that is, Gus became more
and more interested and willing to listen while he explained his and
the Captain’s ideas, and what they might develop into. But she no
longer said yes merely because he said it. She also had, and Bradley
recognized it, a subtle way of changing the subject to one of her own
choosing when she wished to do so, and she could tease him or please
him in spite of himself. But these new features of her character
were rather fascinating than otherwise, so he came to think. She was
decidedly independent and had a very original way of looking at things.
They agreed on some matters and agreed to disagree on others.
Dancing was one of the subjects on which they didn’t agree. Bradley
considered dancing nonsensical and a waste of time. Gus, on the other
hand, was very fond of it.
“I’d rather saw wood myself,” declared the former one evening. “There’d
be about as much work in it, and considerably more fun. If you want to
see how ridiculous people look when they dance, put your fingers in
your ears so as to shut out the music, and then watch ’em.”
“Yes,” replied Gus, “but there’s no reason why you should put your
fingers in your ears. Brad, for goodness’ sake, don’t be an old man
before you’ve hardly begun to be a young one! That’s my one fear
for you--that you’ll grow to be as sober as an old cow, and as sour
as--as--well, as those apple puffs I made yesterday and forgot to put
the sugar into. You want to sugar your work with a little fun.”
“I like fun. I can enjoy a good play at the theatre, though it’s mighty
seldom I get the chance, and I’d rather play baseball than eat, even
now.”
“Well, the only plays that come to Orham are ‘Ten Nights in a
Barroom,’ or ‘Uncle Tom,’ and I’m afraid I’m too old to play baseball
without causing a sensation; not that I wouldn’t like to,” she added,
mischievously. “But, Brad, I _do_ like dancing, and there are dances
here once in a while, such as they are, and--well, I wish you danced.”
“I suppose I could manage to navigate through a quadrille without
wrecking more than half the set, but a waltz would have me out of
soundings in no time.”
“Will you try to learn if I teach you?”
“Think ’twill pay for the wear and tear on your nerves--and the
furniture?”
“I’ll risk the nerves, and we need some new furniture, anyway. Come;
we’ll begin now. I’ll hum the tune, and you can imagine that Bennie
D.’s three-piece orchestra is playing ‘Annie Rooney,’ with their own
variations, and that you’re waltzing with--well, with Georgiana Bailey.”
“Great Scott! let’s imagine something pleasant to begin on. All right;
here goes! Get out of the channel, Winfield.”
That first lesson was certainly fun; even Bradley admitted that,
although he insisted that his perspiring condition was proof positive
of the work there was in dancing. They laughed so hard and made so
much noise, assisted by the energetic Winfield, that old Mrs. Baker
came downstairs, wrapped in a blanket, to put her head in at the
sitting-room door and ask if the house was afire. But Gus said that her
partner had done well for a beginner.
The “Baker Private Dancing Academy,” as Gus called it, held frequent
sessions during the next fortnight. It was Bradley’s private belief
that he should never be a good waltzer, and he was perfectly certain
that the lack of that accomplishment wasn’t going to worry him, but he
stuck to the “lessons,” because they pleased Gus, and because he had
said he would.
One evening toward the end of the month Gus said to him: “Brad, if you
were I, would you go to the Decoration Day Ball?”
She was, apparently, looking as she spoke at the front page of the
_Cape Cod Item_, which lay on the table, and she did not turn her head.
Bradley was puzzled.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“If you were I would you go to the ball on the evening of Decoration
Day at the Town Hall? I’ve had two invitations.”
“Humph!” The answer was somewhat hesitating. “I suppose I should do
what I wanted to. It would be too bad to disappoint so many when you’re
so greatly in demand.”
“And I _think_ that was rather spiteful. Are you going to the ball?”
“To tell you the truth I didn’t know there was going to be one. I’ve
been so busy.”
“I supposed you didn’t know. Otherwise, of course----”
“I should have invited my dancing teacher to go with me. Gus, would you
have liked it if I had invited you?”
“I should.”
“Well, I wish I had then.”
“Why don’t you now?”
“Isn’t it too late? Those other invitations, you know.”
“I haven’t answered them yet.”
“Well, then, Miss Baker, may I have the pleasure of escorting you to
the grand fandango to be held in the Orham Crystal Palace, under the
supervision of His Royal Swelledness, Mr. Solomon Bangs?”
“You may, sir. Oh, Brad! of course I’d rather go with you, because----”
“Because what?”
“Because I want to see how my pupil looks dancing with somebody else.”
Miss Prissy and her sister had been brought up to consider dancing as
one of the baits thrown out by the Evil One to lure young people to
destruction. So, when Bradley announced his intention of going to the
ball, Miss Tempy was just a little troubled.
“You don’t s’pose he’s gittin’--well, fast, do you, Prissy?” she asked.
“Land, no!” was the decided answer. “If he don’t do anything wickeder
than to hop ’round the Town Hall to music, I guess he’ll be safe.”
“But father never let us dance when we were girls.”
“I know it, but folks look at those things different nowadays. I wish
you’d starch and iron that white necktie of his, Tempy. We want him to
look as good as the next one, bein’ he’s an Allen.”
So Miss Tempy remembered that Lord Eric and all the rest of her book
heroes danced, and she starched and ironed the tie till it was a
spotless, crackling band. And when Bradley came downstairs on the
evening of Memorial Day, dressed in his new black suit, she was so
proud of him that she fairly bubbled over.
“You do look _handsome_!” she exclaimed. “You’re more like father every
day. Here, let me fix your handkerchief so’s ’twill show at the top of
your pocket. There, now ain’t he splendid, Prissy?”
“Handsome is that handsome does,” was the practical answer. “Be a good
boy, Brad, and don’t do anything we wouldn’t like.”
Gus was prettier than ever that night. She was dressed simply in white,
but when she came out of the dressing-room at the hall and took his
arm, Bradley noticed that the eyes of half a dozen young men followed
her, and that they whispered to each other.
Mr. Solomon Bangs was floor-master, and he came bustling up to them.
“We’re jest goin’ to start the Grand March,” he informed them. “Take
your partners and git right in line, please. Augusty, may I see your
order? Thank you. I’ll take the Portland Fancy, if you’re willin’. Yes,
yes, Obed! I’m comin’! Land of goodness! seems ’s if I couldn’t git a
minute’s peace. I don’t know what they’d do if I wasn’t here.”
He hurried away to lead the march with Georgiana Bailey, and Bradley
took his partner’s “order” and wrote his initials against two
quadrilles, the “Virginia Reel” and one waltz. “Round dances” were few,
for most of the dancers were middle-aged married people, who had danced
reels and contra-dances when they were young, and didn’t intend to
learn new steps at their time of life.
“Bennie D.,” his hair pasted artistically down on his forehead with a
“spit curl” over each temple, stepped to the centre of the platform,
tucked a handkerchief under his chin, set his violin against it,
flourished his bow, patted his feet and swung into the tune for the
Grand March, with the piano and ’cello limping behind him.
Mr. Bangs, his chest well out, his floor-master’s badge very much in
evidence and his importance even more so, gave his arm to Miss Bailey,
got into step--after two or three false starts--and led off, while
couple after couple followed him. Up and down the hall they paraded,
going through one evolution after the other. Captain Jabez Bailey, who
“didn’t dance none to speak of,” but was there because his wife and
daughter had ordered him to be, distinguished himself by tripping at
the first turn and carrying his better half down with him. It was an
emphatic tumble, for Mrs. Bailey was what her husband called “pretty
sort of fleshy,” and the chimneys in the chandeliers rattled when she
struck the floor. Georgiana, from the head of the line, glared at her
unfortunate parent, and, during the rest of the march, poor Captain
Jabez plodded on in nervous agony, while his wife poured into his ear
her opinion of his “makin’ such a show of ’em and mortifyin’ her ’most
to death.”
Gus’ “order” was filled in a few minutes after the first number
was over; there were more applicants than dances. Bradley danced a
quadrille with Clara Hopkins, who was pretty and jolly, and he enjoyed
it thoroughly. He labored through a contra-dance with Georgiana and
didn’t enjoy it as much, although that effervescent young lady purred
that she had had a “perfectly _lovely_ time,” and he was “lookin’ _so_
well,” and why _didn’t_ he call at the house.
Miss Bailey’s blue silk gown had an imposing, and very troublesome,
train and she smelt like a perfumer’s shop.
During one of the infrequent “round dances,” Bradley wandered to the
smoking-room at the head of the stairs. “Hart” Sears and “Snuppy” Black
were there, together with some fellows from Harniss and Ostable. They
were discussing, with great relish, the various young women present,
and the conversation might have been interesting if one cared for that
sort of thing. But Bradley didn’t, and he was about to return to the
ball room, when, to his great surprise, Captain Titcomb came up the
stairs. He had a dripping umbrella in his hand.
“Why, hello!” exclaimed Bradley. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Hello, yourself!” retorted the Captain. “I didn’t know you was comin’
either, so we’re square on that hitch. It’s blowin’ up a reg’lar
snorter outside,” he, added. “You’d think ’twas the middle of November.
Bring an umbrella? That’s good; you’ll need it. Hold on a second till I
check my duds.”
When he returned from the coat window they stood in the doorway looking
at the dancers.
“Sol. Bangs talked me into buyin’ a ticket,” remarked the Captain,
“and ’twas kind of dull at the boardin’-house, so I thought I’d run up
for a spell. Who’s here? Gusty Baker looks nice, don’t she? I s’pose
you was convoy to that craft, hey?”
Bradley reddened and admitted that he had acted in that capacity.
“Georgiana’s gayer’n a tin peddler’s cart, ain’t she?” continued his
partner. “Cap’n Jabe’s the only moultin’ pullet in that coop.”
He broke off suddenly and was silent for a minute or more. Bradley
asked him what the matter was.
“Oh, nothin’!” was the hasty reply. “Quite a crowd here to-night. Who’s
the little clipper in the white with blue pennants in her fore-riggin’?
The one dancin’ with Jonadab Wixon’s sister’s boy?”
“That’s Clara Hopkins. She’s grown to be a pretty girl, hasn’t she?”
“Humph! You don’t say! Jim Hopkins’ girl. I wouldn’t have known her.”
And the Captain subsided once more.
A little while after that, as Bradley was dancing his “Virginia Reel”
with Gus, he noticed a disturbance among the crowd of watchers at the
door. He was in the middle of the line at the time, and “Snuppy” Black
stood next to him.
“Hello!” exclaimed “Snuppy.” “Why, it can’t be! By thunder, it is! Sam
Hammond’s come. I didn’t know he was expected.”
Hammond it was, and in all the glory of city clothes and unlimited
self-confidence. When the reel was over, he came across the floor to
where Gus and Bradley were standing.
“How d’ye do, Gus?” he said, extending his hand; “I’m down for a few
days. Got a vacation that I wasn’t looking for. Came on to-night’s
train and thought I’d run up here for a little while, soon as I could
get away from the home folks. Let me see your order. Hello, Brad! How
are you?”
He was well-dressed, still in the rather conspicuous way, and he had
an easy, masterful air about him that none of the country fellows had,
though they all envied it. And he was good-looking; that couldn’t be
denied.
“My order is filled,” said Gus, showing him the card.
“Never mind; somebody’ll have to give up; that’s all. Brad, will you
give me this waltz of yours? It’s the next number.”
“Can’t spare it,” replied Bradley, shortly.
“Then I’ll have Hart’s schottische. I’ll make it all right with him.”
And he pencilled his own initials over those of Sears. Gus didn’t
seriously object.
“He’s a fine dancer,” she said, as she and Bradley rose for the waltz.
“I shall enjoy that schottische, and I should have had a horrid time
with Hartwell Sears. Now, Brad, let’s see how you remember your
lessons.”
The last dance was the lanciers, but as “Bennie D.” arose to “call
off,” he announced that there would be, by special request, an
“extra”--a waltz. Bradley had seen Hammond talking with the prompter
and with Mr. Bangs, and he knew whose the “special request” was. Under
other circumstances he wouldn’t have cared so much for that waltz, but
now he wanted it very much indeed.
He walked over to where Gus, flushed and laughing, stood talking with
Black, her partner in the lanciers. Just as he reached her side Sam
came hurrying up and pushed in front of him without ceremony.
“Gus,” said Hammond, “I made Ben give us this waltz on purpose so
that we might have it together. You haven’t been half generous to me
to-night, and now I’m after my pay. Come!”
He offered his arm, and for a moment the girl seemed about to take it.
Then she looked at Bradley, who, disappointed and chagrined, stood
silent in the background.
“Thank you very much, Sam,” she said; “but this waltz belongs to
Bradley. Come, Brad, the music is beginning.”
If any one had told Bradley previously that he would thoroughly enjoy a
waltz, he would have laughed. But he enjoyed every moment of this one.
He saw Sam’s scowl as Gus stepped past him, saw the smile on the faces
of Black and the other bystanders, and then they whirled away. Round
and round and round. “Bennie D.’s” music wasn’t the best in the world,
but to Bradley just then no grand opera orchestra could have played
more sweetly. His feet seemed almost as light as his partner’s, and
they kept perfect time.
It was over all too soon.
“Oh!” exclaimed Gus, as the music ceased; “that was splendid! Brad,
don’t ever say again that you can’t waltz.”
Captain Titcomb, with Clara Hopkins on his arm, passed them, scouring
his red face with a handkerchief.
“Whew!” he panted, “I must be gittin’ fat and lazy. Didn’t use to pump
me out this way to dance.”
Bradley and Gus walked home through a storm that, as the Captain had
said, was much more like a November gale than the usual summer blow.
The tops of the trees threshed and banged about in the heavy gusts and
the rain came against the umbrella top like water from a hose. They
were pretty wet when they reached the door.
“I’ve had ever so nice a time, Brad,” said Gus. “Thank you very much
for taking me.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve had a good time, too. I want to thank you for
giving me that last waltz. I know it meant giving up a good dancer for
a poor one, and ’twas kind of you to do it.”
“Oh! you earned that by trying so hard to learn. Good night.”
There was a kettle of “pepper tea” on the back of the stove in the
kitchen, and on the table Bradley found a note from Miss Tempy, saying
that he must be sure and drink two whole cups of the tea and rub his
chest with Blaisdell’s Emulsion before he went to bed, so as not to
catch cold.
He did drink some of the tea, but we fear the Emulsion was forgotten
entirely. Bradley’s brain was filled with thoughts of that waltz,
of Sam’s discomfiture and of his own triumph. Also there were other
and new thoughts that kept him awake for some time. They were of the
future, but the wrecking business had little part in them.
And outside the wind blew and the rain poured.
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