_ CHAPTER V. ON THE BRIDGE OF YACHT "
OLENIA"
O the times are hard and the wages low,
Leave her, bullies, leave her!
I guess it's time for us to go,
It's time for us to leave her.
--Across the Western Ocean.
Captain Mayo was not finding responsibility his chief worry while the
Olenia was making port.
It was a real mariner's job to drive her through the fog, stab the harbor entrance, and hunt out elbow-room for her in a crowded anchorage. But all that was in the line of the day's work. While he watched the compass, estimated tide drift, allowed for reduced speed, and listened for the echoes which would tell him his distance from the rocky shore, he was engaged in the more absorbing occupation of canvassing his personal affairs.
As the hired master of a private yacht he might have overlooked that affront from the owner, even though it was delivered to a captain on the bridge.
But love has a pride of its own. He had been abused like a lackey in the hearing of Alma Marston. It was evident that the owner had not finished the job. Mayo knew that he had merely postponed his evil moment by sending back a reply which would undoubtedly seem like insubordination in the judgment of a man who did not understand ship discipline and etiquette of the sea.
It was evident that Marston intended to call him "upon the carpet" on the quarter-deck as soon as the yacht was anchored, and proposed to continue that insulting arraignment.
In his new pride, in the love which now made all other matters of life so insignificant, Mayo was afraid of himself; he knew his limitations in the matter of submission; even then he felt a hankering to walk aft and jounce Julius Marston up and down in his hammock chair. He did not believe he could stand calmly in the presence of Alma Marston and listen to any unjust berating, even from her father.
He tried to put his flaming resentment out of his thoughts, but he could not. In the end, he told himself that perhaps it was just as well! Alma Marston must have pride of her own. She could not continue to love a man who remained in the position of her father's hireling; she would surely be ashamed of a lover who was willing to hump his back and take a lashing in public. His desire to be with her, even at the cost of his pride, was making him less a man and he knew it. He decided to face Marston, man fashion, and then go away. He felt that she would understand in spite of her grief.
Then, turning from a look at the compass, he saw that the yacht's owner was on the bridge. Half of an un-lighted cigar, which was soggy with the dampness of the fog, plugged Marston's-mouth.
He scowled when the captain saluted.
"You needn't bother to talk now," the millionaire broke in when Mayo began an explanation of his delay in obeying the call to the quarter-deck. "When I have anything to say to a man I want his undivided attention. Is this fog going to hold on?"
"Yes, sir, until the wind hauls more to the norrard."
"Then anchor."
"I am heading into Saturday Cove now, sir."
"Anchor here."
"I'm looking for considerably more than a capful of wind when it comes, sir. It isn't prudent to anchor offshore."
Marston grunted and turned away. He stood at the end of the bridge, chewing on the cigar, until the
Olenia was in the harbor with mudhook set. Mayo twitched the jingle bell, signaling release to the engineer.
"I am at your service, sir," he reported, walking to the owner.
Marston rolled the plugging cigar to a corner of his mouth and inquired, "Now, young man, tell me what you mean by saluting a Bee line steamer with my whistle?"
"I did not salute the
Conomo, sir."
"You gave her three whistles."
"Yes, but--"
"You're on a gentleman's yacht now, young man, and not on a fishing-steamer. Yachting etiquette doesn't allow a steam-whistle to be sounded in salute. Mr. Beveridge has just looked it up for me, and I know, and you need not assume any of your important knowledge." Marston seemed to be displaying much more irritation than a small matter warranted. But what he added afforded more light on the subject. "The manager of the Bee line was on board that steamer. You heard him hoot that siren at me!"
"I heard him give me cross-signals in defiance of the rules of the road, sir."
"Didn't you know that he whistled at me as an insult--as a sneer?"
"I heard only ordinary signals, sir."
"Everything is ordinary to a sailor's observation! You allowed him to crowd you off your course. You made a spectacle of my yacht, splashing it around like a frightened duck."
"I was avoiding collision, sir."
"You should have made your bigness with my yacht! You sneaked and dodged like a fishing-boat skipper. Was it on a fishing-boat you were trained to those tricks?"
"I have commanded a fishing-steamer, sir."
"On top of it all you gave him three whistles--regular fishing-boat manners, eh?"
Captain Mayo straightened and his face and eyes expressed the spirit of a Yankee skipper who knew that he was right.
"I say," insisted Marston, "that you saluted him."
"And I say, sir, that he cross-signaled, an offense that has lost masters their licenses. When I was pinched I gave him three whistles to say that my engines were going full speed astern. If Mr. Beveridge had looked farther in that book he might have found that rule, too!"
"When I looked up at the bridge, here, you were waving your hand to him--three whistles and a hand-wave! You can't deny that you were saluting!"
"I was shaking my fist at him, sir."
Within himself Captain Mayo was frankly wondering because the owner of the
Olenia was displaying all this heat. He remembered the taunt from the pilot-house of the
Conomo and understood vaguely that there were depths in the affair which he had not fathomed. But he was in no mood to atone vicariously for the offenders aboard the
Conomo.
"If I could have found a New York captain who knew the short cuts along this coast I could have had some decency and dignity on board my yacht. I'm even forgetting my own sense of what is proper--out here wasting words and time in this fashion. You're all of the same breed, you down-easters!"
"I am quite sure you can find a New York captain--" began Mayo.
"I don't want your opinion in regard to my business, young man. When I need suggestions from you I'll ask for them." He flung his soggy cigar over the rail and went down the ladder, and the fog closed immediately behind him.
Captain Mayo paced the bridge. He was alone there. A deck-hand had hooded the brass of the binnacle and search-light, listening while the owner had called the master to account. Mayo knew that the full report of that affair would be carried to the forecastle. His position aboard the yacht had become intolerable. He wondered how much Marston would say aft. His cheeks were hot and rancor rasped in his thoughts. In the hearing of the girl he adored his shortcomings would be the subject for a few moments of contemptuous discourse, even as the failings of cooks form a topic for idle chatter at the dinner-table.
Out of the blank silence of the wrapping fog came many sounds. Noises carried far and the voice of an unseen singer, who timed himself to the clank of an Apple-treer pump, brought to Mayo the words of an old shanty:
"Come all you young fellows that follow the sea,
Now pray pay attention and lis-ten to me.
O blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!
Way-ay, blow the man down.
O blow the man down in Liverpool town!
Give me some time to blow the man down.
'Twas aboard a Black-Bailer I first served my time,
And in that Black-Bailer I wasted my prime.
'Tis larboard and starboard on deck you will sprawl,
For blowers and strikers command the Black Ball.
So, it's blow the man down, bullies--"
Alma Marston's voice interrupted his somber appreciation of the significance of that ditty. "Are you up there, Boyd?" she asked, in cautious tones.
He hurried to the head of the ladder and saw her at its foot, half hidden in the mists even at that short distance. He reached down his hand and she came up, grasping it.
She was studying his expression with both eagerness and apprehension. "I couldn't stay away from you any longer," she declared. "The fog is good to us! Father could not see me as I came forward. I must tell you, Boyd. He has ordered me to stay aft."
He did not speak.
"Has he dared to say to you what he has been saying below about you?"
"I don't think it needed any especial daring on your father's part; I am only his servant," he said, with bitterness.
"And he--he insulted you like that?"
"I suppose your father did not look on what he said as insult. I repeat, I am a paid servant."
"But what you did was right! I know it must have been right, for you know everything about what is right to do on the sea."
"I understand my duties."
"And he blamed you for something?"
"It was a bit worse than that from my viewpoint." He smiled down at her, for her eyes were searching his face as if appealing for a bit of consolation.
"Boyd, don't mind him," she entreated. "Somebody who has been fighting him in business has been very naughty. I don't know just what it's all about. But he has so many matters to worry him. And he snaps at me just the same, every now and then."
"Yes, some men are cowards enough to abuse those who must look to them for the comforts of this world," he declared.
"We must make allowances."
"I'll not stay in a position where a man who hires me thinks he can talk to me as if I were a foremast hand. Alma, you would despise me if I allowed myself to be kicked around like a dog."
"I would love you all the more for being willing to sacrifice something for my sake. I want you here--here with all your love--here with me as long as these summer days last." She patted his cheek. "Why don't you tell me that you want to stay with me, Boyd? That you will die if we cannot be together? We can see each other here. I can bring Nan Burgess on the bridge with me. Father will not mind then. Let each day take care of itself!"
"I want to be what you want me to be--to do what you want me to do. But I wish you would tell me to go out into the world and make something of myself. Alma, tell me to go! And wait for me!"
She laid her face against his shoulder and reached for his fingers, endeavoring to pull one of his arms about her. But both of his hands were clutching the rail of the bridge. He resisted.
"Are you going to be like all the rest? Just money and trouble and worry?" She stretched up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his fog-wet cheek. "Are you asleep, my big boy? Yesterday you were awake."
"I think I am really awake to-day, and that I was dreaming yesterday. Alma, I cannot sneak behind your father's back to make love to you. I can't do it. I'm going to give up this position. I can't endure it."
"I say 'No!' I need you."
"But--"
"I'll not give you up."
There was something dramatic in her declaration; her demeanor expressed the placid calm of absolute proprietorship. She worked his unwilling fingers free from the rail.
"I love you because you can forget yourself. Now don't be like all the others."
He realized that a queer little sting of impatience was pricking him. The girl did not seem to understand what his manhood was prompting.
"You mustn't be selfish, Boyd!"
She put into words the vague thought which had been troubling him in regard to her attitude; and now that he understood what his thought had been he was incensed by what seemed his own disloyalty. And yet, the girl was asking him to make over his nature!
"I'm afraid it's all wrong. These things never seem to come out right," he mourned.
"You are trying to turn the world upside down all at once--and all alone. Don't think so much, you solemn Yankee. Just love!"
He put his aims about her. "I'm sailing in new waters. I don't seem to know the true course or the right bearings!"
"Let's stay anchored until the fog lifts! Isn't that what sailors usually do?"
He confessed it, kissing her when she lifted her tantalizing face from his shoulder.
"Now you'll let the future alone, won't you?" she asked.
"Yes." But even while he promised he was obliged to face that future.
Julius Marston, at the foot of the ladder, called to his daughter. "Are you up there?" he demanded, sharply.
"Yes, father."
"Come down here."
She gave her lover a hasty caress and obeyed.
Captain Mayo was obliged to listen. Marston, in his anger, showed no consideration for possible eavesdroppers.
"I have told you to stay aft where you belong."
"Really, father, I don't understand why--"
"Those are my orders! I understand.
You don't need to understand. This world is full of cheap fellows who misinterpret actions."
Captain Mayo grasped the rails of the bridge ladder and did down to the deck without touching his feet to the treads. He appeared before the father and daughter with startling suddenness.
"Mr. Marston, I am leaving my position on board here as soon as you can get another man to take my place."
"You are, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"You signed papers for the season. It is not convenient for me to make a change." Marston spoke with the crispness of a man who had settled the matter.
Captain Mayo was conscious that the girl was trying to attract his gaze, but he kept his eyes resolutely from her face.
"I insist on being relieved."
"I have no patience with childishness in a man! I found it necessary to reprimand you. You'll probably know your place after this." He turned away.
"I have decided that I do not belong on this yacht," stated Mayo, with an emphasis he knew the girl would understand. "You must get another master!"
"I cannot pick captains out of this fog, and I allow no man to tell me my own business. I shall keep you to your written agreement. Hold yourself in readiness to carry telegrams ashore for me. I take it there is an office here?"
"There is, sir," returned Mayo, stiffly.
The girl, departing, bestowed on him a pretty grimace of triumph, plainly rejoicing because his impetuous resignation had been overruled so autocratically. But Mayo gave a somber return to the raillery of her eyes. He had spoken out to Marston as a man, and had been treated with the contemptuous indifference which would be accorded to a bond-servant. He was wounded by the light manner in which she viewed that affront, even though her own father offered it.
He stood there alone for a time, meditating various rash acts. But under all the tumult of his feelings was the realization that the responsibility for that yacht's discipline and safety rested on his shoulders and he went about his duties. He called two of the crew and ordered the gangway steps down and the port dinghy cleared and lowered. Then he went to the chart-room and sat on a locker and tried to figure out whether he was wonderfully happy or supremely miserable.
Marston promptly closeted himself with his three wise men of business after he went aft. "We'll frame up those telegrams now and get them off," he told them. "I thought I'd better wait until I had worked the bile out of my system. Never try to do sane and safe business when you're angry, gentlemen! I'm afraid those telegrams would not have been exactly coherent if I had written them right after that Bee liner smashed past us."
"I have been ready to believe that Tucker would come in with us on the right lay," said one of the associates.
"So did I," agreed Marston. "I have thought all his loud talk has been bluff to beat up a bigger price. But, after what he did to-day! Oh no! He is out to fight and he grabbed his chance to show us! I do not believe a lot of this regular fight talk. But when a man comes up and smashes me between the eyes I begin to suspect his intentions."
"There's no need of dickering with him any longer, Mr. Marston. He made his work as dirty as he could to-day--he has left nothing open to doubt."
"I'm sorry," said another of the group. "Tucker has let himself get ugly."
"So have I," replied Marston, dryly. "And I'm growing senile, too, I'm afraid. I went forward and wasted as much anathema on that skipper of mine as I would use up in putting through a half-million deal with an opposition traffic line. Next thing I know I'll be arguing with, the smoke-stack. But I must confess, gentlemen, that Tucker rather took my breath away to-day. Either he has become absolutely crazy or else he doesn't understand the strength of the combination."
"He hasn't waked up yet. He doesn't know what's against him."
"That may be our fault, in a measure," stated one of the men. "We haven't been able to let men like Tucker in on the full details."
"In business it's the good guesser who wins," declared Marston. "Our merger isn't a thing to be advertised. And if we do any more explaining to Tucker the whole plan
will be advertised, you can depend on it. The infernal fool has been holding us up three months, demanding more knowledge--and he can't be trusted. There's only one thing to do, gentlemen! That!" He drove his fist into his palm with significant thud.
"Is the Bee line absolutely essential in our plans?"
"Every line along this coast is essential in making that merger stock an air-tight proposition."
"It's a new line and is not paying dividends."
"Well, for that matter, it's got nothing in that respect on some of the other lines we're salting down in the merger," suggested a member of the party, speaking for the first time.
"I'm afraid you said it then, Thompson! American bottoms seem to be turned into barnacle-gardens," declared the man who had questioned the matter of Tucker's value.
"Gentlemen, just a moment!" Julius Marston leaned forward in his chair. His voice was low. His eyes narrowed. He dominated them by his earnestness. "You have followed me in a number of enterprises, and we have had good luck. But let me tell you that we have ahead of us the biggest thing yet, and we cannot afford to leave one loose end! Not one, gentlemen! That's why a fool like Tucker doesn't deserve any consideration when he gets in our way. Listen to me! The biggest thing that has ever happened in this world is going to happen. How do I know? I am not sure that I do know. But as I have just told you, the man who guesses right is the winner." His thin nose was wrinkled, and the strip of beard on his chin bristled. Sometimes men called Marston "the fox of Wall Street." He suggested the reason for his nickname as he sat there and squinted at his associates. "And there's an instinct that helps some men to guess right. Something is going to happen in this world before long that will make millionaires over and over out of men who have invested a few thousands in American bottoms."
"What will happen?" bluntly inquired one of the men, after a silence.
"I am neither clairvoyant nor crystal-gazer," said Marston, grimly. "But I have led you into some good things when my instinct has whispered. I say it's going to happen--and I say no more."
"To make American bottoms worth while the whole of Europe will have to be busy doing something else with their ships."
"All right! Then they'll be doing it," returned Marston.
"It would have to be a war--a big war."
"Very well! Maybe that's the answer."
"But there never can be another big war. As a financier you know it."
"I have made some money by adhering to the hard and fast rules of finance. But I have made the most of my money by turning my back on those rules and listening to my instinct," was Marston's rejoinder. "I don't want to over-influence you, gentlemen. I don't care to discuss any further what you may consider to be dreams. I am not predicting a great war in Europe. Common sense argues the other way. But I am going into this ship-merger proposition with every ounce of brains and energy and capital I possess. The man who gets in my way is trying to keep these two hands of mine off millions!" He shook his clutched fists above his head. "And I'll walk over him, by the gods! whether it's Tucker or anybody else. We have had some good talks on the subject, first and last. I'm starting now to fight and smash opposition. What do you propose to do in the matter, gentlemen?"
They were silent for a time, looking at one another, querying without words. Then out of their knowledge of Julius Marston's uncanny abilities, remembering their past successes, came resolve.
"We're in with you to the last dollar," they assured him, one after the other.
"Very well! You're wise!"
He unlocked a drawer of his desk and secured a code-book. He pressed a buzzer and the secretary came hurrying from his stateroom.
"We'll open action, gentlemen, with a little long-distance skirmish over the wire."
He began to dictate his telegrams. _