Chapter X: Part 10

And Billy followed it up with a few remarks that showed he was far from having been trained as a missionary.

The man looked relieved, though he did say quietly:

“You see, I’m a missionary. From what you said I judged that you, too--well, I want neither a rival nor an assistant--but,” he added quickly, “anybody else is welcome.”

Billy cast a speculative eye over the crowd of natives ringed about him.

“Say,” he confessed frankly, “I was awfully glad to see you. These fellows had me scared stiff.”

The missionary laughed. “They can’t imagine any one being afraid of them.”

“Ain’t they got no lookin’ glasses?” Billy demanded.

The missionary laughed again and invited him into his house.

Billy at first had a nightmarish sensation as he stepped in; lizards, birds and things, some dried, some stuffed, some pickled in bottles, some stuck on cards--bugs and butterflies and flying squirrels and even some bright-scaled fish.

“Have a little drink?” asked the missionary. “And here is a pipe and some tobacco--trade tobacco. Wretched stuff. Just make yourself at home. And tell me, what’s going on in the world? I’ve been here four years.”

Billy reflected that this man might be a missionary, but he was a good judge of whiskey, though he took only a little for himself and after filling Billy’s glass put the bottle away.

Later another drink for Billy alone was forthcoming; and he, already wanting to stay on and on with the missionary and not wanting him to think that he, Billy, was a murderer or something, up and told just what he would have told the judge if he had not been able to keep just about two jumps ahead of the detectives that were on his trail.

Billy naively explained that he wasn’t going to confess to anybody that he had carried the money from a certain firm of paying contractors to a certain man that could--and did--control the awarding of paving contracts.

“An’ was it police or a woman with you?” Billy inquired pointedly, feeling that an exchange of confidence was due.

The missionary gave him a quick glance, then smiled and said that he was really a naturalist, but was officially a missionary because the Germans, who owned the Carolinas, were more agreeable to missionaries than to scientists--of other countries.

“A woman,” Billy said to himself, noticing how handsome and young the missionary was. His name was Roscoe Tomlin.

In the next few weeks they got well acquainted. Billy helped, as the natives did, to catch bugs and things and pickle them. He picked up a few words of the dialect and soon had the pickaninnies taking a great fancy to him.

Then, just as Billy was getting settled to the new life and beginning to feel secure, a little steam yacht nosed cautiously into the mouth of the bay.

The natives made a dash for the beach, tumbled into canoes and went splashing out to give greetings and get presents.

Tomlin was off in the bush chasing bugs and things.

Billy, not being anxious to receive visitors himself, went near the beach and reclined behind a convenient rock.

Presently he saw a boat dropped from the davits. People got into it. One of them was a woman. They landed on the beach and, in about two minutes, Billy sauntered out to make sure that she was as pretty as she looked. The men who had rowed ashore stayed in the boat, but she got out with a little man who had a Vandyke beard, a cap and doublebreasted serge coat.

“No detective,” said Billy reassuringly to himself, “would attempt that disguise.”

“Hello,” said the little fellow seeing that Billy was a white man.

Billy didn’t like his looks. Just why, he could not have told. But he didn’t like ’em. He wasn’t frightened though--besides, she was getting prettier and prettier at every step.

Her hair was red and her eyes were purple with fire in them; her lips were red as a flame-tree’s flower, or maybe more red. She was slender without being slim and moved as easily as a pandanus leaf swinging in a little breeze. Billy was very susceptible to beauty. He would have thrown himself face down right there on the sand for her to walk on at the least suggestion that such an attitude would be pleasing to her. She was young without being girlish--nor was there anything old womanish about her. No. Billy, who was a bit hazy on historical events, was sure that she looked exactly like those women who bowl kings off their thrones, get men assassinated--or whatever else they want. Not that she looked wicked. No. But--well, Billy was a long way from home and she wore her clothes as they are worn on the Boardwalk; she carried herself as women do on Fifth Avenue. And then she was pretty.

“Is there a man here by the name of Roscoe Tomlin?” the little man asked, turning hard blue eyes on Billy as though he were a bum or wastrel.

“Who’s he?” said Billy, looking innocent.

“Who are you?” the woman asked. She spoke pleasantly, encouragingly, as though Billy interested her. He and the ladies always did get along, anyway.

“I’m Billy Rand,” he said. “The missionary’s assistant.”

“And who is the missionary?” She asked it quickly, eagerly.

“Mr. Roscoe Tomlin,” said Billy, bowing low.

“You--you--you,” the little man stuttered angrily, “why didn’t you tell me that when I asked you?”

“Because,” Bill answered, looking right at him, “I didn’t know the lady was interested!”

“I’ll fix you!” the man shouted, and came toward Billy as though about to do something he shouldn’t.

He was about Billy’s size--and Billy never ran in front of ladles, not pretty ones at any rate.

But hostilities were suppressed peremptorily. She snapped out in a surprised tone:

“Captain Farewell!”

The Captain stopped. Anybody would have stopped.

“That’s all right,” Billy assured her. “Us missionaries is used to such fellers. Bad lot o’ men come to these islands--crooks and things!”

The Captain appeared to be on the verge of blowing up; but she--she did not seem to notice. She smiled as she asked:

“Is Mr.--I mean is the Rev. Mr. Tomlin as--as pugnacious as you?”

“Him?” asked Billy. “Why, he trained me! He eats ’em alive.”

“Cannibal, eh?” said the Captain. “I told you how white men degenerated among the natives,” he remarked to her. Then of Billy he asked, “Is this Rev. Mr. Tomlin married or--”

He stopped right there. Billy didn’t quite know what the Captain was driving at, but sensed enough to make him want to fight.

“Has Mr. Tomlin a wife?” she asked.

“Has he a _native_ wife?” the Captain emphasized.

“Lady,” said Billy, getting hot inside, and when he got hot inside he was likely to be blunt in his remarks, “supposin’ some stranger come to a friend of yours and asked are you married to a nigger!”

She flushed and caught her breath, but someway it seemed that she was very much pleased, though she said: “You are right. I apologize. But will you please take us to Mr. Tomlin. I am a friend--a former friend of his.”

So Billy led them up to the house, and the natives came along chattering and grinning and wanting to touch the woman’s clothes. Billy warned them off repeatedly with a strange mixture of native words and New York slang.

The Captain, speaking like a man does who has something on his mind, asked:

“And how long have _you_ been here, Rev. Mr. Rand?”

“Me? Oh, let’s see. Two--no not quite two years. Be two years soon. A feller sort o’ loses track of time in a place like this, you know.”

“So I would judge!” said the Captain with a strange intonation that caused Billy some vague uneasiness.

It stood this way with Billy: The District Attorney back in New York was after the Chief. Certain contractors lost money on a job and that made them peevish, so they swore that they had handed out a bribe to get the contract awarded to them. The Chief stood pat and said: “Prove it!” Billy had carried the money. If Billy confessed, the District Attorney had the proof. But Billy jumped. If he should be caught and still refuse to come through with a confession, it was highly probable that the District Attorney would pry loose some little episodes in Billy’s past and hand him something. He would not snitch on the Chief and as he did not like the accommodations at Sing Sing, Billy had been ducking and dodging all over the Pacific, and the detectives--though they had never laid eyes on him--had been stubborn and alert as ferrets in a rabbit warren. It wasn’t that Billy had a criminal record--far from it. But he had been in practical politics as an aid to the Chief. This was a stubborn political fight involving some pretty big pickings, and he had the misfortune to be a crucial witness. So Billy grew very thoughtful at the way Captain Farwell spoke.

He led the guests into the house and had them sit down. They looked at the bugs and pickled lizards and stuffed fish, but the woman did not shiver.

“This has always been Roscoe’s habit,” she said.

Billy sent some of the native youngsters for green cocoanuts and poured a drink of cool milk for the guests. The woman was eager and busy with questions, wanting to know everything knowable about Tomlin; and the Captain watched Billy steadily and continued remarks that made him nervous.

Billy reflected that the Captain was not a big man in any way--something like himself in build, only a trifle thinner--and, well, a fight wouldn’t help much to keep him out of New York, but it would be gratifying.

While they were talking, Tomlin came.

The natives had told him about the witch-boat--any boat, in their minds, was driven by the devil if it did not have sails--and about the white woman and man being in the house.

He was naturally interested. Tourists were often nosing around in yachts, but he had never seen any before. He came over the doorway--the doorways were built high to keep the pigs out--and said with general friendliness:

“I hope Billy is making you comfortable.”

“Yes, Roscoe. Quite comfortable,” she said, turning her face toward him.

“You!--Lorraine--here!”

“Why, of course. How are you Roscoe? Didn’t you get my letter? This is Captain Farwell. Mother is aboard the _Petrel_, but she isn’t well.”

Tomlin looked at the Captain and nodded, still in a daze.

From the way he looked back at Lorraine, Billy did not know whether Tomlin had a peeve and wasn’t trying to show it, or didn’t have one and wanted to pretend. Lorraine seemed wiser. She smiled at him in a way that, Billy thought, ought to have made a statue come from its pedestal and be human.

Billy recognized that four was a multitude and said:

“Captain, you just come with me, and I’ll show you a cocoanut grove or a sunset or something.”

Lorraine frankly rewarded Billy with a smile and a glance.

The Captain hemmed and hawed, but she said as politely as though she meant it: “Certainly Captain, we’ll excuse you. I remember you said you wanted to see a real native village. Mr. Rand, I’m sure, will be an excellent guide.”

“Yes,” said Tomlin, feeling no doubt that he ought to say something, “Billy has been here only a few weeks, but he knows the natives almost as well as I.”

Billy at once felt himself crumbling from the inside. He had counted much on an alibi that would give him a two year residence on the island.

Lorraine seemed to realize that something was wrong. She caught Billy’s eye, and in about the tenth part of a second, then and there with nothing more than a sparkle of light from under her long lashes, made an offensive and defensive alliance with him.

When they were outside the Captain said:

“How one must lose track of time here! Remarkable, isn’t it! I feel as though I’d been here several days.”

“The cocoanuts are down this way,” said Billy, starting off.

“By the way, Rand, I don’t suppose there is any way of getting out of this place, is there?” the Captain asked.

“How do you mean, get out?”

It was a question uppermost in Billy’s mind.

“I mean any of these islands--off like this. Just before we left Langar I heard of a couple of detectives from New York. They have tracked their man half way around the world, and discovered that about two months ago--maybe a little less--he left Langar with a German trader. The trader is out now on a trip and they’re waiting for him to come back and tell them where he dropped this man.

“Neither of these detectives, so I heard--the steward talked with them--has ever seen the man. But they have a good description of him, a very good description. Short inclined to be chubby--though possibly he’s thinned out some since he became a fugitive--blue eyes, dark brown hair. Somewhat resourceful, they say. Passed himself as a waiter and got passage on a government transport to Guam. Pretended to be a discharged marine at Guam and shipped with a pearl pirate for Yap. At Yap he became a planter and doubled back to Langar. They don’t know what he told the trader, but they know this trader never makes anything but little islands out of touch with the world. They figure that they have their prize this time. Haven’t seen anybody of his description, have you?”

Billy came very nearly to saying yes; but what would be the use? In normal spirits he would have told the Captain that the description fitted himself--the Captain--pretty closely. But Billy was in no mood for humor.

“I am telling you all this so that in case you ever run across the fellow you can send word to Langar. Quite a reward for him, I understand. The detectives are waiting there. They heard the _Petrel_ was cruising about, and asked the steward to notify everybody on board. They are very impatient. I am sure if they got wind of where the fellow was they would hire a schooner and go for him.”

“Can’t arrest him without the consent of German authorities, can they?” Billy inquired.

“Not properly, of course. But they can smuggle him out. Once they get their hands on him they will not stop to ask questions until they get to New York. This fellow is so resourceful and tricky that they won’t give him half a chance to make trouble for them.”

Billy did not answer. He was beginning to feel a kind of companionable sympathy for the lizards that he and Tomlin caught and smothered in chloroform before “picklin’ ’em.” No matter where he went he felt that he never appreciably increased the distance between himself and 240 Centre Street, New York--Police Headquarters.

But Billy wasn’t the only one who was having troubles. Lorraine and Tomlin came walking toward the beach, and a blind man could tell that neither of them was happy. The Captain, not being blind, appeared perky and pleased.

“Aren’t you coming to see mother?” she asked wistfully as she got into the boat. Perhaps she was too proud to ask him to come on her own account.

“To-morrow, Lorraine. To-morrow,” he said in an empty voice that showed he scarcely knew what he was saying.

“To-morrow!” she said, not without a touch of anger. Then to Billy, “Mr. Rand, will you come and have dinner with me--now!”

“I sure am delighted!” said Billy, and without looking toward the reproachful eyes of Tomlin or the glaring eyes of the Captain, he climbed into the boat, and gave all of his attention to Lorraine’s.

Billy thought the _Petrel_ was about the finest thing imaginable, all white and shiny, and he thought the dinner was too much for mere words to describe--with just himself and Lorraine at the table. The mother was not well, but she looked much worse when Lorraine said that Tomlin wouldn’t come--until to-morrow.

At dinner Billy got the whole story. Of course Lorraine didn’t intend to tell it, but she did--at least enough of it for him to understand that some years before she had loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and that they were promised, each to the other. But of course she had loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and that she was rich and he was poor and had “pride”--also a passion for bugs and things. There isn’t much money to be made out of that sort of study, and she objected to being expected to live on what he made from it--when she was rich as an Indian princess. Her father offered to help Tomlin along in business, but Tomlin insisted that his career was in studying bugs, and that made the father peevish and he said that Tomlin didn’t need help. Naturally Tomlin then grew more peevish and said that the father and his money could go to the--well, wherever it is that rich men go on Judgment Day when they fail to get through the eye of the needle. And, of course, that made Lorraine peevish, and she said that Tomlin didn’t love her. But he said that he did and always would, but that he had “pride.” So the engagement was shattered, and Lorraine married a man rich as she was. But Tomlin had her heart and she couldn’t forget him. Besides, she felt that maybe after all she was to blame. When her husband died from overwork of the stomach, she inquired and found that Tomlin had turned missionary to the Caroline Islands. She talked with her mother, and the mother, having known all along how Lorraine felt, said to do it, so Lorraine sent Tomlin a letter (the mail is delivered to stray missionaries once every three or four years), took the _Petrel_, engaged Captain Farwell, and set out to locate Tomlin, being aided thereby through the Board by Foreign Missions which had him down on its payroll for $35 every three months. But as converting heathens isn’t a very paying business, there were times when he did not get that.

It was a long trip. And Captain Farwell, being a single man and feeling himself as attractive as any missionary, continually told her of how white men degenerated in the tropics and--well, the inference was that no woman could ask for a better husband than a sailorman of just his height and age. He might as well have suggested himself as the consort for the Empress Dowager of China. But the Captain had ideas and believed himself a very resourceful gentleman.

“And Roscoe,” she said bitterly, “still has that awful ‘pride’ of his!”

“He loves you, don’t he?” Billy demanded.

She looked a little startled, but admitted that Tomlin had said he did and had never loved any one else; and her eyes seemed to ask Billy what he thought of a man who would love a girl and not show it.

Billy was a man of some attainment in the use of his wits. He had lived by them for many years. He assured Lorraine that all Tomlin needed was a little friendly advice and to “leave it to me!” She was a bit alarmed at Billy’s proprietary manner in taking over her love affair, but they were a long way from home and the conventions of New York.

And when Billy started to leave she said: “And by the way, Mr. Rand, if for any reason you care to leave on the _Petrel_, whether or not Roscoe comes, you will be welcome. And we are not going back by way of Langar!”

“Them detectives’ll be awfully disappointed if you don’t,” Billy said frankly, wondering just how much Tomlin had told her, and what the steward had told her--or Captain Farwell?

Billy got into the boat to be taken ashore, but the sailors said that they were waiting for the Captain, too. Presently Captain Farwell came and as the boat shoved off in the darkness, there was a crackling and snapping on board the _Petrel_. Billy had noticed the wireless. He was not much of a sailor and besides it had seemed natural for ships to have tall poles and wires and ropes.

“Mr. Rand,” said the Captain, when he came, “I’m sending to Langar a description of the man we met on the island this afternoon.”

Of course, he said it that way so the sailors wouldn’t understand.

“And I believe,” he went on, “that I can persuade the owner of the _Petrel_ that it would be wiser to go back by way of Langar.”

So the Captain had been listening.

Billy settled down on a thwart and tried to think.

“It will take the detectives about two days to get here. Much may happen in two days.”

Billy hoped so.

The Captain left Billy to ruminate until the boat hit the beach. Then he got out and said that he would walk a bit with Billy.

“You know,” the Captain began, “if Tomlin should not leave on the _Petrel_ I don’t believe that we would go back by way of Langar.”

Billy said nothing. He didn’t quite understand.

“And in that case, if you were on board the detectives would never meet you.”

“Go on,” said Billy. “I’m interested.”

“But if Tomlin remained--and was able to talk, understand--he would tell that you had gone on the _Petrel_ and you wouldn’t be much better off. Besides, the _Petrel_ would be into trouble for having tried to do you a favor. They would get hold of the _Petrel_ some way.”

“That’s right,” said Billy. “Now tell it all.”

“I’ll be frank with you. You are a bad crook, so I don’t suppose one crime more or less means much to you, does it?”

“Naw, I’m bad!” said Billy grinning to himself in the darkness.

“Listen then. You kill Tomlin and I’ll see that you get away. Let him live this night out and I’ll put you in irons and carry you to Langar myself.”

“Ooo-oo,” said Billy. “I’m in a pickle.”

“You are,” said the Captain, speaking firm.

“With Tomlin out of the way, you think this girl can be consoled by being Mrs. Farwell. Am I some guesser?”

“You discuss your own business. Not mine.”

“Sure. You’ve got what they call the upper hand.”

“I have.” The Captain was a man of decision; very firm, too.

“How’s the best way to go about it to keep Tomlin quiet?”

“Knife him.”

“All thought out!” said Billy, admiringly.

“Yes. Here’s a knife. Don’t leave it lying around. If you do I shall swear you stole it from me.”

“I’ll bring it back to you.”

“You’ll do it then?”

“I’ll come to the _Petrel_ in the mornin’ and say a nigger done it.”

“That’s right. Don’t fail me. It’ll go hard with you.”

“I believe you,” said Billy, as the Captain turned away and walked back toward the beach.

Billy, grinning thoughtfully, went up to the house. Through the doorway he could see Tomlin with his elbows on the table, his hands in his hair, sitting amid his troubles. The lantern hanging from a beam made him look like a great grotesque image carved from teak.

Billy climbed over the doorway.

“Billy--” Tomlin said anxiously, ready to ask questions.

Billy did not answer, but started gathering up his few belongings, and making a great show of that.

“Billy, what are you doing?”

No answer, but much rummaging.

“Billy, have you gone crazy?”

“Nope.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m movin’.”

“Moving? What’s the matter?”

“I got _pride_,” said Billy.

“Pride? What on earth is the matter with you?”

Then Billy told him. That is Billy explained how he had landed on the beach and been living on Tomlin’s charity, and he simply couldn’t stand it any more. His pride wouldn’t let him stand it. He was going back in the bush and hunt berries and bugs of his own.

“But Billy--are you crazy? I’ve done nothing for you. I’ve liked you--I want you to stay.”

“Nope. I got _pride_!”

“You idiot!” Tomlin cried, jumping up, his strained nerves at the breaking point.

“Who’s an idiot?”

“You are. All this means nothing to me. I’m glad to share it with you. Anything--everything. I like you--and you--you--”

“--then why don’t you marry her?” Billy cut in.

Tomlin’s face went blank as the palm of his hand.

“What does all that mean to her? She just wants to share it with you. And you got pride. Aw, you just want her to coax and beg.”

“Look here--what are you talking about?” Tomlin demanded.

“See this knife,” said Billy, flourishing the long, cold blade. “Well--” and Billy told him everything.

A few hours later Tomlin was talking like a happy child and trying to shave while Billy sat at the table painfully trying to write a note.

Tomlin knocked over a shelf of pickled lizards.

“Look out!” Billy exclaimed.

“To hell with ’em!” said Tomlin.

“A missionary to--”

“I’ve thought out my letter of resignation,” said Tomlin.

Billy finished his note and put it in his pocket, saying: “I’ll rout out some niggers and you come about fifteen minutes after me. Meantime I got to kill a chicken.”

He slipped out and feeling under the low eaves grabbed a sleepy fowl. Captain Farwell’s knife was soon a very grewsome object.

Just before dawn Billy paddled out to the _Petrel_. He inquired for Lorraine’s cabin and banging on the door slipped her his note with a word or two of explanation, then returned to the deck.

“Mr. Tomlin was murdered by natives last night,” he said to a sailor on watch. “The lady wants me to tell the Captain.”

Billy was shown to the Captain’s cabin and the sailor went to spread the news forward.

“Who’s there?” said the Captain.

“Me,” said Billy. “The niggers killed Tomlin last night!”

“Come in,” said the Captain, excited. Billy came in.

“Shut the door.”

It was shut.

“Lock it.”

Billy fumbled with the lock.

The Captain was in bed, sitting up, nervous.

“He is dead?”

“See this?” said Billy, pulling out the knife.

“Why didn’t you wipe it off?”

“All right,” said Billy as he grabbed the end of the sheet and wiped the blade.

“You fool--the stains--here--”

“Where else should they be? Us murderers has to stick together.”

“Are you trying to implicate me? But I’ve got you--I’ll swear--you’re going to murder me!”

With that the Captain sprang out of bed and began yelling “Murder! Help!”

The door opened and Lorraine stood there, just as Billy had requested. Her hair was tumbled down and she wore a kimono of white silk with blue birds. Her face did not look pleasant, and her eyes were cold and straight, but she said quite calmly:

“Captain Farwell, I have been listening with the door ajar ever since you told Mr. Rand to lock it!”

With that she turned and walked off.

The Captain dropped his jaw, and then himself. He flopped like a sack of flour into a chair and sat there staring at Billy.

“You see, Cap,” said Billy, friendly-like, “I’m wanted back in New York as a witness in a bribery case. Not for murder. And seein’ as you don’t want it, I think I’ll keep this knife as a little souvenir.”

The Captain said nothing, so Billy kept the knife and went out, shutting the door.

Down the passageway he came upon Tomlin with his arms around Lorraine, and she was weeping happily.

Billy overheard “--as soon as we can find a minister.”

“But you are one!” she insisted. “And Mr. Rand--isn’t he--”

Tomlin exploded into laughter.

But Billy intervened.

“’Scuse me for interferin’ with the reunion, but if you are lookin’ for a weddin’ ceremony, allow me to offer my services.”

Tomlin looked surprised for it was obvious that Billy was in earnest.

Billy hastened to explain that when he had come over to Guam on the transport the captain had married an officer and a nurse, so it appeared that captains could marry people--though a missionary’s assistant couldn’t!

“That’s right!” said Tomlin.

Lorraine was inclined to object.

“Then we must wait, my dear.”

“We have waited so long!” she said, thereby agreeing to the Captain’s performing the ceremony.

The Captain was still in pajamas and on his chair and showed all the visible symptoms of nervous prostration.

“Captain,” said Billy, cheerfully, “we’d like to have a knot spliced this mornin’ and seein’ as how you are a sailor--”

“Will you be good enough to perform the wedding service?” Tomlin asked, sternly. After all it was his, not Billy’s wedding.

The Captain choked and was badly scared, but at last managed to say that he was “agreeable,” although he didn’t appear to be.

Billy grabbed a pair of sailors for witnesses, the Captain fished out a Bible--and Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe Tomlin marched out blushing and happy to break the news to mother; whereupon the old lady climbed right out of bed, cured.

That afternoon the Captain had a little talk with Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin and said that he would like permission to go ashore and stay there, as relations on board had become somewhat strained. He knew that a boat would be along in two or three days (the detectives had answered that they were coming). It was very irregular--a captain leaving his ship that way--but Tomlin said that all things considered, he thought it would be well.

So the Captain said good-bye to the steward and whispered something that caused the steward to look hard at Billy; then he, the Captain, left, bag and baggage.

That day was spent in getting Tomlin’s bugs and lizards on board and in saying good-bye to the natives.

The next morning with the First Officer on the bridge, the _Petrel_ steamed out and left the Captain sitting on the beach--very glad to have got away without charges being laid up against him.

Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin cornered Billy and asked what on earth they could do for him.

“Yesum,” said Billy. “Just drop that steward over-board.”

Mrs. Tomlin promised that at the first port they reached the steward would be fired and given passage money home.

As the day passed Billy walked the deck and exchanged jokes with the First Officer, who was the new Captain--and glad of it, because he had never liked Farwell anyhow. Then a little trading schooner came over the line, bow on.

Billy knew right away by intuition that she carried the detectives.

When within hailing distance the schooner heaved to and the _Petrel_ slowed down.

A fellow from the bow called out to thank the Captain for having tipped him off as to the crook wanted in New York, and asked if he was still in the nigger village.

The new Captain didn’t quite understand; but Billy grabbed the megaphone and yelled: “Yes--raised a beard--stole papers and clothes from the ship--may try to pass himself off as a Captain or something--clever crook, you know--let ’im explain nothin’ or you won’t get him to New York. Good luck!”

A shout of thanks came over the water as the _Petrel_ started churning ahead.

Billy looked after the little schooner, and taking a deep breath, said gratefully to himself, “The Lord helps them as helps ’emselves! Can you see the D. A. when he gets hold of old Cap. Farwell expectin’ to see little Billy!”

_The Woman’s Home Companion_

ACCORDING TO RUSKIN

BY

HARRIET WELLES

ACCORDING TO RUSKIN[12]

By HARRIET WELLES

During the first few days after the Armistice was signed I seemed, for some strange reason, to wish to sit idly in my room in the London hotel where I was temporarily domiciled.

Ever since I had left my home in America, the days in war-time England had been so full, so tensely crowded, that each seemed crammed with events--events, occurring somehow in an eternal twilight that will always recur to me with the memory of the unbearable, shadowy premonition of an approaching night; the sight of troops marching across the city under faint stars, dim against the afterglow; laden lorries lumbering, convoy wagons creaking, through the dusk; constantly returning ambulances, with their endless gleanings, seeming to leave a perceptible shadow long after they had passed. Even the pot of parrot tulip bulbs, purchased to brighten my window sill, finally blossomed, and contributed to my illusion of twilight by producing wan, colorless flowers.

And then the Armistice was signed, and I awakened from my doze to find it bright morning with dazzling sunshine! Small wonder that most of us drew a long breath and, blinking uncertainly, hesitated....

But, after a few days, old ties reasserted themselves. I had been too busy, too harassed, before, to look up old friends; now, I sat down and wrote the one for whom, during a year in the Orient where her husband and mine each held an official position, I had grown to have a very deep admiration and affection. “It will be pleasant to see a real English family in their own home, during the first days of peace,” I planned, remembering my friend, her pleasant husband, and their three sons and one pretty daughter.

Before her answering letter, urging me to make them a long visit, came, my plans were suddenly changed, my sailing date hastened. I was able to arrange for only one afternoon with her in the cathedral town where she lived, near London.

The only books on sale at the railroad station book stall were war literature, for which, now that the nightmare was so recently over, I had a deep repugnance, so I dug out from a pile of miscellaneous books a cheap paper-covered volume of Ruskin’s essays, and settled myself to improve my mind, while the toy train moved leisurely on its punctual way.

My friend waved to me from a wicker pony cart as I alighted from the train at her station. She bridged the years which stretched between our last meeting, half a world away, and the present, by the friendliness of her greeting, the sincere warmth of her welcome. “There wasn’t anyone to hold this fractious beast, or I wouldn’t be sitting here,” she apologized as she kissed me.

“He looks peaceful enough,” I commented, taking the seat beside my hostess.

“_She_ isn’t! Since our horses were commandeered, and we were allowed only eight gallons of petrol a month for the motor, we’ve had to depend on this pony. She’s put on a lot of side since she realized that she was a war-worker,” volunteered my friend as the pony shied heraldically at a baby carriage. “She’s seen that perambulator--or others like it--every day for the last fifteen years, and never noticed until now.”

The pony, suddenly bored by her own antics, slowed down to a jog trot; we rounded a grove of trees, and came upon a typical English village dominated by a gray cathedral. “How quaint--how peaceful!” I exclaimed with unfeigned enthusiasm.

“Yes, it is a dear old place,” she agreed, and hesitated: “I suppose that, in a way, it’s peaceful, too, if you can overlook the sorrow or suffering in every house. Our older men will have to stay in harness and bear the burdens much longer than heretofore; the middle generation is wiped out. We must wait for the lads who are children now. There isn’t one young man left, in this village, who isn’t lame or blind,” she said, and indicated with her whip a cottage doorway. On the step a blond boy leaned idly against a post. Something in his lack of cognizance of us made me look more closely. “Blind, deaf from ‘shellshock,’ and his right arm gone,” my friend explained.

I mentally searched for a pleasanter subject. “You haven’t told me of your family--your husband, Daphne, the boys? I was so excited at seeing you that I waited to ask,” I said.

We were passing the green cloister of the cathedral. Above us towered the gray pile with its buttresses, gargoyles and columns; from an unseen belfry a deep-toned bell sounded the hour, a silvery chime supplemented the old canticle: “He ... watching over Israel ... slumbers not ... nor sleeps.”

My friend listened intently. “Sometimes, when bad news arrived, or the severely wounded came home, I’ve wondered. I’ve questioned,” she said. I knew that she referred to the message of the bells.

“You needn’t question any more. Now, you know!” I comforted.

“Yes,” she agreed, “now I know--it had to be. All English mothers are sure of that.”

There was in her tone quiet and sincere earnestness that any comment seemed superfluous and impertinent, so in silence we drove on down the long road and passed through a stone gateway and up a curving avenue to the most perfect Georgian house that I have ever seen. She smiled at my enthusiastic admiration.

“I used to get so homesick for it, in China,” she volunteered; “my great-great-grandfather built it on the ruins of an older place of ours which had burned.”

* * * * *

An old stableman hobbled up to take the reins. We went in past an elderly parlor maid who had opened the door, and I instantly succumbed to the perfection of the sunshiny hall, with its floor of black and white marble, and the square, paneled rooms opening off on either side of it.

“We’ve had tea in the garden every afternoon, it has been such a beautiful, open autumn. But perhaps you’d prefer having it in the house?” suggested my friend.

“I’d much rather have it in the garden,” I agreed, reluctantly detaching my attention from the Adam mantelpiece and turning to examine the carved corners of the old wall panels. The rooms were veritable museums of rare and beautiful furnishings; they showed a finished perfection of detail, from the wax candles in the crystal chandeliers to the faded needle-point upholstering on the Chippendale chair seats.

“Just think of the generations of discriminating people whose taste is represented in your home! Didn’t any of them ever make mistakes and buy black walnut horrors?” I cried, and added, “What a magnificent heritage to hand down, unspoiled, to your children!”

She did not answer. I turned and found her staring down at the sturdy carving on a superb oak bench. “My great-great-great-great-grandfather’s favorite seat,” she explained, rousing herself. “He sailed with Drake ... and was a firm believer in the unalterable greatness of England, and England’s future ... as I am a believer in it!” She paused. “But sometimes I wonder ... what will become of our household gods....”

“_Become of them?_” I cried. She interrupted me.

“Must you really go back to London this afternoon?” she asked, and at my reluctant affirmative continued, “I’ve ordered tea early for that reason. Shall we go out into the garden?... Ah, Daphne!”

I turned to greet the daughter of the house as she came down the stairs, and drew a deep breath of pleasure. She had been a pretty girl, but now she was even lovelier, and while the contrast between her soft dress and lace hat and her mother’s severely plain attire was striking, I felt thankful that, in war-weary England, Beauty was encouraged.

“Daphne--and grown up!” I greeted her.

She smiled. “Were you at my wedding?” she asked.

“Why, no! I didn’t even know that you had been married,” I commented. Her mother interposed: “We hadn’t time to look up addresses or have invitations engraved. George’s leave was so short.”

Daphne was not listening; now, she interrupted, “Tea--so soon? In the garden?” And without waiting for an answer glanced at the shabby volume still clasped in my hand. “Book? Any pictures?” she asked. I smiled. “You haven’t grown up at all!” I told her, and added, “Ruskin’s essays--without illustrations!”

* * * * *

The parlor maid appeared in the doorway. “Tea is served,” she announced. We followed her to the garden entrance. “Everything here is so _quiet_!” I said as we went through the gate. “Oh!” I cried, “this is as perfect as the house!” and gazed entranced at the long vistas of box-lined paths, the grouped battalions of clipped yews, and the massed planting of cosmos, chrysanthemums, and flaming dahlias.

My friend smiled. “You should see it in August when the white lilies make a mist of blossoms along the walls, and forget-me-nots are reflected in the pool,” she said.

“And the poppies!” cried Daphne.

Almost sharply her mother denied: “Not poppies. Daphne. Never again poppies! I’ve given orders for the poppies to be weeded out as fast as they come up.”

She gave careful attention to the making of the tea. “Not such good tea as we had in the Orient,” she apologized.

We spoke of our winter in Hong-Kong and the visiting dignitaries. “Wonder what has become of the Austrian duchess who wore the silver dress and huge diamonds at the dinner at Government House?” or, “Did you ever hear again of Mrs. Carson, who ran away with that young German? I was told that they are living in Tasmania,” or, “How did the Llewellyn marriage turn out? You remember we didn’t think it would be a success?” And recalled the terrible typhoon which had come up so suddenly that hundreds of unprepared, helpless sampans and junks were swept into the port of lost ships. “I’ll never forget the abject terror of some of those Chinese sailors who, as the junks swept by, were chanting their appeal to the sea-god,” I said.

She agreed soberly, remembering the tragic day. “I like to think of that incongruous Scotch regiment with the bagpipes, marching gayly along the walks bordered with tall blossoming poinsettias that flamed against the brown banks,” she supplemented. We relived a summer in the mountains of Japan, and laughed over the memories of various mishaps when we had tried, unavailingly, to “hustle the East.” “I’ve never been able to look a hard-boiled egg in the eye since we patronized those Chuzenji tea houses,” I said; “if all the embryo chickens I devoured were suddenly to appear--”

“Heaven forbid!” agreed my friend. We laughed together.

* * * * *

Daphne had wandered off. I could see her white figure, misty against the rosy mauve of the cosmos; I wondered if she had lost interested memory of the Japanese holidays she had so much enjoyed. She had not spoken of them or recalled our former friendship and now, oblivious of me, I could hear her happily humming an old song. I felt chilled, grieved, and mystified; Daphne had been very much attached to me during the old days; I had looked eagerly forward to seeing her again, and now she treated me as though I were the most casual acquaintance, I thought; then took myself sharply in hand. “You’re stupid!” I accused mentally. Aloud, I said, “How happy Daphne seems! I suppose that you expect her husband back any time, now?”

My friend set the teapot down; for a second, as she did not answer but sat gazing across the sunshiny garden. I thought that she had not heard. Then she turned and faced me. “No--” she commenced.

Daphne had come up behind me. “Tea?” she asked, and took the cup that her mother had prepared for me, then, sitting down, she asked, “Were you at my wedding?”

“No,” I answered; “tell me about it.”

“Flowers! We had flowers, and there were flags. I had a white dress--” she began, then stopped blankly.

Her mother took up the account. “We made it as pretty as we could,” she said. “Of course, last year, no one had much heart for celebrating except at a wedding! Daphne’s two cousins were the bridesmaids; they carried big loose bunches of moss-roses from this garden--somehow garden flowers seemed more suitable for weddings during those days when home, and all that homes stand for, were the real issue of the war.”

She paused, then went on: “My husband came down from his training camp and gave Daphne away. I’d been working two days a week, for over three years, among the widows and mothers of sailors, at Deptford. Poor bereaved souls! Daphne’s wedding was the first thing that had awakened interest in some of them. They’d grown used to me; then fond of me; then part of my family; and they wanted to see my daughter’s wedding. They filled nearly half of the church--silent women, in their decent black, rightful heirs to the glory of the old flags draped against the pillars and the bronze commemorative tablets set in the walls.”

* * * * *

She seemed for a moment to have forgotten me, then, remembering, went on, “It hadn’t occurred to me until, as I sat in the old church waiting for Daphne’s wedding, that never, since England has had a navy, has there been a time when a son of our family has not served in it.”

“A fine tradition,” I praised, “a glorious promise for the future years!”

There was silence. Across it the bell in the cathedral tower called the hour; the chimes spoke.

My friend waited until the last echo died away, then faced me. “You never saw Hugh, my second son? He had already entered the navy when we went to Hong-Kong.” Her voice was carefully emotionless and clear. “Our place on the navy lists is vacant. Hugh went down in the ‘Invincible’ during the Jutland battle,” she said, then added, “Our boys commence their naval training very early. Hugh was such a wee lad when he said good-by ... and now--” Her voice lowered to a whisper--“Sometimes, in my dreams, I see the horror and confusion of that sinking ship ... the greedy rush of the gray waters--” She regained her composure. “Curious things, dreams?” she inquired conversationally.

I gasped. “My dear! Why didn’t you tell me--instead of letting me blunder on? Are Jeffrey and Wallace too old to begin a naval career? But of course they are,” I floundered on.

Daphne had wandered back to us. “I’ll have some more tea,” she said.

“Three cups, Daphne!” I chided, glad of the interruption.

“You really shouldn’t drink so much strong tea, Daphne,” her mother admonished absently.

To my amazement Daphne struck the table violently with her clenched fist. “Tea!” she demanded. Her mother, without comment, poured it out. “How Daphne has changed--and her mother, too! She used to be so severe with her children about any lack of courtesy,” I thought.

My friend broke the silence. “Do you remember Mrs. Gordon, whose husband was on the ‘Tamar’ at Hong-Kong?”

I nodded.

“Commander Gordon was with the ships that went down off your South American coast,” she said. “For some time we thought that he was lost; but later the news came. He had been rescued. Mrs. Gordon was so splendid through it all! Her happiness has been the one warming thing.... Do you know, I don’t believe that some of our women will really realize the bitterness of their loss until they see other women’s husbands and sons coming home.”

“I’m so glad for Mrs. Gordon,” I said, remembering the tall commander and his gentle, pretty wife.

* * * * *

My friend made no comment. A little silence fell. Across the peaceful old garden some rooks, homeward bound, called from the oaks; the bitter tonic scent of chrysanthemums and box lingered in the still air. It was so quiet that we could hear the organ and choir commencing vespers at the cathedral. War, its agonies, tortures, and despair were mere unmeaning words--transparent nightmares of speech, illusive as dreams against the background of this noble, serene, and tangible English landscape, which breathed of centuries of peace.

I sighed with thankfulness for my friend; in spite of her sailor son’s death, her world seemed full of the promise of happiness in the advancing years. Then I glanced at my watch and saw that my visit was nearly over. “Do you think that your war-working pony will consent to another trip to the depot--or shall I walk?” I asked.

She smiled. “You won’t have to walk,” she promised. I gathered up my gloves and purse, while she stood idly turning the pages of the volume of Ruskin’s essays. A paragraph caught her interest. She glanced at it, then, with attention, read aloud:

“I shall therefore divide the war of which I would speak to you under
three heads. War for exercise or play; war for dominion; and, war for
defense.”

“H’m’m,” I commented grimly, “Ruskin’s dead; if he were alive I doubt if he would have found anything very playful about _this_ war.”

She made no comment, but read on:

“Now, remember, whatever virtue or goodliness there may be in this
game of war, rightly played, there is none when you thus play it with
a multitude of human pawns.... If you, the gentlemen of this or any
other kingdom, choose to make your pastime of contest, do so, and
welcome; but set not up these unhappy peasant-pieces upon the checker
of forest and field. If the wager is to be of death, lay it on your
own heads, not theirs. A goodly struggle in the Olympic dust, though
it be the dust of the grave, the gods will look upon and be with you
in; but they will not be with you if you sit on the sides of the
amphitheatre, whose steps are the mountains of earth, whose arena its
valleys, to urge your peasant millions into gladiatorial war.”

“I suppose he means compulsory military training,” I said.

She did not answer. “Human beings are very pitiful, I think,” she said, “striving, hurrying, grasping--and for such paltry rewards.” She turned to me. “How many times, during your life, have you been completely, unquestioningly happy?” she demanded.

“Well--” I parried uneasily.

“You can’t remember once,” accused my friend, “no one can! If, for a few minutes, out of doors in the sunshine you are happy, how soon the old worries, the old fears, the old griefs, come flooding back. What’s it all about?”

* * * * *

I answered soberly, “Surely there is a cure--a way out of such a condition,” I said.

“How American--how practical!” she commented dryly, and added: “Don’t forget to let me know when you discover it.”

I felt queerly uneasy, worried and unhappy. “You won’t get anywhere by slumping,” I scolded.

“I wasn’t getting anywhere, before,” she retorted; then questioned: “Wonder if those women feel that the second-hand furniture, pictures, and half-worn underclothes their husbands looted, at their behest, are worth what they have cost?”

I was startled. “What women?” I asked.

She flipped open my dog-eared book. “Do you just _buy_ Ruskin? Why don’t you _read_ him?” she asked, and hunted for a place. “Now listen!” she said, going on in her quiet, clear voice.

“I, for one, would fain join in the cadence of hammer strokes that
should beat swords into plowshares; and that this cannot be, is not
the fault of us men. It is _your_ fault. Wholly yours. Only by your
command, or by your permission, can any contest take place among us.
And the real, final reason for all the poverty, misery, and rage
of battle, throughout Europe, is simply that you women ... are too
selfish and too thoughtless to take pains for any creature out of
your own immediate circles.... Now I tell you this, that if the usual
course of war, instead of unroofing peasants’ houses, and ravaging
peasants’ fields, merely broke the china upon your own drawing-room
tables, no war in civilized countries would last a week....”

“I don’t consider Germany a civilized country,” I volunteered. “Did Ruskin really write that?” I asked, and reached for the book. “I hope it’s translated into their language,” I supplemented.

“They wouldn’t read it; they don’t need any advice about guarding the looted bric-à-brac on their tables,” she said.

“Be thankful that our returning men can hold their heads proudly erect,” I exulted.

“‘Our returning men’,” she repeated.

We were walking toward the house. “When do you expect Jeffrey and Wallace home? Is Daphne’s husband back?” I asked.

She held the little volume in both hands and looked evenly at me: “Jeffrey was killed at Mons during the first month of the war. Wallace was refused several times on account of his eyes. ‘What would you do if your glasses were broken?’ they asked him the last time he applied. He went out and bought six pairs, and they accepted him. He never needed a second pair,” said my friend in her quiet, emotionless voice.

I laid my hand on her arm. “My dear--” I cried, and could go no further. She turned her head away.

* * * * *

From behind us came Daphne’s voice singing an old song of laughter and love and a garden of roses. She joined us and looked puzzledly at her mother. “What is it?” she questioned.

“We’ve been speaking of your brothers,” I whispered.

She started at me. “Brothers?” she asked.

I glanced at her with astonishment. “Jeffrey and Wallace, who were with you at Hong-Kong,” I said.

“Jeffrey--Wallace--Hong-Kong,” she repeated parrot-like after me, in vague and troubled bewilderment, then brightened: “Were you at my wedding? We had flowers and flags!”

I could only stare at her.