Chapter Chapter 10 · Chapter X

But it was otherwise with the _We're Here's_ silent cook, for he came

up, his kit in a handkerchief, and boarded the "Constance." Pay was no

particular object, and he did not in the least care where he slept. His

business, as revealed to him in dreams, was to follow Harvey for the

rest of his days. They tried argument and, at last, persuasion; but

there is a difference between one Cape Breton and two Alabama negroes,

and the matter was referred to Cheyne by the cook and porter. The

millionaire only laughed. He presumed Harvey might need a body-servant

some day or other, and was sure that one volunteer was worth five

hirelings. Let the man stay, therefore; even though he called himself

MacDonald and swore in Gaelic. The car could go back to Boston, where,

if he were still of the same mind, they would take him West.

With the "Constance," which in his heart of hearts he loathed, departed

the last remnant of Cheyne's millionairedom, and he gave himself up to

an energetic idleness. This Gloucester was a new town in a new land,

and he purposed to "take it in," as of old he had taken in all the

cities from Snohomish to San Diego of that world whence he hailed. They

made money along the crooked street which was half wharf and half

ship's store: as a leading professional he wished to learn how the

noble game was played. Men said that four out of every five fish-balls

served at New England's Sunday breakfast came from Gloucester, and

overwhelmed him with figures in proof--statistics of boats, gear,

wharf-frontage, capital invested, salting, packing, factories,

insurance, wages, repairs, and profits. He talked with the owners of

the large fleets whose skippers were little more than hired men, and

whose crews were almost all Swedes or Portuguese. Then he conferred

with Disko, one of the few who owned their craft, and compared notes in

his vast head. He coiled himself away on chain-cables in marine

junk-shops, asking questions with cheerful, unslaked Western curiosity,

till all the water-front wanted to know "what in thunder that man was

after, anyhow." He prowled into the Mutual Insurance rooms, and

demanded explanations of the mysterious remarks chalked up on the

blackboard day by day; and that brought down upon him secretaries of

every Fisherman's Widow and Orphan Aid Society within the city limits.

They begged shamelessly, each man anxious to beat the other

institution's record, and Cheyne tugged at his beard and handed them

all over to Mrs. Cheyne.

She was resting in a boarding-house near Eastern Point--a strange

establishment, managed, apparently, by the boarders, where the

table-cloths were red-and-white-checkered and the population, who

seemed to have known one another intimately for years, rose up at

midnight to make Welsh rarebits if it felt hungry. On the second

morning of her stay Mrs. Cheyne put away her diamond solitaires before

she came down to breakfast.

"They're most delightful people," she confided to her husband; "so

friendly and simple, too, though they are all Boston, nearly."

"That isn't simpleness, Mama," he said, looking across the boulders

behind the apple-trees where the hammocks were slung. "It's the other

thing, that what I haven't got."

"It can't be," said Mrs. Cheyne quietly. "There isn't a woman here owns

a dress that cost a hundred dollars. Why, we--"

"I know it, dear. We have--of course we have. I guess it's only the

style they wear East. Are you having a good time?"

"I don't see very much of Harvey; he's always with you; but I ain't

near as nervous as I was."

"I haven't had such a good time since Willie died. I never rightly

understood that I had a son before this. Harve's got to be a great boy.

'Anything I can fetch you, dear? 'Cushion under your head? Well, we'll

go down to the wharf again and look around."

Harvey was his father's shadow in those days, and the two strolled

along side by side, Cheyne using the grades as an excuse for laying his

hand on the boy's square shoulder. It was then that Harvey noticed and

admired what had never struck him before--his father's curious power of

getting at the heart of new matters as learned from men in the street.

"How d'you make 'em tell you everything without opening your head?"

demanded the son, as they came out of a rigger's loft.

"I've dealt with quite a few men in my time, Harve, and one sizes 'em

up somehow, I guess. I know something about myself, too." Then, after a

pause, as they sat down on a wharf-edge: "Men can 'most always tell

when a man has handled things for himself, and then they treat him as

one of themselves."

"Same as they treat me down at Wouverman's wharf. I'm one of the crowd

now. Disko has told every one I've earned my pay." Harvey spread out

his hands and rubbed the palms together. "They're all soft again," he

said dolefully.

"Keep 'em that way for the next few years, while you're getting your

education. You can harden 'em up after."

"Ye-es, I suppose so," was the reply, in no delighted voice.

"It rests with you, Harve. You can take cover behind your mama, of

course, and put her on to fussing about your nerves and your

high-strungness and all that kind of poppycock."

"Have I ever done that?" said Harvey, uneasily.

His father turned where he sat and thrust out a long hand. "You know as

well as I do that I can't make anything of you if you don't act

straight by me. I can handle you alone if you'll stay alone, but I

don't pretend to manage both you and Mama. Life's too short, anyway."

"Don't make me out much of a fellow, does it?"

"I guess it was my fault a good deal; but if you want the truth, you

haven't been much of anything up to date. Now, have you?"

"Umm! Disko thinks . . . Say, what d'you reckon it's cost you to raise

me from the start--first, last and all over?"

Cheyne smiled. "I've never kept track, but I should estimate, in

dollars and cents, nearer fifty than forty thousand; maybe sixty. The

young generation comes high. It has to have things, and it tires of

'em, and--the old man foots the bill."

Harvey whistled, but at heart he was rather pleased to think that his

upbringing had cost so much. "And all that's sunk capital, isn't it?"

"Invested, Harve. Invested, I hope."

"Making it only thirty thousand, the thirty I've earned is about ten

cents on the hundred. That's a mighty poor catch." Harvey wagged his

head solemnly.

Cheyne laughed till he nearly fell off the pile into the water.

"Disko has got a heap more than that out of Dan since he was ten; and

Dan's at school half the year, too."

"Oh, that's what you're after, is it?"

"No. I'm not after anything. I'm not stuck on myself any just

now--that's all. . . . I ought to be kicked."

"I can't do it, old man; or I would, I presume, if I'd been made that

way."

"Then I'd have remembered it to the last day I lived--and never

forgiven you," said Harvey, his chin on his doubled fists.

"Exactly. That's about what I'd do. You see?"

"I see. The fault's with me and no one else. All the same, something's

got to be done about it."

Cheyne drew a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, and fell to

smoking. Father and son were very much alike; for the beard hid

Cheyne's mouth, and Harvey had his father's slightly aquiline nose,

close-set black eyes, and narrow, high cheek-bones. With a touch of

brown paint he would have made up very picturesquely as a Red Indian of

the story-books.

"Now you can go on from here," said Cheyne, slowly, "costing me between

six or eight thousand a year till you're a voter. Well, we'll call you

a man then. You can go right on from that, living on me to the tune of

forty or fifty thousand, besides what your mother will give you, with a

valet and a yacht or a fancy-ranch where you can pretend to raise

trotting-stock and play cards with your own crowd."

"Like Lorry Tuck?" Harvey put in.

"Yep; or the two De Vitre boys or old man McQuade's son. California's

full of 'em, and here's an Eastern sample while we're talking."

A shiny black steam-yacht, with mahogany deck-house, nickel-plated

binnacles, and pink-and-white-striped awnings puffed up the harbour,

flying the burgee of some New York club. Two young men in what they

conceived to be sea costumes were playing cards by the saloon skylight;

and a couple of women with red and blue parasols looked on and laughed

noisily.

"Shouldn't care to be caught out in her in any sort of a breeze. No

beam," said Harvey, critically, as the yacht slowed to pick up her

mooring-buoy.

"They're having what stands them for a good time. I can give you that,

and twice as much as that, Harve. How'd you like it?"

"Caesar! That's no way to get a dinghy overside," said Harvey, still

intent on the yacht. "If I couldn't slip a tackle better than that I'd

stay ashore. . . . What if I don't?"

"Stay ashore--or what?"

"Yacht and ranch and live on 'the old man,' and--get behind Mama where

there's trouble," said Harvey, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Why, in that case, you come right in with me, my son."

"Ten dollars a month?" Another twinkle.

"Not a cent more until you're worth it, and you won't begin to touch

that for a few years."

"I'd sooner begin sweeping out the office--isn't that how the big bugs

start?--and touch something now than--"

"I know it; we all feel that way. But I guess we can hire any sweeping

we need. I made the same mistake myself of starting in too soon."

"Thirty million dollars' worth o' mistake, wasn't it? I'd risk it for

that."

"I lost some; and I gained some. I'll tell you."

Cheyne pulled his beard and smiled as he looked over the still water,

and spoke away from Harvey, who presently began to be aware that his

father was telling the story of his life. He talked in a low, even

voice, without gesture and without expression; and it was a history for

which a dozen leading journals would cheerfully have paid many

dollars--the story of forty years that was at the same time the story

of the New West, whose story is yet to be written.

It began with a kinless boy turned loose in Texas, and went on

fantastically through a hundred changes and chops of life, the scenes

shifting from State after Western State, from cities that sprang up in

a month and--in a season utterly withered away, to wild ventures in

wilder camps that are now laborious, paved municipalities. It covered

the building of three railroads and the deliberate wreck of a fourth.

It told of steamers, townships, forests, and mines, and the men of

every nation under heaven, manning, creating, hewing, and digging

these. It touched on chances of gigantic wealth flung before eyes that

could not see, or missed by the merest accident of time and travel; and

through the mad shift of things, sometimes on horseback, more often

afoot, now rich, now poor, in and out, and back and forth, deck-hand,

train-hand, contractor, boarding-house keeper, journalist, engineer,

drummer, real-estate agent, politician, dead-beat, rum-seller,

mine-owner, speculator, cattle-man, or tramp, moved Harvey Cheyne,

alert and quiet, seeking his own ends, and, so he said, the glory and

advancement of his country.

He told of the faith that never deserted him even when he hung on the

ragged edge of despair--the faith that comes of knowing men and things.

He enlarged, as though he were talking to himself, on his very great

courage and resource at all times. The thing was so evident in the

man's mind that he never even changed his tone. He described how he had

bested his enemies, or forgiven them, exactly as they had bested or

forgiven him in those careless days; how he had entreated, cajoled, and

bullied towns, companies, and syndicates, all for their enduring good;

crawled round, through, or under mountains and ravines, dragging a

string and hoop-iron railroad after him, and in the end, how he had sat

still while promiscuous communities tore the last fragments of his

character to shreds.

The tale held Harvey almost breathless, his head a little cocked to one

side, his eyes fixed on his father's face, as the twilight deepened and

the red cigar-end lit up the furrowed cheeks and heavy eyebrows. It

seemed to him like watching a locomotive storming across country in the

dark--a mile between each glare of the open fire-door: but this

locomotive could talk, and the words shook and stirred the boy to the

core of his soul. At last Cheyne pitched away the cigar-butt, and the

two sat in the dark over the lapping water.

"I've never told that to any one before," said the father.

Harvey gasped. "It's just the greatest thing that ever was!" said he.

"That's what I got. Now I'm coming to what I didn't get. It won't sound

much of anything to you, but I don't wish you to be as old as I am

before you find out. I can handle men, of course, and I'm no fool along

my own lines, but--but--I can't compete with the man who has been

taught! I've picked up as I went along, and I guess it sticks out all

over me."

"I've never seen it," said the son, indignantly.

"You will, though, Harve. You will--just as soon as you're through

college. Don't I know it? Don't I know the look on men's faces when

they think me a--a 'mucker,' as they call it out here? I can break them

to little pieces--yes--but I can't get back at 'em to hurt 'em where

they live. I don't say they're 'way 'way up, but I feel I'm 'way, 'way,

'way off, somehow. Now you've got your chance. You've got to soak up

all the learning that's around, and you'll live with a crowd that are

doing the same thing. They'll be doing it for a few thousand dollars a

year at most; but remember you'll be doing it for millions. You'll

learn law enough to look after your own property when I'm out o' the

light, and you'll have to be solid with the best men in the market

(they are useful later); and above all, you'll have to stow away the

plain, common, sit-down-with-your chin-on your-elbows book-learning.

Nothing pays like that, Harve, and it's bound to pay more and more each

year in our country--in business and in politics. You'll see."

"There's no sugar in my end of the deal," said Harvey. "Four years at

college! 'Wish I'd chosen the valet and the yacht!"

"Never mind, my son," Cheyne insisted. "You're investing your capital

where it'll bring in the best returns; and I guess you won't find our

property shrunk any when you're ready to take hold. Think it over, and

let me know in the morning. Hurry! We'll be late for supper!"

As this was a business talk, there was no need for Harvey to tell his

mother about it; and Cheyne naturally took the same point of view. But

Mrs. Cheyne saw and feared, and was a little jealous. Her boy, who rode

rough-shod over her, was gone, and in his stead reigned a keen-faced

youth, abnormally silent, who addressed most of his conversation to his

father. She understood it was business, and therefore a matter beyond

her premises. If she had any doubts, they were resolved when Cheyne

went to Boston and brought back a new diamond marquise ring.

"What have you two been doing now?" she said, with a weak little smile,

as she turned it in the light.

"Talking--just talking, Mama; there's nothing mean about Harvey."

There was not. The boy had made a treaty on his own account. Railroads,

he explained gravely, interested him as little as lumber, real estate,

or mining. What his soul yearned after was control of his father's

newly purchased sailing-ship. If that could be promised him within what

he conceived to be a reasonable time, he, for his part, guaranteed

diligence and sobriety at college for four or five years. In vacation

he was to be allowed full access to all details connected with the

line--he had not asked more than two thousand questions about it,--from

his father's most private papers in the safe to the tug in San

Francisco harbour.

"It's a deal," said Cheyne at the last. "You'll alter your mind twenty

times before you leave college, o' course; but if you take hold of it

in proper shape, and if you don't tie it up before you're twenty-three,

I'll make the thing over to you. How's that, Harve?"

"Nope; never pays to split up a going concern. There's too much

competition in the world anyway, and Disko says 'blood-kin hev to stick

together.' His crowd never go back on him. That's one reason, he says,

why they make such big fares. Say, the _We're Here_ goes off to the

Georges on Monday. They don't stay long ashore, do they?"

"Well, we ought to be going, too, I guess. I've left my business hung

up at loose ends between two oceans, and it's time to connect again. I

just hate to do it, though; haven't had a holiday like this for twenty

years."

"We can't go without seeing Disko off," said Harvey; "and Monday's

Memorial Day. Let's stay over that, anyway."

"What is this memorial business? They were talking about it at the

boarding-house," said Cheyne weakly. He, too, was not anxious to spoil

the golden days.

"Well, as far as I can make out, this business is a sort of

song-and-dance act, whacked up for the summer boarders. Disko don't

think much of it, he says, because they take up a collection for the

widows and orphans. Disko's independent. Haven't you noticed that?"

"Well--yes. A little. In spots. Is it a town show, then?"

"The summer convention is. They read out the names of the fellows

drowned or gone astray since last time, and they make speeches, and

recite, and all. Then, Disko says, the secretaries of the Aid Societies

go into the back yard and fight over the catch. The real show, he says,

is in the spring. The ministers all take a hand then, and there aren't

any summer boarders around."

"I see," said Cheyne, with the brilliant and perfect comprehension of

one born into and bred up to city pride. "We'll stay over for Memorial

Day, and get off in the afternoon."

"Guess I'll go down to Disko's and make him bring his crowd up before

they sail. I'll have to stand with them, of course."

"Oh, that's it, is it," said Cheyne. "I'm only a poor summer boarder,

and you're--"

"A Banker--full-blooded Banker," Harvey called back as he boarded a

trolley, and Cheyne went on with his blissful dreams for the future.

Disko had no use for public functions where appeals were made for

charity, but Harvey pleaded that the glory of the day would be lost, so

far as he was concerned, if the _We're Heres_ absented themselves. Then

Disko made conditions. He had heard--it was astonishing how all the

world knew all the world's business along the water-front--he had heard

that a "Philadelphia actress-woman" was going to take part in the

exercises; and he mistrusted that she would deliver "Skipper Ireson's

Ride." Personally, he had as little use for actresses as for summer

boarders; but justice was justice, and though he himself (here Dan

giggled) had once slipped up on a matter of judgment, this thing must

not be. So Harvey came back to East Gloucester, and spent half a day

explaining to an amused actress with a royal reputation on two

seaboards the inwardness of the mistake she contemplated; and she

admitted that it was justice, even as Disko had said.

Cheyne knew by old experience what would happen; but anything of the

nature of a public palaver was meat and drink to the man's soul. He saw

the trolleys hurrying west, in the hot, hazy morning, full of women in

light summer dresses, and white-faced straw-hatted men fresh from

Boston desks; the stack of bicycles outside the post office; the

come-and-go of busy officials, greeting one another; the slow flick and

swash of bunting in the heavy air; and the important man with a hose

sluicing the brick sidewalk.

"Mother," he said suddenly, "don't you remember--after Seattle was

burned out--and they got her going again?"

Mrs. Cheyne nodded, and looked critically down the crooked street. Like

her husband, she understood these gatherings, all the West over, and

compared them one against another. The fishermen began to mingle with

the crowd about the town-hall doors--blue-jowled Portuguese, their

women bare-headed or shawled for the most part; clear-eyed Nova

Scotians, and men of the Maritime Provinces; French, Italians, Swedes,

and Danes, with outside crews of coasting schooners; and everywhere

women in black, who saluted one another with gloomy pride, for this was

their day of great days. And there were ministers of many

creeds,--pastors of great, gilt-edged congregations, at the seaside for

a rest, with shepherds of the regular work,--from the priests of the

Church on the Hill to bush-bearded ex-sailor Lutherans, hail-fellow

with the men of a score of boats. There were owners of lines of

schooners, large contributors to the societies, and small men, their

few craft pawned to the mastheads, with bankers and marine-insurance

agents, captains of tugs and water-boats, riggers, fitters, lumpers,

salters, boat-builders, and coopers, and all the mixed population of

the water-front.

They drifted along the line of seats made gay with the dresses of the

summer boarders, and one of the town officials patrolled and perspired

till he shone all over with pure civic pride. Cheyne had met him for

five minutes a few days before, and between the two there was entire

understanding.

"Well, Mr. Cheyne, and what d'you think of our city?--Yes, madam, you

can sit anywhere you please.--You have this kind of thing out West, I

presume?"

"Yes, but we aren't as old as you."

"That's so, of course. You ought to have been at the exercises when we

celebrated our two hundred and fiftieth birthday. I tell you, Mr.

Cheyne, the old city did herself credit."

"So I heard. It pays, too. What's the matter with the town that it

don't have a first-class hotel, though?"

"--Right over there to the left, Pedro. Heaps o' room for you and your

crowd.--Why, that's what I tell 'em all the time, Mr. Cheyne. There's

big money in it, but I presume that don't affect you any. What we want

is--"

A heavy hand fell on his broadcloth shoulder, and the flushed skipper

of a Portland coal-and-ice coaster spun him half round. "What in

thunder do you fellows mean by clappin' the law on the town when all

decent men are at sea this way? Heh? Town's dry as a bone, an' smells a

sight worse sence I quit. 'Might ha' left us one saloon for soft

drinks, anyway."

"Don't seem to have hindered your nourishment this morning, Carsen.

I'll go into the politics of it later. Sit down by the door and think

over your arguments till I come back."

"What good is arguments to me? In Miquelon champagne's eighteen dollars

a case and--" The skipper lurched into his seat as an organ-prelude

silenced him.

"Our new organ," said the official proudly to Cheyne. "Cost us four

thousand dollars, too. We'll have to get back to high-license next year

to pay for it. I wasn't going to let the ministers have all the

religion at their convention. Those are some of our orphans standing up

to sing. My wife taught 'em. See you again later, Mr. Cheyne. I'm

wanted on the platform."

High, clear, and true, children's voices bore down the last noise of

those settling into their places.

"O all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify

him for ever!"

The women throughout the hall leaned forward to look as the reiterated

cadences filled the air. Mrs. Cheyne, with some others, began to

breathe short; she had hardly imagined there were so many widows in the

world; and instinctively searched for Harvey. He had found the _We're

Heres_ at the back of the audience, and was standing, as by right,

between Dan and Disko. Uncle Salters, returned the night before with

Penn, from Pamlico Sound, received him suspiciously.

"Hain't your folk gone yet?" he grunted. "What are you doin' here,

young feller?"

"O ye Seas and Floods, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him

for ever!"

"Hain't he good right?" said Dan. "He's bin there, same as the rest of

us."

"Not in them clothes," Salters snarled.

"Shut your head, Salters," said Disko. "Your bile's gone back on you.

Stay right where ye are, Harve."

Then up and spoke the orator of the occasion, another pillar of the

municipality, bidding the world welcome to Gloucester, and incidentally

pointing out wherein Gloucester excelled the rest of the world. Then he

turned to the sea-wealth of the city, and spoke of the price that must

be paid for the yearly harvest. They would hear later the names of

their lost dead one hundred and seventeen of them. (The widows stared a

little, and looked at one another here.) Gloucester could not boast any

overwhelming mills or factories. Her sons worked for such wage as the

sea gave; and they all knew that neither Georges nor the Banks were

cow-pastures. The utmost that folk ashore could accomplish was to help

the widows and the orphans, and after a few general remarks he took

this opportunity of thanking, in the name of the city, those who had so

public-spiritedly consented to participate in the exercises of the

occasion.

"I jest despise the beggin' pieces in it," growled Disko. "It don't

give folk a fair notion of us."

"Ef folk won't be fore-handed an' put by when they've the chance,"

returned Salters, "it stands in the nature o' things they hev to be

'shamed. You take warnin' by that, young feller. Riches endureth but

for a season, ef you scatter them araound on lugsuries--"

"But to lose everything, everything," said Penn. "What can you do then?

Once I"--the watery blue eyes stared up and down as if looking for

something to steady them--"once I read--in a book, I think--of a boat

where every one was run down--except some one--and he said to me--"

"Shucks!" said Salters, cutting in. "You read a little less an' take

more int'rust in your vittles, and you'll come nearer earnin' your

keep, Penn."

Harvey, jammed among the fishermen, felt a creepy, crawly, tingling

thrill that began in the back of his neck and ended at his boots. He

was cold, too, though it was a stifling day.

"That the actress from Philadelphia?" said Disko Troop, scowling at the

platform. "You've fixed it about old man Ireson, hain't ye, Harve? Ye

know why naow."

It was not "Ireson's Ride" that the woman delivered, but some sort of

poem about a fishing-port called Brixham and a fleet of trawlers

beating in against storm by night, while the women made a guiding fire

at the head of the quay with everything they could lay hands on.

"They took the grandma's blanket,

Who shivered and bade them go;

They took the baby's cradle,

Who could not say them no."

"Whew!" said Dan, peering over Long Jack's shoulder. "That's great!

Must ha' bin expensive, though."

"Ground-hog case," said the Galway man. "Badly lighted port, Danny."

* * * * * *

"And knew not all the while

If they were lighting a bonfire

Or only a funeral pile."

The wonderful voice took hold of people by their heartstrings; and when

she told how the drenched crews were flung ashore, living and dead, and

they carried the bodies to the glare of the fires, asking: "Child, is

this your father?" or "Wife, is this your man?" you could hear hard

breathing all over the benches.

"And when the boats of Brixham

Go out to face the gales,

Think of the love that travels

Like light upon their sails!"

There was very little applause when she finished. The women were

looking for their handkerchiefs, and many of the men stared at the

ceiling with shiny eyes.

"H'm," said Salters; "that 'u'd cost ye a dollar to hear at any

theatre--maybe two. Some folk, I presoom, can afford it. 'Seems

downright waste to me. . . . Naow, how in Jerusalem did Cap. Bart

Edwardes strike adrift here?"

"No keepin' him under," said an Eastport man behind. "He's a poet, an'

he's baound to say his piece. 'Comes from daown aour way, too."

He did not say that Captain B. Edwardes had striven for five

consecutive years to be allowed to recite a piece of his own

composition on Gloucester Memorial Day. An amused and exhausted

committee had at last given him his desire. The simplicity and utter

happiness of the old man, as he stood up in his very best Sunday

clothes, won the audience ere he opened his mouth. They sat unmurmuring

through seven-and-thirty hatchet-made verses describing at fullest

length the loss of the schooner _Joan Hasken_ off the Georges in the gale

of 1867, and when he came to an end they shouted with one kindly throat.

A far-sighted Boston reporter slid away for a full copy of the epic and

an interview with the author; so that earth had nothing more to offer

Captain Bart Edwardes, ex-whaler, shipwright, master-fisherman, and

poet, in the seventy-third year of his age.

"Naow, I call that sensible," said the Eastport man. "I've bin over

that graound with his writin', jest as he read it, in my two hands, and

I can testify that he's got it all in."

"If Dan here couldn't do better'n that with one hand before breakfast,

he ought to be switched," said Salters, upholding the honor of

Massachusetts on general principles. "Not but what I'm free to own he's

considerable litt'ery--fer Maine. Still--"

"Guess Uncle Salters's goin' to die this trip. Fust compliment he's

ever paid me," Dan sniggered. "What's wrong with you, Harve? You act

all quiet and you look greenish. Feelin' sick?"

"Don't know what's the matter with me," Harvey implied. "Seems if my

insides were too big for my outsides. I'm all crowded up and shivery."

"Dispepsy? Pshaw--too bad. We'll wait for the readin', an' then we'll

quit, an' catch the tide."

The widows--they were nearly all of that season's making--braced

themselves rigidly like people going to be shot in cold blood, for they

knew what was coming. The summer-boarder girls in pink and blue

shirt-waists stopped tittering over Captain Edwardes's wonderful poem,

and looked back to see why all was silent. The fishermen pressed

forward as that town official who had talked to Cheyne bobbed up on the

platform and began to read the year's list of losses, dividing them

into months. Last September's casualties were mostly single men and

strangers, but his voice rang very loud in the stillness of the hall.

"September 9th. Schooner _Florrie Anderson_ lost, with all aboard, off

the Georges.

"Reuben Pitman, master, 50, single, Main Street, City.

"Emil Olsen, 19, single, 329 Hammond Street, City. Denmark.

"Oscar Standberg, single, 25. Sweden.

"Carl Stanberg, single, 28, Main Street. City.

"Pedro, supposed Madeira, single, Keene's boardinghouse. City.

"Joseph Welsh, alias Joseph Wright, 30, St. John's, Newfoundland."

"No--Augusty, Maine," a voice cried from the body of the hall.

"He shipped from St. John's," said the reader, looking to see.

"I know it. He belongs in Augusty. My nevvy."

The reader made a pencilled correction on the margin of the list, and

resumed.

"Same schooner, Charlie Ritchie, Liverpool, Nova Scotia, 33, single.

"Albert May, 267 Rogers Street, City, 27, single.

"September 27th.--Orvin Dollard, 30, married, drowned in dory off

Eastern Point."

That shot went home, for one of the widows flinched where she sat,

clasping and unclasping her hands. Mrs. Cheyne, who had been listening

with wide-opened eyes, threw up her head and choked. Dan's mother, a

few seats to the right, saw and heard and quickly moved to her side.

The reading went on. By the time they reached the January and February

wrecks the shots were falling thick and fast, and the widows drew

breath between their teeth.

"February 14th.--Schooner _Harry Randolph_ dismasted on the way home from

Newfoundland; Asa Musie, married, 32, Main Street, City, lost overboard.

"February 23d.--Schooner _Gilbert Hope_; went astray in dory, Robert

Beavon, 29, married, native of Pubnico, Nova Scotia."

But his wife was in the hall. They heard a low cry, as though a little

animal had been hit. It was stifled at once, and a girl staggered out

of the hall. She had been hoping against hope for months, because some

who have gone adrift in dories have been miraculously picked up by

deep-sea sailing-ships. Now she had her certainty, and Harvey could see

the policeman on the sidewalk hailing a hack for her. "It's fifty cents

to the depot"--the driver began, but the policeman held up his

hand--"but I'm goin' there anyway. Jump right in. Look at here, Al; you

don't pull me next time my lamps ain't lit. See?"

The side-door closed on the patch of bright sunshine, and Harvey's eyes

turned again to the reader and his endless list.

"April 19th.--Schooner _Mamie Douglas_ lost on the Banks with all hands.

"Edward Canton, 43, master, married, City.

"D. Hawkins, alias Williams, 34, married, Shelbourne, Nova Scotia.

"G. W. Clay, coloured, 28, married, City."

And so on, and so on. Great lumps were rising in Harvey's throat, and

his stomach reminded him of the day when he fell from the liner.

"May 10th.--Schooner _We're Here_ [the blood tingled all over him] Otto

Svendson, 20, single, City, lost overboard."

Once more a low, tearing cry from somewhere at the back of the hall.

"She shouldn't ha' come. She shouldn't ha' come," said Long Jack, with

a cluck of pity.

"Don't scrowge, Harve," grunted Dan. Harvey heard that much, but the

rest was all darkness spotted with fiery wheels. Disko leaned forward

and spoke to his wife, where she sat with one arm round Mrs. Cheyne,

and the other holding down the snatching, catching, ringed hands.

"Lean your head daown--right daown!" he whispered. "It'll go off in a

minute."

"I ca-an't! I do-don't! Oh, let me--" Mrs. Cheyne did not at all know

what she said.

"You must," Mrs. Troop repeated. "Your boy's jest fainted dead away.

They do that some when they're gettin' their growth. 'Wish to tend to

him? We can git aout this side. Quite quiet. You come right along with

me. Psha', my dear, we're both women, I guess. We must tend to aour

men-folk. Come!"

The _We're Heres_ promptly went through the crowd as a body-guard, and

it was a very white and shaken Harvey that they propped up on a bench

in an anteroom.

"Favours his ma," was Mrs. Troop's only comment, as the mother bent

over her boy.

"How d'you suppose he could ever stand it?" she cried indignantly to

Cheyne, who had said nothing at all. "It was horrible--horrible! We

shouldn't have come. It's wrong and wicked! It--it isn't right!

Why--why couldn't they put these things in the papers, where they

belong? Are you better, darling?"

That made Harvey very properly ashamed. "Oh, I'm all right, I guess,"

he said, struggling to his feet, with a broken giggle. "Must ha' been

something I ate for breakfast."

"Coffee, perhaps," said Cheyne, whose face was all in hard lines, as

though it had been cut out of bronze. "We won't go back again."

"Guess 'twould be 'baout's well to git daown to the wharf," said Disko.

"It's close in along with them Dagoes, an' the fresh air will fresh

Mrs. Cheyne up."

Harvey announced that he never felt better in his life; but it was not

till he saw the _We're Here_, fresh from the lumper's hands, at

Wouverman's wharf, that he lost his all-overish feelings in a queer

mixture of pride and sorrowfulness. Other people--summer boarders and

such-like--played about in cat-boats or looked at the sea from

pier-heads; but he understood things from the inside--more things than

he could begin to think about. None the less, he could have sat down

and howled because the little schooner was going off. Mrs. Cheyne

simply cried and cried every step of the way and said most

extraordinary things to Mrs. Troop, who "babied" her till Dan, who had

not been "babied" since he was six, whistled aloud.

And so the old crowd--Harvey felt like the most ancient of mariners

dropped into the old schooner among the battered dories, while Harvey

slipped the stern-fast from the pier-head, and they slid her along the

wharf-side with their hands. Every one wanted to say so much that no

one said anything in particular. Harvey bade Dan take care of Uncle

Salters's sea-boots and Penn's dory-anchor, and Long Jack entreated

Harvey to remember his lessons in seamanship; but the jokes fell flat

in the presence of the two women, and it is hard to be funny with green

harbour-water widening between good friends.

"Up jib and fores'l!" shouted Disko, getting to the wheel, as the wind

took her. "See you later, Harve. Dunno but I come near thinkin' a heap

o' you an' your folks."

Then she glided beyond ear-shot, and they sat down to watch her up the

harbour, And still Mrs. Cheyne wept.

"Pshaw, my dear," said Mrs. Troop: "we're both women, I guess. Like's

not it'll ease your heart to hev your cry aout. God He knows it never

done me a mite o' good, but then He knows I've had something to cry

fer!"

Now it was a few years later, and upon the other edge of America, that

a young man came through the clammy sea fog up a windy street which is

flanked with most expensive houses built of wood to imitate stone. To

him, as he was standing by a hammered iron gate, entered on

horseback--and the horse would have been cheap at a thousand

dollars--another young man. And this is what they said:

"Hello, Dan!"

"Hello, Harve!"

"What's the best with you?"

"Well, I'm so's to be that kind o' animal called second mate this trip.

Ain't you most through with that triple invoiced college of yours?"

"Getting that way. I tell you, the Leland Stanford Junior, isn't a

circumstance to the old _We're Here_; but I'm coming into the business

for keeps next fall."

"Meanin' aour packets?"

"Nothing else. You just wait till I get my knife into you, Dan. I'm

going to make the old line lie down and cry when I take hold."

"I'll resk it," said Dan, with a brotherly grin, as Harvey dismounted

and asked whether he were coming in.

"That's what I took the cable fer; but, say, is the doctor anywheres

araound? I'll draown that crazy nigger some day, his one cussed joke

an' all."

There was a low, triumphant chuckle, as the ex-cook of the _We're Here_

came out of the fog to take the horse's bridle. He allowed no one but

himself to attend to any of Harvey's wants.

"Thick as the Banks, ain't it, doctor?" said Dan, propitiatingly.

But the coal-black Celt with the second-sight did not see fit to reply

till he had tapped Dan on the shoulder, and for the twentieth time

croaked the old, old prophecy in his ear.

"Master--man. Man--master," said he. "You remember, Dan Troop, what I

said? On the _We're Here_?"

"Well, I won't go so far as to deny that it do look like it as things

stand at present," said Dan. "She was a noble packet, and one way an'

another I owe her a heap--her and Dad."

"Me too," quoth Harvey Cheyne.

End of Project Gutenberg's "Captains Courageous", by Rudyard Kipling