The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBlowing weatherThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Blowing weatherAuthor: John T. McIntyreIllustrator: George H. MabieRelease date: September 13, 2024 [eBook #74409]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York, NY: Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers, 1923Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLOWING WEATHER ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Blowing weatherAuthor: John T. McIntyreIllustrator: George H. MabieRelease date: September 13, 2024 [eBook #74409]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York, NY: Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers, 1923Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Blowing weather
Author: John T. McIntyreIllustrator: George H. Mabie
Author: John T. McIntyre
Illustrator: George H. Mabie
Release date: September 13, 2024 [eBook #74409]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers, 1923
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLOWING WEATHER ***
Blowing WeatherBy John T. McIntyreWithSix Illustrationsin Color byGeorge H. MabieFrederick A. Stokes CompanyPublishersNEW YORKCopyright, 1923, byJohn T. McIntyreCopyright, for illustrations, 1928, byFrederick A. Stokes CompanyPrinted in the United States of America
By John T. McIntyre
WithSix Illustrationsin Color byGeorge H. Mabie
Frederick A. Stokes CompanyPublishersNEW YORK
Copyright, 1923, byJohn T. McIntyre
Copyright, for illustrations, 1928, byFrederick A. Stokes Company
Printed in the United States of America
Anthony Stevens paused on the broad door-stone of the Black Horse Tavern, and looked up and down Second Street.
It was much changed since he had seen it, years before; it was now thick-ribbed and confident; there was an assurance in the way it protruded its store windows, like well-filled bellies. But, and the young man noted this with pleasure, there was nothing stodgy in its new fatness; rather, there was that air of readiness one sees on the ordered deck of a well-mastered ship.
Second Street had been the much known street of Anthony's boyhood; his racing feet had kicked up its dust; he had spun tops on its stones; he had often followed its length away into the Northern Liberties where the woods began; from where he stood, he could see the turn he'd taken into Vine Street of a hot afternoon, and then down to the river, to splash and shout with other young adventurers in the dock next the shipyard.
It was an autumn morning; the wind and sun were in the street, and touched one with a bright coolness. Accustomed to the heavy balm of New Orleans, Anthony felt oddly light, and brisk of foot. He crossed Sassafras Street; at the foot of Mulberry he saw the shallops tied to the corder's wharf, their lugs furled tightly, just as others like them had been, years before; and there were the same ranks of gum, and hickory, and oak, marshaled against the coming of winter, even then stirring in the North.
At Pewter Platter Alley, Anthony turned toward the river. From Front to Water Street the way narrowed, and there was a sharp descent by means of worn stone steps; the wind was chill and high on the river, and through the lessened throat of the thoroughfare whistled the reek of the docks; with it came the smell of trampled mud, of pitch and cordage, and the peppery, alien scent of cargoes from far-off places.
In Water Street, across the tops of the counting-houses, he could see the great masts of an Indiaman at Clifford's Wharf; two-wheeled drays, burdened with bundles and bales and barrels, trundled through the alleys; Anthony could hear the blocks creaking on a Liverpool packet, which shoved its sharp nose between two buildings. From the deck of a sloop-of-war taking in stores, a fife shrilled: "Come Away to Billy Cooper's."
Anthony spoke to a man engaged in heading up some kegs of salt fish.
"Where shall I find the place of business of a merchant named Magruder?" asked he. "He is engaged in the trade with New Orleans."
The man pointed with his hammer.
"He's at the head of Bickley's Wharf," said he. "Turn in here, then on past Crousillat's, and you are at his door."
Anthony thanked the man, and picked along through an alley whose stones were slippery with mud; then, on the waterfront, he made his way through the drays, the sweating horses, the piles of merchandise, to a square building standing by itself; over the door swung a faded sign: "J. Magruder, Gulf Ports and West Indies." Anthony pushed open the door, and found himself in a great, low-ceilinged room heaped with casks of rum, packs of hides, barrels of tallow, cheese, and salted pork. There were also stores of hemp and corded bales of buffalo-robes, boxes of dried fruits, and hogsheads of tobacco. The place was dim with the bulk of stuff that crowded it, and here and there a whale-oil lamp lighted the way among the narrow aisles.
A stout man came forward.
"Yes, sir," said he, expectantly. He valued the young man for a moment, and then said with an air of confidence, "I'll venture, sir, it is in the matter of theBristol Pride."
Anthony smiled.
"Well," said he, "that good vessel has done its part in my being here; there's no denying that."
"It is a marvelous thing, sir," said the stout man, smilingly, "how news gets abroad. ThePrideonly rounded the bend an hour ago; and yet a score of gentlemen have been here already. But," and he pointed through the glass of the door to where a small brig was anchored in the stream, "it's a common saying, though, that good news travels fast; and that ship carries in her hold three pipes of as fine brandy as ever bore the stamp of the king of Spain."
"Well," said Anthony, good-humoredly, "I can well believe it. And not only the three pipes of brandy are under her hatches; there are also two puncheons of sherry that came by way of St. Kitts—a rare, brown wine, as I had occasion to notice on the levee at New Orleans, and with the sun in every drop of it."
The stout man looked at him with a changed interest.
"Am I to understand, sir, that you came as a passenger in the brig?" he inquired.
"Yes," replied Anthony. "She became windbound at Newcastle yesterday; so I left her and came on by chaise."
"Your name would be Stevens, then?"
"Yes," said the young man. "Do I speak to Mr. Magruder?"
"No; I am clerk to him." Beckoning Anthony to follow, he threaded his way along one of the dim aisles toward the back of the warehouse. "Mr. Magruder is beyond, here."
They passed into a dingy counting-room where there was a tall desk with a long-legged stool, some chests, a cupboard, whose open doors showed it crammed with invoices and bills of lading, and a litter of odds and ends of things the place trafficked in.
At the desk was a stoop-shouldered man with a mean face and a sidelong look. When he heard Anthony's name he put aside the ledger he'd had his nose in, and stood examining him in a furtive way that caused a creep of dislike through the young man's blood.
"Mr. Magruder?" asked Anthony, shortly.
The West Indian trader came forward and gave him a meager handshake.
"I have been expecting you," he said, "and but now sent aboard to ask after you. Word came back that you'd already come ashore; in fact," as Anthony sat down, "that you'd left the ship yesterday." Anxiety pinched his face into meaner lines than before. "I trust you have not been showing yourself a great deal in public places."
"I reached the city about dark," said the young man, stretching his legs, unconcernedly. "I took my supper at a tavern, and then went to bed."
Magruder seemed put at ease by this.
"That is as it should be," he said. He sat down facing Anthony; warmed by a thin glow of hospitality, he took from a waistcoat pocket a silver snuff-box, upon whose lid was engraved a schooner under full sail. He offered it to his visitor; when the young man refused, he took a spare pinch himself; he sat and snuffled over its bite for a long time, with great relish, meanwhile studying Anthony with the same furtive look as before.
"Your reply to my letter was handed me by the master of the shipLoadstar, about a month ago," he said.
"Yes, Señor Montufars said he gave it to him," said Anthony. "You see, when your word came concerning the affairs of the firm of Rufus Stevens' Sons, I was a week's journey up the river, and Montufars was in care of my affairs. As the matter seemed urgent, he wrote to you at once, it being his thought I'd return in time to take passage on theBristol Pride."
The face of the West Indian merchant went a dirty gray as Anthony spoke.
"Do you tell me a third person answered my letter?" His voice lifted to almost a shriek; his hands were held out, clawing like talons. "Do you tell me that he read what I wrote for your eyes alone?"
The features of the man worked like one in a fit; startled, Anthony got up and went to him.
"What is it? Are you ill? Is there anything I can do?"
The frantic hands drummed upon Anthony's breast.
"Montufars is a damned Spaniard," said the trader. "He will talk. His like always does. He'll spread the matter all about New Orleans, and it'll come north on every ship. Good God, why did I undertake this matter!" He wrung his hands, and all but groveled in fear. "What madness induced me to put such a thing on paper—with my name to it, as a witness against me?"
The man's rat-like panic made Anthony's gorge rise, and he turned away, saying curtly:
"Try and get yourself in hand; a grown man don't give way like this, even with cause. And, God knows," impatiently, "there's little enough cause for agitation, or anything else, in that communication of yours, if that's what you're afraid of. It was only a bare line or two, and even those set down in such a way as would puzzle the devil himself."
He planted himself at a window that overlooked the traffic of an alley, and stood frowning and stroking his chin. A clock on the wall ticked monotonously; for a space this was the only sound in the room, but gradually Anthony became aware of another—a sort of sniggering; he turned and saw Magruder, still with the dirty look of fear upon him, but shaking with laughter.
"The man's mad!" Anthony told himself. "I was a fool to give any heed to him in the first place."
"So you found it a puzzle, did you?" chuckled the trader. "Its meaning was hard to come at, eh?" There was a slinking gratification in his voice, and his grin had in it a sort of cowering pleasure. "Of course, you did. The writing of that letter cost me a deal of trouble; I desired it to say little and you to infer much; it was framed to safeguard me against any such misadventure as that which has happened. I should have remembered that; for I have no ground for uneasiness—none, whatever."
Anthony promptly put aside all idea of madness; he sat down, crossed his booted legs, eased himself back in his chair, and fell to studying the other with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes.
Anthony was a tall young man, lean and hard, and with a body of supple power. His face was long; but when he smiled it lit up wonderfully; his hair was trimmed short, giving him the "Brutus head" then slowly coming into fashion. There was something about him that suggested outdoors; he had the keen, ready look of one who knew the wilderness, and the savages thereof, who had faced torrent and desert, and mountains and seas, in quest of those hard-won things that are the jewels of the world's trade.
"From what you have said," spoke the young man, at length, "but more especially from how you've looked, I draw that you have a dread of being known in this matter."
"Outside there in the docks," said Magruder, "there are a score or more of fine, deep-water ships; on the wharves and in the warehouses there are much rich stuffs. But if they, to the last block and spar, to the last bale and barrel, were offered me as the price of making it known that I'd brought you north, as I have, I'd refuse."
Anthony cocked a shrewd eye at him.
"That," said he, "is keeping your mouth close shut, indeed."
"It is," said the West Indian merchant. He shook a skinny, warning finger. "And if you are wise you'll be equally cautious."
Anthony pulled his chair nearer.
"I'm going to speak candidly," said he. "I've known you only for a few minutes, Mr. Magruder, but in that time you've shown me that you are a man of no great courage."
"No," admitted Magruder, readily enough. "I am none of your brawlers."
"Very good," said Anthony. "But, for all that habit of mind, you send me a letter which, according to your own view of it, has danger written across its very face."
Magruder sucked in his thin lips; his fingers began plucking at a button on the sleeve of his coat.
"There must have been an excellent reason for your venturing so much," said Anthony. "And that reason is, I think—money. For, from all I've heard of you aboard your own brig, you are a close trader, Mr. Magruder; your methods are careful; you are of the kind who think far, but hazard little."
"I am none of your wasters," said the man.
"It has been the custom of the firm of Rufus Stevens' Sons," said Anthony, "to carry outside moneys in certain of its business; and it comes to me that at some time or other you have adventured with them in a ship that's sailed, and met with misfortune."
Magruder stopped plucking at the button; his hand went up in a trembling gesture, and his voice was sunk to almost a whisper as he said:
"Yes, you are right. I have moneys in some of your uncle's transactions; and because I've seen loss looking at me, everywhere I turned, I sent for you. There are items in my ledger that a madman might have placed there. What have I, who have scraped and struggled all my life, to do with high-colored plans that only lead aboard a vessel that never comes to port? What have I, who believe in plain, sure business, to do with letters of marque and decks crowded with hectoring ruffians? On this very desk, a year ago," and here his voice lifted in thin bitterness, "I told down one thousand gold johannes for a venture to the slave coast. And not a single blackamoor has been sold to my account anywhere in the islands."
"I'm sorry to hear this," said Anthony, "for it not only marks a serious loss to you, but it seems to show that Rufus Stevens' Sons is in shoal water."
"It was a black day for his house when your grandfather died," said Magruder. "And it was a worse one when your Creole mother coaxed your father away to Louisiana, and so left the trade and ships of the firm in the hands of your uncle."
Anthony looked perplexed.
"In New Orleans," said he, "merchants speak of my uncle with something like awe. In Havana, Martinique, and St. Kitts I've heard shipmasters tell tales of his enterprises that were like romances. If my mind has been made up to any one thing, it is that my uncle is a very prince of merchants."
"He has done fine things; he has done clever and difficult things," said the other. "I'll take no credit from him that's his due. But you are his nephew, and I'll say to you what I'd say to no one else. Let things progress as they are, and, great as is his house, it'll be that weak; rich as it is, it'll be that poor; splendid as are its adventures on the sea, they'll be that defenseless."
Anthony frowned at the man.
"That has a good deal of the sound of the letter you sent me," said he. "You've brought me a long distance to see you, Mr. Magruder, and so I think I can in all fairness expect words from you that I can make something of."
But the trader shook his head.
"Too plain speech is bad," said he. "One should never let the tongue venture where the hand dare not follow."
Anthony's boots scraped suddenly upon the floor; the chair creaked under him as he sat upright.
"The part that the hand has to do," said he, and there was a sharp cut to his voice that Magruder had not heard before, "you may leave to me. So speak up, sir, for I'm not used to your way of doing business, and tell you plainly that I do not like it."
Again the dirty gray came into Magruder's face, and again he began to cringe.
"I can speak no plainer, because I have no plain knowledge," said he. "I can point to nothing; I can accuse no one. But," and here he crowded close to the young man, and whispered in his ear, "there is a force at work in Rufus Stevens' Sons that means ruin."
"Good God!" said Anthony, more exasperated than ever. "Am I to get nothing from you at all?" He pushed the trader away, and got upon his feet. "At least," said he, "you can tell me what the thing is you are afraid of."
But Magruder shook his head.
"I do not know even that," said he.
Anthony clapped his tall beaver upon his head and buttoned up his coat.
"Good morning," said he.
But Magruder put a hand upon his arm.
"Very like," said he, "you've seen a deal, both at sea and on land. Strange things come to those who sail the ships of the world and who travel in its wilderness places. But for all that, young man, you've never seen a stranger thing than you'll see here in this port—in the counting-room of your uncle—if you have the mind for it, and the patience to wait and watch."
"Good morning," said Anthony. He pushed open the door, passed through the wareroom, and so out upon the waterfront, among the trundling drays, and the wilderness of spars and rigging.
Anthony, with tight-set lips and brow gathered in a frown, turned north along the wharves. But at Girard's warehouse the way was quite narrow, because of the lengthening of the docks to accommodate the French merchant's great ships; and just now this was a sort of vortex of travel filled with sweating horses and bawling men. So, rather than risk his bones by venturing by, Anthony faced about and walked toward High Street.
Here the fish-market, familiar to the eyes of his boyhood, was roaring with trade; the trays gleamed with the catch fresh from the bay; bare-armed women cried their wares, shrilly; men in aprons and with bloody hands, scaled, and gutted, and beheaded at slate-topped tables; the fishing-sloops were still tied up at the wharf, their decks being deluged with water and lustily scrubbed by their crews.
Anthony paused. In the block below stood the warehouse of Rufus Stevens' Sons, huge, square, and with many windows. He had had no thought of going there just yet; but now a sudden impulse took him, and he walked toward it. There was no rutted road here, with its scum of foul, black mud; stones were set in, smoothly and solidly. The row of brick arches opening into the warehouse were high enough to admit a laden dray; Anthony stood in the mouth of one, and looked in. The place was like a dim, vast cavern, packed with riches and filled with aromatic smells; porters, draymen, and clerks moved about in the half-light, like gnomes; never before had Anthony been so impressed with the complete meaning of order, routine, spaciousness, wealth.
The wharves of the firm were heaped with cargo; three square-riggers were tied there; windlasses turned; seamen chanted as they threw their weight against the bars, and swung the merchandise up from the holds. Anthony looked from the ships with their abundance and ordered labor to the warehouse and its repletion, and the words of Magruder came back to his mind:
"Great as is his house, it will be that weak," Magruder had said. "Rich as it is, it will be that poor. Splendid as are its adventures on the sea, they will be that defenseless."
For all he'd kept a set face while the words were being spoken, the young man had felt the cold drench of them; but now, with Rufus Stevens' Sons before him, he jeered at the saying. After all, the man's brain must be touched in some way, for one glance was enough to show the fatness of this house, the solidity, the reality of everything it had to do with. It would take much more than a thing which never showed itself to bring downfall here.
"Misers," said Anthony, "have mental antennæ that warn them of peril to their hoards; but, like most morbid things, they probably are not to be depended upon."
This commercial house had a record of achievement that reached back into the years of the king's governors. Its founder, old Rufus Stevens,—Anthony could remember him as a white-haired, big-bodied man, still unbroken, though in his eightieth year, and holding the lion voice that had roared his men to their posts in many a driving gale,—had, in that distant time, walked off the quarter-deck of the East Indiaman he'd commanded, and on board a schooner he had bought. This craft he stowed with shrewdly bought merchandise and traded it to large advantage in the French islands. Within the same year he had taken over a second schooner and a brig; and by the time war threw the neighboring seas into a turmoil his house had taken its stand upon the very spot where it now stood; his vessels had grown more and more numerous; his name had become known everywhere to men who followed the sea, and to men who dealt in goods that came by way of it.
From things Anthony had heard his grandfather say, old Rufus had not hated the king very greatly for his unjust laws; for his mind did not turn to such matters. But because of the harrying of the sea's trade he had stormed curses at old George that might well have made him rock on his throne. However, prowling frigates could not keep his vessels in port; they crept out, armed and crammed with goods, making for whatever place trade promised. Some fell prey to the cruisers of the enemy, but others again made through and back, laden with cargo that, in those narrowed days, was all but worth its weight in Spanish dollars. When the enemy entered the city he departed, but his trade went on, in one way or another, in other places; and no sooner was the town free of them than he was back again, pulling his power together with a strong, shrewd hand.
The thing that can broaden in the face of adversity is a strong thing; and the house of Rufus Stevens proved its strength by laying its widest and deepest foundations in stormy and uncertain times. And when the sea roads grew quiet once more the structure began to tower upon this base like magic; out of the sight of men its huge roots grew under the sea and far away, tapping populous ports, and rivers that flowed through gifted places.
The two sons of old Rufus had been bred to the trade; they had sailed in his ships and seen to his branch houses in foreign places; and their genius and industry turned an ever-increasing tide of business in the firm's direction. The horizon of the house widened; but it did not change until—and this was before the war began—the younger son sent word from New Orleans, where he had gone to encourage the trade in furs, that he had taken to himself a wife. When old Rufus learned she was of Creole stock his lips set, and there was distrust in his flinty old eyes.
Anthony called up a picture of his beautiful young mother, with her shining hair and Spanish eyes. She had not fitted very well into the life of the sober, mercantile town when she came there; her heart was lonely; she longed for a warmer sky and a less contained people. But, and she told Anthony this more than once when he was a growing boy, she had read what was in the old man's mind. She would, so he thought, take his son away; she would take a prop from under the bulky business before it got the strength of full maturity; and by so doing she would destroy much that he had labored to build.
"I was proud," she told her son, and Anthony recalled how her eyes shone as she said it. "He despised my people. He thought them weak; he believed they could not bear up under suffering."
If this were so, she proved him wrong, for she stayed on uncomplainingly until the old man's death; then her resolution would carry her no further; her health began to break, and Anthony's father, who was devoted to her, took her back to the low, soft country she loved.
A dray, rattling over the stones and under one of the arches, roused Anthony from his thoughts. He looked about. The counting-house would, of course, face upon Water Street, and so he made his way around and presented himself therein. It was a fine, airy place with wide spaces and an air of opulent leisure. A man with an affable manner, and his graying hair done in an old-fashioned queue, glanced at him inquiringly.
"I should like," said Anthony, "to speak with Mr. Charles Stevens."
"I'm sorry," said the affable man, "but he is not in the city at present. Could you step in at another time; or would you care to entrust me with a message?"
"I will return," said Anthony, and went out.
Here were the Newcastle sloops, with their passengers going aboard for the trip down the river. A trim schooner with a fleet-looking hull, flying the flag of the New York Packet Line, was warping into a dock near the Crooked Billet Tavern; and Anthony paused, among a group of idlers, to watch the operation. A score or more of passengers with their baggage stood upon the deck ready to come ashore.
"More of them," grumbled a stocky man at Anthony's elbow. He carried a basket of ship carpenter's tools on his shoulder, and his face wore a look of indignation. "You see them everywhere you go. The people they plundered for so many centuries won't let them stay in their own country, and they come down on us like locusts."
A man in a butcher's apron nodded.
"Not like locusts—more like hawks," said he. "Look at that old one there; if he's not like a grandfather kite with his eyes going around for something to fasten his talons in, I never saw one."
Anthony's eyes had already picked out the person referred to: an infirm old man who leaned his weight upon a stick, but whose head with its high-featured face was held up with the boldness of youth. There was a girl at his side; she was turned from Anthony and he could not see her face, but her figure and carriage were superb; the hand that held the old man's arm was slim and white and wonderful. There was something in her poise, in her movements, that said "Youth," "Beauty," as plainly as tongue could have said it; so, with his fancy instantly taken, Anthony worked his way down upon the wharf, and there, hands behind his back and with a carefully careless air, he waited.
The skilful hands of the sailors made the schooner fast, the planks were run aboard, and the passengers and travelers were set ashore. There was a small din of carters as they fought for the chests, parcels, and bags—scuffle, flurry and dust for a moment; then all settled again, and they were gone. Craftily, Anthony bided his time; then, right to a hair's-breadth, he put out a hand and helped the old Frenchman ashore, for which he received a "Je vous remercie, monsieur," from the old man, and a glance, though a brief one, from what he thought the most splendid eyes he had ever seen. He stood near by while they talked with the only remaining carter. They were strangers in the city; they were going to the Half Moon; they had expected some one to meet them and were somewhat dismayed to find that no one had. During this, Anthony diligently scanned the river at the bend in the very closest manner, as though expecting a vessel in whose appearance he was gravely concerned to round it at any moment.
A young man here flung himself up through the companionway of the schooner with the agility and sureness of an acrobat. He was a big young man and seemed very much excited; a glance showed him that all the porters and carters were gone, and he ripped out a string of curses, threw a heavy pair of saddle-bags ashore, and leaped after them. Paying no attention whatever to the old man and the girl, he said sharply to the man who was engaged with their effects:
"Get those bags and drive me to the nearest tavern where there is fit food and drink."
The carter was a settled, family sort of man, with a subdued look.
"I'm sorry, sir," said he, "but I've already engaged to carry this lady and gentleman to the Half Moon."
The young man was very big of chest and square of face; he had a curt manner, and an eye that was good-humored rather than otherwise; but it was plain that he was not the sort of person to permit himself to be inconvenienced by any foolish notion of precedence. He looked at the old man and then at the girl; and his laugh showed his fine teeth.
"Pick up those bags and let us have no more words about it," said he to the carter. "This gentleman is much too old to be in the haste I am, and the lady," with a nod of his handsome head, and a smile, "much too beautiful to worry about a moment more or less."
"It may be," said the pacific carrier, "that I can carry you all. The cart is large, as you see, and—"
The hectoring young man smiled good-humoredly, and threw his saddle-bags into the conveyance.
"Now," commanded he, "in with you, before I take you by the neck."
Overpowered by the assurance of the other, the man was about to do as bidden; but the girl came forward, spiritedly.
"Monsieur," she said, "the conveyance is ours. I am very sorry, but you'll have to look elsewhere—or await the man's return."
"Await!" The big man smiled at her good-humoredly. "Dear lady, you don't know what you are saying. I never wait for anything. And just now I'm so sick of that accursed packet's food that I'm in all haste to get something fit for the human palate. So bear with me, I beg of you." With a push of the hand he threw the carter against the wheel of his cart. "Up with you!" laughed he. "Are you going to keep me here all day?"
The carter climbed to his seat and took the reins; the big young man was about to follow him when the girl spoke once more, her fine eyes full of indignation.
"It seems to be your way to carry a high-handed act off with a pleasant manner. This does not make your purpose any easier to bear, though you seem to think it should; but, being a woman, there is no way but words in which I can show my resentment."
The young man, with one foot on the hub of the wheel, nodded pleasantly.
"At any rate," said he, "you have the spirit. I admire that, and wish you good luck. Also, I hope you'll not be delayed longer than is necessary." He climbed up to the seat, and said to the driver, "Get on!"
The girl clenched her hands; and then her eyes met those of Anthony. Again it was only for an instant; he didn't stop to consider all he saw there, but thrust one long arm into the conveyance and flung the saddle-bags to the ground. Then to the old Frenchman he said quietly:
"Are these your things, sir? Allow me to see them placed."
With that he tossed the pieces of baggage into the cart; and while he was so doing the big young man stepped down and watched him. When Anthony had done and was dusting off his hands with a blue silk pocket-handkerchief, the other said:
"That was neatly done, and promptly, too. Mademoiselle," and he smiled at the girl, "I can see you've found favor with this young man. He wears the manner always worn by gallants performing under the eyes of beauty."
He looked amusedly at Anthony, and placed himself so in the way that that young gentleman was prevented from handing the girl into the cart. Frowning blackly, Anthony lurched against and drove him to one side; then the girl was in the cart, and the old man with her ready help was following, when Anthony felt a heavy hand upon his shoulder. Though he expected a blow, he did not turn; with jaw set he saw the aged Frenchman safe, and called to the driver, "Be off!" The man shook the reins, and the cart started; Anthony swept off his tall hat; he saw the anxious look in the girl's eyes, and the gesture of protest from the old man at so deserting him; then he whirled about with a scowl, and found himself looking into the square, good-humored face of the man with the saddle-bags.
"Well," said this person, and he looked Anthony from head to foot, "you have a way of your own, haven't you?"
Anthony threw the hand from his shoulder.
"I can return the saying," replied he. "And let me tell you further, sir, I consider it a damned, detestable way!"
"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed the other. He roared with laughter, and followed it up with a string of delighted oaths. "You are vexed! You are displeased; and right on the heels of such prompt and engaging conduct." He looked at Anthony and roared again. Then, gasping, he stooped, took up his saddle-bags, and threw them over his shoulders. "By God!" said he, "I haven't laughed so much in a twelve-month. It's a pity I can't have more of your society. But that," regretfully, "has always been my fate; exigency has always forced me to turn my back upon good entertainment. Upon my soul," he said, "I never saw the like of it outside a comedy! 'A damsel in distress!' says you; 'to the rescue!' Then out goes my luggage, aside go I, and into my place go they, as nice as you please." He filled his big chest with air, and made the place ring; then wagging his head, and stamping for very joy he made his way up the wharf, leaving Anthony scowling after him and biting his lip.
Anthony spent an hour walking about the waterfront, but somehow its interest did not hold. He felt that he'd like to rest, to be quiet; a chair at an inn took an unaccountable place in his thoughts, a chair at a window in which he saw himself sitting, quiet in the knowledge that some bits of savory cooking were going forward for his especial benefit.
"And the Black Horse is so far away," he thought, the few blocks between himself and the old tavern taking on the magnitude of leagues. "Perhaps it would be better if I took lodgings at a place nearer to the center of things." Then the urge behind the thought showed itself, though Anthony, poor youth, was unaware of it. "The Half Moon is well located," he said. "And it should be an excellent house, for well-conditioned people seem to patronize it."
As he proceeded, facing north, the possibilities of the Half Moon grew in his mind. He saw a snug corner, with the light of many candles falling upon a bountifully spread table. It was night, and it had turned cold; a cheerful fire snapped in the grate. There was a glass of mulled ale before him, with a comforting vapor arising from it, and across the rim of the glass he saw a pair of eyes. They were the most liquid eyes he'd ever seen—brown, he thought—brown, and deep—as deep as a pool brimming with early sunlight.
In Water Street, near to Mulberry, was a low stone house with a wide door and two flag steps that led down to it. In a window, paned with small squares of glass, there hung great bunches of herbs, gray and dried, and roots that stretched crookedly about as though in search of moisture. Anthony instantly descended the two steps, bowed his head so that he might avoid scraping the nap of his beaver against the fan-light, and went in. The place was large and low-ceilinged, and heavy with medicinal smells. From hooks in the walls hung more bundles of herbs and roots; shelves were stored with little packets of bark; in bottles and jars were the seeds and flowers of many virtuous plants. A little active old man, with horn-rimmed spectacles, came forward; he rubbed the bald top of his head with one hand and surveyed his visitor with mild attention.
"What can I serve you with, sir?" said he.
Anthony bent over the oaken counter and presented his face for inspection.
"Look at me," said he.
The little man ceased from rubbing his head.
"I am not a doctor of physic," stated he, regretfully, "and, so I cannot pronounce upon a complaint with authority. But," and his face was screwed into an expression of much sagacity, "as you look like a normal youth, I would venture that the thing you suffer is the plague. It still visits hereabout, and we've had great misgivings of it all summer through. If you feel your vitals at all grasped by this ailment, I entreat you, sir, to keep from gunpowder and ardent spirits." And, as Anthony nodded and smiled, the little apothecary went on, earnestly: "The spirits, I grant you, have a place in materia medica, as a glowing, forceful agent; they contain the life principle of the subject from which they are drawn, and to be fortified in time of need with the life principle of anything whatsoever may be considered an advantage. But the gunpowder, sir, I cannot grant you. What serves it to rattle away with a fowling-piece at the bedside of a disabled person? You make a noise, and a stink, and nothing more."
"What," said Anthony, "makes you think I have the plague?"
"You do not look," said the little man, "like one with a complaint of long duration. As you are sick, I take it that it is with something that has seized you suddenly. And so itmustbe the plague. I would, if my advice were sought, recommend camphor—a very white substance, unctuous, pellucid, bitterly aromatic, with a grateful coolness, and a fragrance not unlike rosemary. This may be inhaled upon suitable occasions; I have known many persons to carry little bags of it slung under their noses in time of great fright, or small quantities may be taken, dissolved in spirits of wine."
"I am not ill," said Anthony, as he seated himself upon the edge of the counter. "I have never been so, not even in the days when I'd tramp, barefooted, away beyond Schuylkill, into the woods and fields, to search out worm-wood, Jerusalem oak and adder's-violet. It may be," he mused, "that I'd then met with broken bones or drowning in the streams, but I was carefully looked after by one who was my good friend. Though, indeed, friends slip from one," and Anthony pulled a deep sigh. "Even those who we thought would remember the longest sometimes have memories short enough."
The little apothecary rubbed his bald head and stared; then incredulity, amazement, conviction followed each other across his face. He put a hand upon Anthony's arm.
"It is not Anthony Stevens!" denied he. "Do not tell me it is Anthony Stevens; for if you do I shall not believe you."
"Who was it told you that false valerian could be found in the swamps near the second ford?" asked the young man. "What boy was it who could find more wax-myrtle than his teacher? Who was it once slept all the way home on a bag of bear's-bed in the bottom of the wagon because he thought if bears could——"
"Anthony!" The little apothecary had him by the hand. "Anthony!" The mild old eyes took in the strapping frame, so different from that of the boy he had once known—the well-poised head, the purposeful eyes and chin. "Yes, it's you. I know you when you laugh. Nothing could change that."
"Christopher," said Anthony, and his big paw squeezed the thin one tightly, and his eyes beamed, "you have not changed at all. You are not fatter; you have no more hair upon your head; you are just the same human, interested man you were, years and years ago."
"As for being human," said Christopher Dent, "why not, since I have around me in their natural concentrated forms all the organic elements upon which humanity is founded? Age is not a hard thing to check when one breathes constantly those fragrances which regulate the action of the system. I could do with more hair upon my head," a little ruefully; "but," with immediate cheeriness, "we'll let that pass, for what signifies hair? It is but a horny growth, meant to protect the skull, which is the casket of the brain, in those times when the world had not yet reached the point of hats."
He then invited Anthony into a little room, a sort of laboratory, at the back of the shop, in which were a brick furnace, a still in operation, crucibles, mortars, jars of various colored liquids, and bladders filled with powders.
"Sit down," said old Christopher, as he took some dusty, sheep-covered books from a stool. "Sit down and tell me how it has been with you these many years."
Anthony sat down; and the little apothecary sat near him, a shaft of noonday light from a window dazzling upon the crown of his head.
"I have seen your uncle, of course, many times since," said he. "But in what talk I've had with him he never mentioned you."
"I suppose," said Anthony, "he had nothing to tell. There was a difference between my father and him—nothing serious, but still a difference—at the time of the separation of their interests. I don't think a half-dozen letters passed between them afterwards, I know they never saw each other again."
The old apothecary clicked his tongue pityingly.
"Such wretched states of mind people permit themselves to get into," said he. "There was no reason why, if your mother desired to go back to her native land, that your father should not sell out his interest and take her away."
"I think, from the little I've heard my father say,—for he seldom mentioned it,—my uncle understood and agreed to all that. But what he disliked was the sudden curtailing of the firm's operations because of the moneys that had gone out of it."
Old Christopher nodded.
"Yes, yes; Charles is like that. He thinks in a large way. I've fancied sometimes that the eyes of his mind are so fashioned that they cannot see anything under a given size. But," coming back to the subject with a sudden brightening of manner, "what of yourself? What have you been doing? Tell me everything about it. I'm sure it's of interest, for you were always full of that." The old man laughed, and the sound had a clear ring, surprisingly like that of a boy. "It once would have taken a dozen to keep track of you."
Anthony told him the story of his transplanting; of the ship that had taken them, and all their household effects, down the Delaware, and up the Mississippi; of New Orleans and the pirate Spaniards who held its customs and dwarfed the port; of the quaint old streets; of the mingling of races; the color and strangeness of life there; of the mission-school, where the good padres had taken him in hand much to his advantage; of his father's losses in business, caused by the tricky methods of the port authorities, and then of his death. His mother had lived a year longer; then she, too, had died.
"The money, then," said Christopher, "is gone."
"All of my father's—yes," replied Anthony, "They stripped him to the bones. But there is still the interest in Rufus Stevens' Sons, left me by my grandfather; that had never been disturbed. The income from it made my mother comfortable while she lived."
"And when she had gone,—fine, proud, beautiful creature,—what then?"
"I sailed as mate in a Spanish ship, trading with South America and ports on the West Coast; for a year or two I was in the counting-house of Montufars, a trader at New Orleans. Three times I crossed the mountains and desert with fur-buying trains, to California; and, on the same errand, I've navigated the Mississippi and tributaries to places, so they've told me, where white men had not been seen."
"Youwoulddo that," said the apothecary, nodding his glittering head, "As a boy you always loved to venture where no one had been before you." He looked at the young man with his manner of mild attention. "And now you've come back to where you were born," he said. "To stay, I hope; to take your place in the business of your grandfather."
Anthony shook his head doubtingly.
"I don't know as to that," he replied. "It's true I have no ties in New Orleans; and I will do as well in one place as another. But my uncle is a man of sharp-cut achievements, and it may be that he'll be content enough if I keep my distance." And, though Anthony laughed at this, his chin went out in a way it had. "If he's of that frame of mind I'll be willing to do so; for I have affairs enough of my own to keep me busy, and a little effort will add to them from time to time."
Here the shop door was heard to open and shut; a brisk step sounded, and a gentleman of immaculate dress entered the rear room.
"I ask your pardon, Mr. Dent," said this personage, seeing Anthony.
"It is no matter," said the apothecary. "Come in, Dr. King. I'm chatting with an old friend; that's all."
Dr. King smiled and nodded to the young man.
"Physicians," said he, "are sometimes more urgent in their ways than most; but then their affairs are of a nature that frequently requires it."
"I can well understand that, sir," said Anthony.
The apothecary gave to Dr. King several small packets done in white paper.
"Marrubrium vulgare," said he. "Cynoglossum officinale."
"Quite right," said Dr. King. "I am glad you have them ready, for I am on my way to visit Mr. Moss now."
"He has a bleeding of the lungs, I am told," said Christopher, with his shining head to one side. "That is a serious condition; and of the two remedies I would venture to maintain thatCynoglossum officinalecontains the most virtue." He turned to Anthony. "Hound's-tongue," said he. "Do you remember? The leaves are hoary, with soft down on both sides; the flowers are in clusters—"
"And the fruit," said Anthony, "a depressed achenium."
"Quite right," said the apothecary, pleasure in his face. "Quiteright."
Dr. King laughed.
"So," said he, to Anthony, "you, too, have been inducted into the mysteries of Hygeia."
"If his life had not been ordered differently," said Christopher, with regret, "he would have been an excellent apothecary." Then, suddenly: "Why, what am I thinking of? Dr. King, this is a nephew of a very close friend of yours—Mr. Anthony Stevens."
The physician looked at the young man in surprise; then he held out his hand.
"I am glad to see you," said he. "I also knew your father quite well—and your mother. Have you been long in the city?"
"Since yesterday, only," replied Anthony.
"Have you seen your uncle?"
"No. Ididvisit his counting-house, but he was not there."
There was a moment's pause, and Dr. King seemed about to go.
"As you are freshly arrived," said he; "you may have nothing to occupy your time this evening."
"There is nothing," said Anthony.
"Perhaps," said Dr. King, "you'd care to take supper with me—at six?"
"I should be pleased," said the young man.
"There will be a few people whom you may enjoy meeting. And it may be I'll be able to be of service to you." The speaker nodded to the old apothecary, and shook Anthony's hand again. "Remember, at six. My house is in Front Street just a little way above the booking-place of the Trenton stage."
When the doctor had gone, Christopher Dent said:
"A great friend of your uncle's—a most intimate friend. In fact, I would dare say that, as physician and associate, he knows more of his doings and dealings than any one else."
At once, in that recess at the back of the mind where Anthony's discarded thoughts were kept, the imaginings of Magruder began to squirm and play for light.
"Does he, indeed?" said Anthony.
Of course, Dr. King's saying that he might be of service to him was a well-intentioned politeness; but there were times—and Anthony had seen more than one of them—when a politeness had been turned to a very practical account.
That afternoon Anthony had his chest and other baggage transferred to the Half Moon, which was in Chestnut Street, opposite the state-house. Toward evening he began to dress for his visit to Dr. King; through the window of his room, and, again, through the high-shouldered arches at each side of the old building across the way, he caught specks of green among the flags; stout, gray Quakers paced slowly by, on their ways from their places of business at the waterside to the green open spaces, in the neighborhood of Eighth Street.
Anthony had a taste for dress, and on this occasion was exceedingly careful. His tall, long-napped beaver was brushed and "laid"; his neck-cloth, stiff with starch,—a new mode among the young men of the time,—caught him tightly under the ears. His square-skirted, high-collared coat of Lincoln green had gilt buttons on the breast and sleeves; his waistcoat was of silk and fitted snugly; his pantaloons—an article of wear flung before the world by the French Revolution—were strapped tightly down under his varnished boots. Older men were still holding to knee shorts, worsted stockings, and buckled shoes; some continued to powder their hair; but progressive youth had been caught up by the rush of the revolution, and their thoughts seemed set not only against old forms in government but in dress as well.
There was a public room at the Half Moon, and when Anthony descended he turned into it. The floor was sanded, and there were settles and chairs arranged comfortably about; a fire of chestnut knots crackled in a wide fireplace; upon pegs in the wall hung traveling-coats, saddle-bags, and whips; people lounged about and drowsed, or talked in little groups, or read the scant journals by the light of whale-oil lamps. The young man stood in the doorway and searched the room for those whom he hoped to see; but he was disappointed. Then he walked its length, slowly, examining every one present. No, the old Frenchman, and—was it his daughter?—of the New York packet, were not there. He then went into the room on the opposite side of the passage, where the tables were laid for the tavern's hearty supper; but it was too early; none among the guests had yet considered food.
There was a short man with a jolly red face seated upon a bench in the passage; he wore a waterproof hat and held a whip between his knees. Anthony nodded to him, and the round face at once took on the look of a rosy moon.
"The inn seems very well filled," said Anthony.
"It always is," the red-faced man replied. And then, "Are you a stranger in the city, sir?"
"Practically so," said Anthony.
The stout man spoke in a low tone of confidence.
"Senators make this their place of entertainment," he told Anthony. "A justice of the Supreme Court is now drinking in the bar."
"A deal of travel halts here, I'd say," hinted Anthony.
"You say truth, then. I drive a-many here myself; but the public coaches also make it a place of call."
"The sloops and schooners from up and down the river also bring many patrons?" said Anthony.
"The New York packet brought two to-day," said the red-faced man. "An elderly gentleman and his daughter. They are French, I would say. Name of Lafargue. I drove them to Mrs. Craigie's a while ago."
"Then they have left the inn!" exclaimed Anthony.
"For a little space only." The man took out a thick watch of silver and consulted it carefully. "In some hours more," said he, "I shall be going after them."
The brief autumn twilight was settling into dark when Anthony left the tavern. He trudged toward Front Street at a good pace; the Trenton stage was midway in the block above Mulberry Street, and he had no trouble in finding the house of Dr. King—a wide, well-kept building of red brick with white stone steps and hitching-post, and black, varnished rails.
Dr. King greeted him cordially and led him into a thickly carpeted room, with Eastern hangings, and a chandelier, glittering with a score of wax-lights. Mrs. King was a tall woman, stately, with a fine-cut face and an ease of manner not usual with women of the young republic.
"I knew your mother," she told Anthony. "A beautiful, dark creature, who loved your father." She searched his face with her quiet eyes. "No," she said, "you don't look in the least like her. You resemble your grandfather; you have his way of holding your head; you have the same strong-looking body, and the same long face." Anthony smiled at this, and she added quickly: "I was wrong;thatis your mother's; and I'm very glad to see it. It's a fine thing to be a man like old Rufus Stevens; but, at the same time, a little softness does not come amiss."
There were some others in the room, and she led Anthony forward.
"Mr. Anthony Stevens," she said, "a nephew of Charles." To Anthony she added: "Mr. Whitaker, and Mr. Sparhawk."
Both these gentlemen arose and shook Anthony by the hand. Whitaker was about his own age, very handsome, with a great head of curling hair and snappy dark eyes. He was something of a dandy; his fine neck-cloth was of amazing height and stiffness; his buckskin pantaloons were so tight about the knees that one wondered how he moved; his claret-colored coat had a huge roll to both collar and lapels, and his waistcoat was of corded silk, with wide flaps over the pockets.
"It's a great pleasure to see you," said this young gentleman, examining Anthony with a careful and rather approving eye. "Didn't know Stevens had a nephew. Don't think I ever heard him say."
Sparhawk was about sixty, a small, perky man, in knee shorts, and with white powder dusted into his hair. He was dry of manner, with a shrewd, yet kindly, eye; there was no man in the port held in higher esteem among merchants. When there was a question of insurances, one went to Sparhawk; and the adjustments he made were always reckoned fair and worthy, and the best that could be done for all concerned.
"You would be Robert's son," said he. "I recall you well as a boy. A very active boy," to the others. "Given to such things as diving from the rigging of any ship in the docks he managed to get aboard of."
When they had settled down once more, Whitaker crossed his tightly clad legs and said:
"You'll not like it here. It's a devil of a place, I find. Since I came back I can think of nothing but getting away again."
Mrs. King laughed amusedly.
"I'm afraid, Tom," she said, "they spoiled you by keeping you so long in foreign parts."
"They opened my eyes," returned Whitaker. "They gave me some chance to see what the world is like."
"I have been a matter of six voyages," said Sparhawk, in his precise way. "And I have been a general agent in as many ports from time to time. And this I have learned: the ports of the world are nottheworld."
"Very well," said Whitaker, composedly. "Whatever they are, I like them. Calcutta, now!" said he, to Anthony. "There's a place for you! Were you ever in Calcutta?"
"No," said Anthony.
"You should go there," said the other. "You should, by all means. It's an astonishing place. I was there three months—for Stevens; you never put your eyes on such a cargo as I stowed into theSea Mew. Riches was no name for it. It was prodigious. Unfortunate she went down, though. Too bad."
"She was lost, then?" said Anthony.
"Yes; never heard of her after the day she sailed for home. Great pity. She was a magnificent ship; and the loss was murderous to the insurance people."
"You had more misfortunes than that, had you not?" said Sparhawk. "Was there not a Stevens vessel, out of Lisbon for Liverpool, carrying ivory and wine? TheTwo Brothers, I think."
Whitaker wrinkled his brows.
"Yes," said he. "TheTwo Brothers. A fairly lucky ship, too. Quick voyages and good returns. I went in her to Lisbon with a mixed cargo from the Malayan ports, just after theSea Mewsailed. I expected to come home in her, but things got tangled, somehow; they took in the Liverpool merchandise, and I was sent off to Brest to see to some matters there. Devilish odd how things come about, isn't it? There's no doubt but the thing saved my life. If I hadn't been sent there I'd have gone down with the ship. But who sent me, I don't know. The word was given in an indirect way. I tried to trace it afterwards; but it seems it was all a mistake; no one was responsible."
Sparhawk pursed his lips and regarded Whitaker interestedly; and then, after a moment, he fell to calculating.
"There was a matter of twelve thousand English pounds went down in theTwo Brothers," said he, striking a total; "and in theSea MewI think it was more."
"It was much more," admitted Whitaker. "I would say twice as much." He shook his head of hair, and looked somewhat bewildered. "It was a deal of money to scatter over the bottom of the sea," said he. "I'm glad I had nothing to do with it."
Anthony studied the young dandy. He had an engaging appearance; and there was about him that superficial air of knowing that usually comes of experiences lightly felt. His mouth was pleasant, but it had little resolution; his eyes were quick, but there was no promise that they saw anything below the surface.
But as Anthony's glance went to Sparhawk he saw something greatly different. Here was resolution enough for twenty; here was a quiet, persevering mind, a man whose interest was plainly in those things not easily seen. And this matter of the sunken ships seemed to engage him shrewdly; it seemed to Anthony it must be a subject that he'd occasion to consider more than once before.
"From Brest I think you came home," said Sparhawk.
"Yes," said Whitaker. "But my experience there was none of the pleasantest. I delivered certain papers to the house's representative, Lafargue, by name, and they occasioned a great scurrying of one kind or another, though I never knew why." Sparhawk smiled primly, and Whitaker, who noticed it, looked annoyed. "It seems to me," he went on resentfully, "when a man is entrusted with a firm's business, there should be no withholding of any sort. No, I'll confess I didn't enjoy Brest overmuch."
"Did you say the representative at that port was named Lafargue?" asked Anthony, with interest.
"Yes, an oldish man, with quite a formidable nose, and an eye that would bore you through and through. And that reminds me," added the dandy, "who should I run across to-day at the coffee-house but this same gentleman. I have no notion what brings him to America; I talked with him for some moments, but he can be very reticent when he so desires. I learned that at Brest."
Dinner-parties of that day were not managed with the same care as in these. They were usually an indulgence of men, who ate liberally and drank heavily. Cookery was a thing given some attention, though table arrangements were simplicity itself. But Dr. King had a taste for such things; also, he had the generous nature that prompts frequent entertainment, and the large wealth that makes it possible.
Anthony found the table laid with fine napery; the silver and glass and delicate ware shone handsomely under the carefully set candle-light. As was customary, all the dishes were placed upon the table at the one time, and each guest was expected to help his neighbor.
There were a fragrant soup of leeks, and the head and shoulders of a fine cod, with Madeira. A brace of plump, black ducks lay upon a long dish; there were roasted venison, deep vessels of parsnips, and celery, and jelly in cunning molds. A fine, full-flavored Burgundy was drunk with the game. Upon a huge platter was a turkey poult, brown and full-breasted, ringed by roasted oysters and rice-patties; wherever a vacant place showed itself upon the cloth were placed dishes of marrow pudding, cherry-tarts, and pippins, stewed, and thick with cream.
It was perhaps nine o'clock when Sparhawk left; and a little later Whitaker followed him. After a space Mrs. King left the doctor and Anthony together at the table with a bottle between them, and each drawing at a long-stemmed pipe. Anthony said:
"I've always understood the house of Rufus Stevens' Sons to be wide-flung, but, somehow, I'm continually being surprised at the evidences of it."
A soft-footed black servant came in, snuffed the candles, put a fresh log upon the fire, and disappeared.
"And any recollections I have of my uncle," added Anthony, "are based on impressions carried away with me as a boy."
Dr. King smiled, but at the same time there was a grave look in his eyes.
"Upon the whole," said he, "those things might be a very fair base upon which to form a judgment of him. For if there ever has been a man who took what may be called the spirit of boyhood into his after life it is your uncle."
Anthony looked at him questioningly, and the doctor went on.
"Your father was always the thoughtful one, as a lad; I remember that quite well. His sums were always done methodically; his maps were drawn with care. Charles was your slap-dash fellow. A great reader, but of romances, of obscure histories, of the lives of men whose doings, as set down, do not often meet the common eye. Your father, as a boy, formed a plan for his work and went through with it, conscientiously. Charles loved to browse and dream; and then his mind would suddenly leap into life, and carry out some extraordinary idea. He does this still."
"What you are telling me does not make a usual equipment for a merchant," said Anthony.
"No," replied Dr. King. "And it is an equipment that has made many a circumspect dealer stand aghast. But, in spite of his seeming lack of qualifications as a merchant, Charles is a magnificent one. He detests plodding; he hates detail; with routine he will have nothing to do. I doubt if any one has ever seen him foot up a column of figures or turn to a ledger for a point of information; yet no man anywhere is more possessed of the spirit of commerce. But it is commerce as a pageant, as a spectacle, a wide, spirited vision, rich with color, alive with movement, remarkable with discovery. There is nothing of the huckster in Charles; he is no mere chafferer or trafficker in commodities. In his mind ships are not dull things of oak, stuffed with cargo; they are the laden argosies of the world, crossing the seven seas, their sails filled with glory."