December was nearly over. Christmas had come. Bos'n had hung up her stocking by the base-burner stove, and found it warty and dropsical the next morning, with a generous overflow of gifts piled on the floor beneath it. The Board of Strategy sent presents; so did Miss Dawes and Georgianna. As for Captain Cy he spent many evening hours, after the rest of his household was in bed, poring over catalogues of toys and books, and the orders he sent to the big shops in Boston were lengthy and costly. The little girl's eyes opened wide when she saw the stocking and the treasures heaped on the floor. She sat in her “nighty” amidst the wonders, books, and playthings in a circle about her, and the biggest doll of all hugged close in her arms. Captain Cy, who had arisen at half past five in order to be with her on the great occasion, was at least as happy as she.
“Like 'em, do you?” he asked, smiling.
“like 'em! O Uncle Cy! What makes everybody so good to me?”
“I don't know. Strange thing, ain't it—considerin' what a hard little ticket you are.”
Bos'n laughed. She understood her “Uncle Cy,” and didn't mind being called a “hard ticket” by him.
“I—I—didn't believe anybody COULD have such a nice Christmas. I never saw so many nice things.”
“Humph! What do you like best?”
The answer was a question, and was characteristic.
“Which did you give me?” asked Bos'n.
The captain would have dodged, but she wouldn't let him. So one by one the presents he had given were indicated and put by themselves. The remainder were but few, but she insisted that the givers of these should be named. When the sorting was over she sat silently hugging her doll and, apparently, thinking.
“Well?” inquired the amused captain. “Made up your mind yet? Which do you like best?”
The child nodded.
“Why, these, of course,” she declared with emphasis, pointing with her dollie's slippered foot at Captain Cy's pile.
“So? Do, hey? Didn't know I could pick so well. All right; the first prize is mine. Who takes the second?”
This time Bos'n deliberated before answering. At last, however, she bent forward and touched the teacher's gifts.
“These,” she said. “I like these next best.”
Captain Cy was surprised.
“Sho!” he exclaimed. “You don't say!”
“Yes. I think I like teacher next to you. I like Georgianna and Mr. Tidditt and Mr. Bangs, of course, but I like her a little better. Don't you, uncle Cyrus?”
The captain changed the subject. He asked her what she should name her doll.
The Board of Strategy came in during the forenoon, and the presents had to be shown to them. While the exhibition was in progress Miss Dawes called. And before she left Gabe Lumley drove up in the depot wagon bearing a big express package addressed to “Miss Emily Thomas, Bayport.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “Somethin' more for Bos'n, hey! Who in the world sent it, do you s'pose?”
Asaph and Bailey made various inane suggestions as to the sender. Phoebe said nothing. There was a frown on her face as she watched the captain get to work on the box with chisel and hammer. It contained a beautiful doll, fully and expensively dressed, and pinned to the dress was a card—“To dear little Emmie, from her lonesome Papa.”
The Board of Strategy looked at the doll in wonder and astonishment. Captain Cy strode away to the window.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bangs. “I didn't believe he had that much heart inside of him. I bet you that cost four or five dollars; ain't that so, Cy?”
The captain did not answer.
“Don't you think so, teacher?” repeated Bailey, turning to Phoebe. “What ails you? You don't seem surprised.”
“I'm not,” replied the lady. “I expected something of that sort.”
Captain Cy wheeled from the window.
“You DID?” he asked.
“Yes. Miss Phinney said the other day she had heard that that man was going to give his daughter a beautiful present. She was very enthusiastic about his generosity and self-sacrifice. I asked who told her and she said Mr. Simpson.”
“Oh! Tad? Is that so!” The captain looked at her.
“Yes. And I think there is no doubt that Simpson had orders to make the 'generosity' known to as many townspeople as possible.”
“Hum! I see. You figure that Thomas cal'lates 'twill help his popularity and make his case stronger; is that it?”
“Not exactly. I doubt if he ever thought of such a thing himself. But some one thought for him—and some one must have supplied the money.”
“Well, they say he's to work up in Boston.”
“I know. But no one can tell where he works. Captain Whittaker, this is Mr. Atkins's doing—you know it. Now, WHY does he, a busy man, take such an interest in getting this child away from you?”
Captain Cy shook his head and smiled.
“Teacher,” he said, “you're dead set on taggin' Heman with a mystery, ain't you?”
“Miss Dawes,” asked the forgetful Bailey, “when you and me went drivin' t'other day did you find out anything from—”
Phoebe interrupted quickly.
“Mr. Bangs,” she said, “at what time do we distribute Christmas presents at your boarding house? I suppose you must have many Christmas secrets to keep. You keep a secret SO well.”
Mr. Bangs turned red. The hint concerning secret keeping was not wasted. He did not mention the drive again.
A little later Captain Cy found Bos'n busily playing with the doll he had given her. The other, her father's gift, was nowhere in sight.
“I put her back in the box,” said the child in reply to his question. “She was awful pretty, but I think I'm goin' to love this one best.”
The remark seems a foolish thing to give comfort to a grown man, but Captain Cy found comfort in it, and comfort was what he needed.
He needed it more as time went on. In January the court gave its decision. The captain's appointment as guardian was revoked. With the father alive, and professedly anxious to provide for the child's support, nothing else was to be expected, so Mr. Peabody said. The latter entered an appeal which would delay matters for a time, two or three months perhaps; meanwhile Captain Cy was to retain custody of Bos'n.
But the court's action, expected though it was, made the captain very blue and downcast. He could see no hope. He felt certain that he should lose the little girl in the end, in spite of the long succession of appeals which his lawyer contemplated. And what would become of her then? What sort of training would she be likely to have? Who would her associates be, under the authority of a father such as hers? And what would he do, alone in the old house, when she had gone for good? He could not bear to think of it, and yet he thought of little else.
The evenings, after Bos'n had gone to bed, were the worst. During the day he tried his best to be busy at something or other. The doll house was finished, and he had begun to fashion a full-rigged ship in miniature. In reality Emily, being a normal little girl, was not greatly interested in ships, but, because Uncle Cy was making it, she pretended to be vastly concerned about this one. On Saturdays and after school hours she sat on a box in the wood shed, where the captain had put up a small stove, and watched him work. The taboo which so many of our righteous and Atkins-worshiping townspeople had put upon the Whittaker place and its occupants included her, and a number of children had been forbidden to play with her. This, however, did not prevent their tormenting her about her father and her disreputable guardian.
But the captain's evenings were miserable. He no longer went to Simmons's. He didn't care for the crowd there, and knew they were all “down” on him. Josiah Dimick called occasionally, and the Board of Strategy often, but their conversation was rather tiresome. There were times when Captain Cy hated Bayport, the house he had “fixed up” with such interest and pride, and the old sitting room in particular. The mental picture of comfort and contentment which had been his dream through so many years of struggle and wandering, looked farther off than ever. Sometimes he was tempted to run away, taking Bos'n with him. But the captain had never run away from a fight yet; he had never abandoned a ship while there was a chance of keeping her afloat. And, besides, there was another reason.
Phoebe Dawes had come to be his chief reliance. He saw a great deal of her. Often when she walked home from school, she found him hanging over the front gate, and they talked of various things—of Bos'n's progress with her studies, of the school work, and similar topics. He called her by her first name now, although in this there was nothing unusual—after a few weeks' acquaintance we Bayporters almost invariably address people by their “front” names. Sometimes she came to the house with Emily. Then the three sat by the stove in the sitting room, and the apartment became really cheerful, in the captain's eyes.
Phoebe was in good spirits. She was as hopeful as Captain Cy was despondent. She seemed to have little fear of the outcome of the legal proceedings, the appeals and the rest. In fact, she now appeared desirous of evading the subject, and there was about her an air of suppressed excitement. Her optimism was the best sort of bracer for the captain's failing courage. Her advice was always good, and a talk with her left him with shoulders squared, mentally, and almost happy.
One cold, rainy afternoon, early in February, she came in with Bos'n, who had availed herself of the shelter of the teacher's umbrella. Georgianna was in the kitchen baking, and Emily had been promised a “saucer pie”—so the child went out to superintend the construction of that treat.
“Set down, teacher,” said Captain Cy, pushing forward a rocker. “My! but I'm glad to see you. 'Twas bluer'n a whetstone 'round here to-day. What's the news—anything?”
“Why, no,” replied Phoebe, accepting the rocker and throwing open her wet jacket; “there's no news in particular. But I wanted to ask if you had seen the Breeze?”
“Um—hum,” was the listless answer. “I presume likely you mean the news about the appropriation, and the editorial dig at yours truly? Yes, I've seen it. They don't bother me much. I've got more important things on my mind just now.”
Congressman Atkins's pledge in his farewell speech, concerning the mighty effort he was to make toward securing the appropriation for Bayport harbor, was in process of fulfillment—so he had written to the local paper. But, alas! the mighty effort was likely to prove unavailing. In spite of the Honorable Heman's battle for his constituents' rights it seemed certain that the bill would not provide the thirty thousand dollars for Bayport; at least, not this year's bill. Other and more powerful interests would win out and, instead, another section of the coast be improved at the public expense. The congressman was deeply sorry, almost broken-hearted. He had battled hard for his beloved town, he had worked night and day. But, to be perfectly frank, there was little or no hope.
Few of us blamed Heman Atkins. The majority considered his letter “noble” and “so feeling.” But some one must be blamed for a community disappointment like this, and the scapegoat was on the premises. How about that “committee of one” self-appointed at town meeting? How about the blatant person who had declared HE could have gotten the appropriation? What had the “committee” done? Nothing! nothing at all! He had not even written to the Capital—so far as anyone could find out—much less gone there.
So, at Simmons's and the sewing circle, and after meeting on Sunday, Cy Whittaker was again discussed and derided. And this week's Breeze, out that morning, contained a sarcastic editorial which mentioned no names, but hinted at “a certain now notorious person” who had boasted loudly, but who had again “been weighed in the balance of public opinion and found wanting.”
Miss Dawes did not seem pleased with the captain's nonchalant attitude toward the Breeze and its editorial. She tapped the braided mat with her foot.
“Captain Cyrus,” she said, “if you intended doing nothing toward securing that appropriation why did you accept the responsibility for it at the meeting?”
Captain Cy looked up. Her tone reminded him of their first meeting, when she had reproved him for going to sleep and leaving Bos'n to the mercy of the Cahoon cow.
“Well,” he said, “afore this Thomas business happened, to knock all my plans on their beam ends, I'd done consider'ble thinkin' about that appropriation. It seemed to me that there must be some reason for Heman's comin' about so sudden. He was sartin sure of the thirty thousand for a spell; then, all to once, he begun to take in sail and go on t'other tack. I don't know much about politics, but I know HE knows all the politics there is. And it seemed to me that if a live man, one with eyes in his head, went to Washington and looked around he might find the reason. And, if he did find it, maybe Heman could be coaxed into changin' his mind again. Anyhow, I was willin' to take the risk of tryin'; and, besides, Tad and Abe Leonard had me on the griddle at that meetin', and I spoke up sharp—too sharp, maybe.”
“But you still believe that you MIGHT help if you went to Washington?”
“Yes. I guess I do. Anyhow, I'd ask some pretty p'inted questions. You see, I ain't lived here in Bayport all my life, and I don't swaller ALL the bait Heman heaves overboard.”
“Then why don't you go?”
“Hey? Why don't I go? And leave Bos'n and—”
“Emily would be all right and perfectly safe. Georgianna thinks the world of her. And, Captain Whittaker, I don't like to hear these people talk of you as they do. I don't like to read such things in the paper, that you were only bragging in order to be popular, and meant to shirk when the time came for action. I know they're not true. I KNOW it!”
Captain Cy was gratified, and his gratification showed in his voice.
“Thank you, Phoebe,” he said. “I am much obliged to you. But, you see, I don't take any interest in such things any more. When I realize that pretty soon I've got to give up that little girl for good I can't bear to be away from her a minute hardly. I don't like to leave her here alone with Georgianna and—”
“I will keep an eye on her. You trust me, don't you?”
“Trust YOU? By the big dipper, you're about the only one I CAN trust these days. I don't know how I'd have pulled through this if you hadn't helped. You're diff'rent from Ase and Bailey and their kind—not meanin' anything against them, either. But you're broad-minded and cool-headed and—and—Do you know, if I'd had a woman like you to advise me all these years and keep me from goin' off the course, I might have been somebody by now.”
“I think you're somebody as it is.”
“Don't talk that way. I own up I like to hear you, but I'm 'fraid it ain't true. You say I amount to somethin'. Well, what? I come back home here, with some money in my pocket, thinkin' that was about all was necessary to make me a good deal of a feller. The old Cy Whittaker place, I said to myself, was goin' to be a real Cy Whittaker place again. And I'd be a real Whittaker, a man who should stand for somethin', as my dad and granddad did afore me. The town should respect me, and I'd do things to help it along. And what's it all come to? Why, every young one on the street is told to be good for fear he'll grow up like me. Ain't that so? Course it's so! I'm—”
“You SHALL not speak so! Do you imagine that you're not respected by everyone whose respect counts for anything? Yes, and by others, too. Don't you suppose Mr. Atkins respects you, down in his heart—if he has one? Doesn't your housekeeper, who sees you every day, respect and like you? And little Emily—doesn't she love you more than she does all the rest of us together?”
“Well, I guess Bos'n does care for the old man some, that's a fact. She says she likes you next best, though. Did you know that?”
But Miss Dawes was indignant.
“Captain Whittaker,” she declared, “one would think you were a hundred years old to hear you. You are always calling yourself an old man. Does Mr. Atkins call himself old? And he is older than you.”
“Well, I'm over fifty, Phoebe.” In spite of the habit for which he had just been reproached, the captain found this a difficult statement to make.
“I know. But you're younger than most of us at thirty-five. You see, I'm confessing, too,” she added with a laugh and a little blush.
Captain Cy made a mental calculation.
“Twenty years,” he said musingly. “Twenty years is a long time. No, I'm old. And worse than that, I'm an old fool, I guess. If I hadn't been I'd have stayed in South America instead of comin' here to be hooted out of the town I was born in.”
The teacher stamped her foot.
“Oh, what SHALL I do with you!” she exclaimed. “It is wicked for you to say such things. Do you suppose that Mr. Atkins would find it necessary to work as he is doing to beat a fool? And, besides, you're not complimentary to me. Should I, do you think, take such an interest in one who was an imbecile?”
“Well, 'tis mighty good of you. Your comin' here so to help Bos'n's fight along is—”
“How do you know it is Bos'n altogether? I—” She stopped suddenly, and the color rushed to her face. She rose from the rocker. “I—really, I don't see how we came to be discussing such nonsense,” she said. “Our ages and that sort of thing! Captain Cyrus, I wish you would go to Washington. I think you ought to go.”
But the captain's thoughts were far from Washington at that moment. His own face was alight, and his eyes shone.
“Phoebe,” he faltered unbelievingly, “what was you goin' to say? Do you mean that—that—”
The side door of the house opened. The next instant Mr. Tidditt, a dripping umbrella in his hand, entered the sitting room.
“Hello, Whit!” he hailed. “Just run in for a minute to say howdy.” Then he noticed the schoolmistress, and his expression changed. “Oh! how be you, Miss Dawes?” he said. “I didn't see you fust off. Don't run away on my account.”
“I was just going,” said Phoebe, buttoning her jacket. Captain Cy accompanied her to the door.
“Good-by,” she said. “There was something else I meant to say, but I think it is best to wait. I hope to have some good news for you soon. Something that will send you to Washington with a light heart. Perhaps I shall hear to-morrow. If so, I will call after school and tell you.”
“Yes, do,” urged the captain eagerly. “You'll find me here waitin'. Good news or not, do come. I—I ain't said all I wanted to, myself.”
He returned to the sitting room. The town clerk was standing by the stove. He looked troubled.
“What's the row, Ase?” asked Cy cheerily. He was overflowing with good nature.
“Oh, nothin' special,” replied Mr. Tidditt. “You look joyful enough for two of us. Had good company, ain't you?”
“Why, yes; 'bout as good as there is. What makes you look so glum?”
Asaph hesitated.
“Phoebe was here yesterday, too, wan't she?” he asked.
“Yup. What of it?”
“And the day afore that?”
“No, not for three days afore that. But what OF it, I ask you?”
“Well, now, Cy, you mustn't get mad. I'm a friend of yours, and friends ought to be able to say 'most anything to each other. If—if I was you, I wouldn't let Phoebe come so often—not here, you know, at your house. Course, I know she comes with Bos'n and all, but—”
“Out with it!” The captain's tone was ominous. “What are you drivin' at?”
The caller fidgeted.
“Well, Whit,” he stammered, “there's consider'ble talkin' goin' on, that's all.”
“Talkin'? What kind of talkin'?”
“Well, you know the kind. This town does a good deal of it, 'specially after church and prayer meetin'. Seem's if they thought 'twas a sort of proper place.Idon't myself; I kind of like to keep my charity and brotherly love spread out through the week, but—”
“Ase, are the folks in this town sayin' a word against Phoebe Dawes because she comes here to see—Bos'n?”
“Don't—don't get mad, Whit. Don't look at me like that.Iain't said nothin'. Why, a spell ago, at the boardin' house, I—”
He told of the meal at the perfect boarding house where Miss Dawes championed his friend's cause. Also of the conversation which followed, and his own part in it. Captain Cy paced the floor.
“I wouldn't have her come so often, Cy,” pleaded Asaph. “Honest, I wouldn't. Course, you and me know they're mean, miser'ble liars, but it's her I'm thinkin' of. She's a young woman and single. And you're a good many years older'n she is. And so, of course, you and she ain't ever goin' to get married. And have you thought what effect it might have on her keepin' her teacher's place? The committee's a majority against her as 'tis. And—you knowIdon't think so, but a good many folks do—you ain't got the best name just now. Darn it all! I ain't puttin' this the way I'd ought to, but YOU know what I mean, don't you, Cy?”
Captain Cy was leaning against the window frame, his head upon his arm. He was not looking out, because the shade was drawn. Tidditt waited anxiously for him to answer. At last he turned.
“Ase,” he said, “I'm much obliged to you. You've pounded it in pretty hard, but I cal'late I'd ought to have had it done to me. I'm a fool—an OLD fool, just as I said a while back—and nothin' nor NOBODY ought to have made me forget it. For a minute or so I—but there! don't you fret. That young woman shan't risk her job nor her reputation on account of me—nor of Bos'n, either. I'll see to that. And see here,” he added fiercely, “I can't stop women's tongues, even when they're as bad as some of the tongues in this town, BUT if you hear a MAN say one word against Phoebe Dawes, only one word, you tell me his name. You hear, Ase? You tell me his name. Now run along, will you? I ain't safe company just now.”
Asaph, frightened at the effect of his words, hurriedly departed. Captain Cy paced the room for the next fifteen minutes. Then he opened the kitchen door.
“Bos'n,” he called, “come in and set in my lap a while; don't you want to? I'm—I'm sort of lonesome, little girl.”
The next afternoon, when the schoolmistress, who had been delayed by the inevitable examination papers, stopped at the Cy Whittaker place, she was met by Georgianna; Emily, who stood behind the housekeeper in the doorway, was crying.
“Cap'n Cy has gone away—to Washin'ton,” declared Georgianna. “Though what he's gone there for's more'n I know. He said he'd send his hotel address soon's he got there. He went on the three o'clock train.”
Phoebe was astonished.
“Gone?” she repeated. “So soon! Why, he told me he should certainly be here to hear some news I expected to-day. Didn't he leave any message for me?”
The housekeeper turned red.
“Miss Phoebe,” she said, “he told me to tell you somethin', and it's so dreadful I don't hardly dast to say it. I think his troubles have driven him crazy. He said to tell you that you'd better not come to this house any more.”
In the old days, the great days of sailing ships and land merchant fleets, Bayport was a community of travelers. Every ambitious man went to sea, and eventually, if he lived, became a captain. Then he took his wife, and in most cases his children, with him on long voyages. To the stay-at-homes came letters with odd, foreign stamps and postmarks. Our what-nots and parlor mantels were filled with carved bits of ivory, gorgeous shells, alabaster candlesticks, and plaster miniatures of the Leaning Tower at Pisa or the Coliseum at Rome. We usually began a conversation with “When my husband and I were at Hong Kong the last time—” or “I remember at Mauritius they always—” New Orleans or 'Frisco were the nearest domestic ports the mention of which was considered worth while.
But this is so no longer. A trip to Boston is, of course, no novelty to the most of us; but when we visit New York we take care to advertise it beforehand. And the few who avail themselves of the spring “cut rates” and go on excursions to Washington, plan definite programmes for each day at the Capital, and discuss them with envious friends for weeks in advance. And if the prearranged programme is not scrupulously carried out, we feel that we have been defrauded. It was the regret of Aunt Sophronia Hallett's life that, on her Washington excursion, she had not seen the “Diplomatic Corpse.” She saw the President and the Monument and Congress and “the relics in the Smithsonian Institute,” but the “Corpse” was not on view; Aunt Sophronia never quite got over the disappointment.
Probably no other Bayporter, in recent years, has started for Washington on such short notice or with so ill-defined a programme as Captain Cy. He went because he felt that he must go somewhere. After the conversation with Asaph, he simply could not remain at home. If Phoebe Dawes called, he knew that he must see her, and if he saw her, what should he say to her? He could not tell her that she must not visit the Cy Whittaker place again. If he did, she would insist upon the reason. If he told her of the “town talk,” he felt sure, knowing her, that she would indignantly refuse to heed the malicious gossip. And he was firmly resolved not to permit her to compromise her life and her future by friendship with a social outcast like himself. As for anything deeper and more sacred than friendship, that was ridiculous. If, for a moment, a remark of hers had led him to dream of such a thing, it was because he was, as he had so often declared, an “old fool.”
So Captain Cy had resolved upon flight, and he fled to Washington because the business of the “committee of one” offered a legitimate excuse for going there. The blunt message he had intrusted to Georgianna would, he believed, arouse Phoebe's indignation. She would not call again. And when he returned to Bos'n, it would be to take up the child's fight alone. If he lost that fight, or WHEN he lost it, he would close the Cy Whittaker place, and leave Bayport for good.
He had been in Washington once before, years ago, when he was first mate of a ship and had a few weeks' shore leave. Then he went there on a pleasure trip with some seagoing friends, and had a jolly time. But there was precious little jollity in the present visit. He had never felt so thoroughly miserable. In order to forget, he made up his mind to work his hardest to discover why the harbor appropriation was not to be given to Bayport.
The city had changed greatly. He would scarcely have known it. He went to the hotel where he had stayed before, and found a big, modern building in its place. The clerk was inclined to be rather curt and perfunctory at first, but when he learned that the captain was not anxious concerning the price of accommodations, but merely wanted a “comf'table berth somewheres on the saloon deck,” and appeared to have plenty of money, he grew polite. Captain Cy was shown to his room, where he left his valise. Then he went down to dinner.
After the meal was over, he seated himself in one of the big leather chairs in the hotel lobby, smoked and thought. In the summer, before Bos'n came, and before her father had arisen to upset every calculation and wreck all his plans, the captain had given serious thought to what he should do if Congressman Atkins failed, as even then he seemed likely to do, in securing that appropriation. The obvious thing, of course, would have been to hunt up Mr. Atkins and question him. But this was altogether too obvious. In the first place, the strained relations between them would make the interview uncomfortable; and, in the second, if there was anything underhand in Heman's backsliding on the appropriation, Atkins was too wary a bird to be snared with questions.
But Captain Cy had another acquaintance in the city, the son of a still older acquaintance, who had been a wealthy shipping merchant and mine owner in California. The son was also a congressman, from a coast State, and the captain had read of him in the papers. A sketch of his life had been printed, and this made his identity absolutely certain. Captain Cy's original idea had been to write to this congressman. Now he determined to find and interview him.
He inquired concerning him of the hotel clerk, who, like all Washington clerks, was a walking edition of “Who's Who at the Capital.”
“Congressman Everdean?” repeated the all-knowing young gentleman. “Yes. He's in town. Has rooms at the Gloria; second hotel on the right as you go up the avenue. Only a short walk. What can I do for you, sir?”
The Gloria was an even bigger hotel than the one where the captain had his “berth.” An inquiry at the desk, of another important clerk, was answered with a brisk:
“Mr. Everdean? Yes, he rooms here. Don't know whether he's in or not. Evening, judge. Nice Winter weather we're having.”
The judge, who was a ponderous person vaguely suggesting the great Heman, admitted that the weather was fine, patronizing it as he did so. The clerk continued the conversation. Captain Cy waited. At length he spoke.
“Excuse me, commodore,” he said; “I don't like to break in until you've settled whether you have it snow or not, but I'm here to see Congressman Everdean. Hadn't you better order one of your fo'mast hands to hunt him up?”
The judge condescended to smile, as did several other men who stood near. The clerk reddened.
“Do you want to see Mr. Everdean?” he snapped.
“Why, yes, I did. But I can't see him from here without strainin' my eyesight.”
The clerk sharply demanded one of the captain's visiting cards. He didn't get one, for the very good reason that there was none in existence.
“Tell him an old friend of his dad's is here on the main deck waitin' for him,” said Captain Cy. “That'll do first rate. Thank you, admiral.”
Word came that the congressman would be down in a few moments. The captain beguiled the interval by leaning on the rail and regarding the clerk with an awed curiosity that annoyed its object exceedingly. The inspection was still on when a tall man, of an age somewhere in the early thirties, walked briskly up to the desk.
“Who is it that wants to see me?” he asked.
The clerk waved a deprecatory hand in Captain Cy's direction. The newcomer turned.
“My name is Everdean,” he said. “Are you—hey?—Great Scott! Is it possible this is Captain Whittaker?”
The captain was immensely pleased.
“Well, I declare, Ed!” he exclaimed. “I didn't believe you'd remember me after all these years. You was nothin' but a boy when I saw you out in 'Frisco. Well! well! No wonder you're in Congress. A man that can remember faces like that ought to be President.”
Everdean laughed as they shook hands.
“Don't suppose I'd forget the chap who used to dine with us and tell me those sea stories, do you?” he said. “I'm mighty glad to see you. What are you doing here? The last father and I heard of you, you were in South America. Given up the sea, they said, and getting rich fast.”
Captain Cy chuckled.
“It's a good thing I learned long ago not to believe all I hear,” he answered, “else I'd have been so sure I was rich that I'd have spent all I had, and been permanent boarder at the poorhouse by now. No, thanks; I've had dinner. Why, yes, I'll smoke, if you'll help along. How's your father? Smart, is he?”
The congressman insisted that they should adjourn to his rooms. An unmarried man, he kept bachelor's hall at the hotel during his stay in Washington. There, in comfortable chairs, they spoke of old times, when the captain was seafaring and the Everdean home had been his while his ship was in port at 'Frisco. He told of his return to Bayport, and the renovation of the old house. Of Bos'n he said nothing. At last Everdean asked what had brought him to Washington.
“Well,” said Captain Cy, “I'll tell you. I'm like the feller in court without a lawyer; he said he couldn't tell whether he was guilty or not 'count of havin' no professional advice. That's what I've come to you for, Ed—professional advice.”
He told the harbor appropriation story. At the incident of the “committee of one” his friend laughed heartily.
“Rather put your foot in it that time, Captain, didn't you?” he said.
“Yup. Then I got t'other one stuck tryin' to get the first clear. How's it look to you? All straight, do you think? or is there a nigger in the wood pile?”
Mr. Everdean seemed to reflect.
“Well, Captain,” he said, “I can't tell. You're asking delicate questions. Politicians are like doctors, they usually back up each other's opinions. Still, you're at least as good a friend of mine as Atkins is. Queer HE should bob up in this matter! Why, he—but never mind that now. I tell you, Captain Whittaker, you come around and have dinner with me to-morrow night. In the meantime I'll see the chairman of the committee on that bill—one of the so-called 'pork' bills it is. Possibly from him and some other acquaintances of mine I may learn something. At any rate, you come to dinner.”
So the invitation was accepted, and Captain Cy went back to his own hotel and his room. He slept but little, although it was not worry over the appropriation question which kept him awake. Next morning he wrote a note to Georgianna, giving his Washington address. With it he enclosed a long letter to Bos'n, telling her he should be home pretty soon, and that she must be a good girl and “boss the ship” during his absence. He sent his regards to Asaph and Bailey, but Phoebe's name he did not mention. Then he put in a miserable day wandering about the city. At eight that evening he and his Western friend sat down at a corner table in the big dining room of the Gloria.
The captain began to ask questions as soon as the soup was served, but Everdean refused to answer.
“No, no,” he said, “pleasure first and business afterwards; that's a congressional motto. I can't talk Atkins with my dinner and enjoy it.”
“Can't, hey? You wouldn't be popular at our perfect boarding house back home. There they serve Heman hot for breakfast and dinner, and warm him over for supper. All right, I can wait.”
The conversation wandered from Buenos Ayres to 'Frisco and back again until the cigars and coffee were reached. Then the congressman blew a fragrant ring into the air and, from behind it, looked quizzically at his companion.
“Well,” he observed, “so far as that appropriation of yours is concerned—”
He paused and blew a second ring. Captain Cy stroked his beard.
“Um—yes,” he drawled, “now that you mention it, seems to me there was some talk of an appropriation.”
Mr. Everdean laughed.
“I've been making inquiries,” he said. “I saw the chairman of the committee on the pork bill. I know him well. He's a good fellow, but—”
“Yes, I know. I've seen lots of politicians like that; they're all good fellers, but—If I was in politics I'd make a law to cut 'But' out of the dictionary.”
“Well, this chap really is a good fellow. I asked about the thirty thousand dollars for your town. He asked me why I didn't go to the congressman from that district, and not bother him about it. I said perhaps I would go to the congressman later, but I came to him first.”
“Sartin. Same as the feller with a sick mother-in-law stopped in at the undertaker's on his way to call the doctor. All right; heave ahead.”
“Well, we had a rather long conversation. I discovered that the Bayport item was originally included in the bill, but recently had been stricken out.”
“Yes, I see. Uncle Sam had to economize, hey? Save somethin' for a rainy day.”
“Well, possibly. Still the bill is just as heavy. Now, Captain Whittaker, I don't KNOW anything about this affair, and it's not my business. But I've been about to-day, and I asked questions, and—I'm going to tell you a fairy tale. It isn't as interesting as your sea yarns, but—Do you like fairy stories?”
“Land, yes! Tell a few myself when it's necessary. Sometimes I almost believe 'em. Well?”
“Of course, you must remember this IS a fairy story. Let's suppose that once on a time—that's the way they always begin—once on a time there was a great man, great in his own country, who was sent abroad by his people to represent them among the rulers of the land. So, in order to typically represent them, he dressed in glad and expensive raiment, went about in dignity, and—”
“And whiskers. Don't leave out the whiskers!”
“All right—and whiskers. And it came to pass that the people whom he represented wished to—to—er—bring about a certain needed improvement in their—their beautiful and enterprising community.”
“Sho! sho! how natural that sounds! You must be a mind reader.”
“No. But I have to make speeches in my own community occasionally. Well, the people asked their great man to get the money needed for this improvement from the rulers of the land aforementioned. And he was at first all enthusiasm and upon the—the parchment scroll where such matters are inscribed was written the name of the beautiful and enterprising community, and the sum of money it asked for. And the deal was as good as made. Excuse the modern phraseology; my fairy lingo got mixed there.”
“Never mind. I can get the drift just as well—maybe better.”
“And the deal was as good as made. But before the vote was taken another chap came to the great man and said: 'Look here! I want to get an appropriation of, say, fifty thousand dollars, to deepen and improve a river down in my State'—a Southern State we'll say. 'I've been to the chairman of the pork bill committee, and he says it's impossible. The bill simply can't be loaded any further. But I find that you have an item in there for deepening and improving a harbor back in your own district. Why don't you cut that item out—shove it over until next year? You can easily find a satisfactory explanation for your constituents. AND you want to remember this: the improvement of this river means that the—the—well, a certain sugar-growing company—can get their stuff to market at a figure which will send its stock up and up. And you are said to own a considerable amount of that stock. So why not drop the harbor item and substitute my river slice? Then—' Well, I guess that's the end of the tale.”
He paused and relit his cigar. Captain Cy thoughtfully marked with his fork on the tablecloth.
“Hum!” he grunted. “That's a very interestin' yarn. Yes, yes! don't know's I ever heard a more interestin' one. I presume likely there ain't a mite of proof that it's true?”
“Not an atom. I told you it was a fairy tale. And I mustn't be quoted in the matter. Honestly, the most of it is guess work, at that. But perhaps a 'committee of one,' dropping a hint at home, might at least arouse some uncomfortable questioning of a certain great man. That's about all, though. Proof is quite another thing.”
The captain pondered. He was fully aware that the unpopularity of the “committee” would nullify whatever good its hinting might do.
“Humph!” he grunted again. “It's one thing to smell a rat and another to nail its tail to the floor. But I'm mighty obliged to you, all the same. And I'll think it over hard. Say! I can see one thing—you don't take a very big shine to Heman yourself.”
“Not too big—no. Do you?”
“Well, I don't wake up nights and cry for him.”
Everdean laughed.
“That's characteristic,” he said. “You have your own way of putting things, Captain, and it's hard to be improved on. Atkins has never done anything to me. I just—I just don't like him, that's all. Father never liked him, either, in the old days; and yet—and it's odd, too—he was the means of the old gentleman's making the most of his money.”
“He? Who? Not Heman?”
“Yes, Heman Atkins. But, so far as that goes, father started him toward wealth, I suppose. At least, he was poor enough before the mine was sold.”
“What are you talkin' about? Heman got his start tradin' over in the South Seas. Sellin' the Kanakas glass beads and calico for pearls and copra—two cupfuls of pearls for every bead. Anyhow, that's the way the yarn goes.”
“I can't help that. He was just a common sailor who had run away from his ship and was gold mining in California. And when he and his partner struck it rich father borrowed money, headed a company, and bought them out. That mine was the Excelsior, and it's just as productive to-day as it ever was. I rather think Atkins must be very sorry he sold. I suppose, by right, I should be very grateful to your distinguished representative.”
“Well, I do declare! Sho, sho! Ain't that funny now? He's never said a word about it at home. I don't believe there's a soul in Bayport knows that. We all thought 'twas South Sea tradin' that boosted Heman. And your own dad! I declare, this is a small world!”
“It's odd father never told you about it. It's one of the old gentleman's pet stories. He came West in 1850, and was running a little shipping store in 'Frisco. He met Atkins and the other young sailor, his partner, before they left their ship. They were in the store, buying various things, and father got to know them pretty well. Then they ran away to the diggings—you simply couldn't keep a crew in those times—and he didn't see them again for a good while. Then they came in one day and showed him specimens from a claim they had back in the mountains. They were mighty good specimens, and what they said about the claim convinced father that they had a valuable property. So he went to see a few well-to-do friends of his, and the outcome was that a party was made up to go and inspect. The young fellows were willing to sell out, for it was a quartz working and they hadn't the money to carry it on.
“The inspection showed that the claim was likely to be even better than they thought, so, after some bargaining, the deal was completed. They sold out for seventy-five thousand dollars, and it was the best trade father ever made. He's so proud of his judgment and foresight in making it that I wonder he never told you the story.”
“He never did. When was this?”
“In '54. What?”
“I didn't speak. The date seemed kind of familiar to me, that's all. Seem's as if I heard it recent, but I can't remember when. Seventy-five thousand, hey? Well, that wan't so bad, was it? With that for a nest egg, no wonder Heman's managed to hatch a pretty respectable brood of dollars.”
“Oh, the whole seventy-five wasn't his, of course. Half belonged to his partner. But the poor devil didn't live to enjoy it. After the articles were signed and before the money was paid over, he was taken sick with a fever and died.”
“Hey? He died? With a FEVER?”
“Yes. But he left a pretty good legacy to his heirs, didn't he. For a common sailor—or second mate; I believe that's what he was—thirty-seven thousand five hundred is doing well. It must have come as a big surprise to them. The whole sum was paid to Atkins, who—What's the matter with you?”
Captain Cy was leaning back in his chair. He was as white as the tablecloth.
“Are you ill?” asked the congressman anxiously. “Take some water. Shall I call—”
The captain waved his hand.
“No, no!” he stammered. “No! I'm all right. Do you—for the Lord's sake tell me this! What was the name of this partner that died?”
Mr. Everdean looked curiously at his friend before he answered.
“Sure you're not sick?” he asked. “Well, all right. The partner's name? Why, I've heard it often enough. It's on the deed of sale that father has framed in his room at home. The old gentleman is as proud of that as anything in the house. The name was—was—”
“For God sakes,” cried Captain Cy, “don't say 'twas John Thayer! 'Cause if you do I shan't believe it.”
“That's what it was—John Thayer. How did you guess? Did you know him? I remember now that he was another Down Easter, like Atkins.”
The captain did not answer. He clasped his forehead with both hands and leaned his elbows on the table. Everdean was plainly alarmed.
“I'm going to call a doctor,” he began, rising. But Captain Cy waved him back again.
“Set still!” he ordered. “Set still, I tell you! You say the whole seventy-five thousand was paid to Heman, but that John Thayer signed the bill of sale afore he died, as half partner? And your dad's got the original deed and—and—he remembers the whole business?”
“Yes, he's got the deed—framed. It's on record, too, of course. Remembers? I should say he did! He'll talk for a week on that subject, if you give him a chance.”
The captain sprang to his feet. His chair tipped backward and fell to the floor. An obsequious waiter ran to right it, but Captain Cy paid no attention to him.
“Where's my coat?” he demanded. “Where's my coat and hat?”
“What ails you?” asked Everdean. “Are you going crazy?”
“Goin' CRAZY? No, no! I'm goin' to California. When's the next train?”