Blowing weather

By John T. McIntyre

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Title: Blowing weather

Author: John T. McIntyre

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 Weather

                          By John T. McIntyre

                                 _With
                           Six Illustrations
                              in Color by
                           George H. Mabie_

                     _Frederick A. Stokes Company
                              Publishers
                               NEW YORK_

                         _Copyright, 1923, by_
                           JOHN T. MCINTYRE

               _Copyright, for illustrations, 1928, by_
                      FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

               _Printed in the United States of America_




                             ILLUSTRATIONS


"'You are aware,' said he, 'that you will be posted?'"

"A small man ... leaned over the rail amidships, and eyed him with
disapproval."

"... watched the boat pull back to Le Mousquet."

"The roads leading from the town were filled with vehicles and people
on foot."

"... headed through the mass of litter toward the ship."

"And the winds of the ocean stirred about them and filled the sails."





                            BLOWING WEATHER




                                   I


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 the _Bristol 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. The _Pride_ only 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 ship
_Loadstar_, 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 the
_Bristol 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.




                                  II


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.




                                  III


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 it _must_ be 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."

"You _would_ do 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 that _Cynoglossum officinale_
contains 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. "_Quite_
right."

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. I _did_ visit 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.




                                  IV


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; _that_ is 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 not _the_
world."

"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 the _Sea 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? The _Two Brothers_, I think."

Whitaker wrinkled his brows.

"Yes," said he. "The _Two 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 the _Sea Mew_ sailed. 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 the
_Two Brothers_," said he, striking a total; "and in the _Sea Mew_ I
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."

Anthony's eyes shone.

"Why," said he, "I think I understand that."

"The rich ports of history are the most frequent stopping-places of
his mind," proceeded Dr. King. "Even as a schoolboy this was so.
While other lads took delight in the doings of the military heroes
of antiquity, Charles took to sea in the galleys of the Phenician
merchants, searching out new lands, new peoples, new trade. While the
others thrilled with the story of Thermopylæ, his gaze was fixed upon
Tyre, with its great docks, its famed factories of purple, its crowding
ships. His companions listened with pleasure to the voice of Cato
pronouncing the doom of Carthage in the Roman senate; but Charles saw
only the passing of a wondrous people, who had carried commerce to a
point never previously touched in history. Venice he looked upon with
almost idolatry; here the manufacturer, the merchant, the trader had
lifted themselves to the places of kings; the hardy enterprise of the
Genoese seafarers gained his unbounded admiration, and he never tired
talking of them. But Prince Henry of Portugal was his hero; from amid
the batterings of a war that had gone on for many generations, he saw
this mind arise and fill with its dream of the rich regions beyond
Sahara. While other boys of his age were hurry-skurrying through some
rough, healthful sport, Charles, with his lame foot, would sit silent;
in his mind he would enter the lonely tower at Cape St. Vincent, as
the prince had so often done; and while the gray sea threw itself
against the desolate headland he'd brood upon its avenues and the
possibility of traversing them to India, the land of his desire."

"Well," said Anthony, as he fired the tobacco in his pipe at one of the
candles. "I now see the foundation of some of the things I've heard
said of him."

"These dreams of his," said Dr. King, "he has carried with him through
life. He does not plot nor contrive in his business; things rush upon
him like inspirations. His ships are the stanchest, the fleetest, and
have the greatest capacity of any in the port; his suggestions to the
builders made them so, though many a head was shaken over them before
the sea and the wind proved his word. These same ships have sailed on
many a voyage which crafty mariners looked upon as folly; but Charles
Stevens has a way of turning bad into good, and causing avoided places
to teem with riches."

"I find myself with a great desire to meet my uncle," said Anthony,
with a smile. "Christopher Dent says you are upon intimate terms with
him, and yet you talk of his doings as though he were a hero of legend.
It is only a very remarkable man who can inspire a thing like that."

The physician looked at the young man through the haze of curling
tobacco smoke that drifted between them; and there was a shadow upon
his face.

"What I have told you," said he, "are the facts as a good many know
them. But, if necessary, I could speak of other things of which only
little is known, and that to a very few."

Once more the cringing figure of Magruder came into Anthony's mind, the
gray of fear in his mean face, and unintelligible words upon his lips.

"These things," said Anthony to the doctor, "would, I suppose, not be
so favorable as the others?"

"No," said Dr. King. He sat looking at Anthony steadily for a space;
then he added, "How long do you mean to remain in the city?"

"I don't know. It will, I think, altogether depend upon circumstances."

Dr. King nodded. His eyes were still upon the young man, a look of
speculation in them. He studied the well-set head, the clear eye, the
long face, with its strong jaw, so like that of old Rufus. His glance
took in the supple power of the body buttoned so tightly into the coat
of Lincoln green, and the strong, ready hands that rested upon the arms
of his chair.

"You could, if you would, remain here?" said he.

"I could."

Dr. King put down his pipe and leaned across the table.

"You never saw me before to-day," said he; "but I am your friend. I am
your uncle's friend." He paused a moment, and then went on: "Do not go
away. Stay here. You may be able to do nothing; and, then again, you
may be able to do a great deal."

"What?" demanded Anthony, and the out-thrust chin seemed to point at
the man leaning toward him.

Dr. King settled back into his chair; the aggressive chin, the stubborn
frown knotted between Anthony's eyes seemed to bring him to a sudden
decision.

"If you are shrewd," said the doctor, "you may be able to prevent great
losses upon land and sea. If you have courage you may stop death itself
as it enters your uncle's house."

"What losses threaten his goods?" asked Anthony. "What hand is lifted
against his life?"

"I know there have been losses," said Dr. King, "and instinct tells
me there is danger. But I know nothing definite; I could not point to
anything; I could not make an accusation that would stand reasoning
over. And yet I am confident as I am that I'm speaking to you that you
are needed at Rufus Stevens' Sons. Take the place that's yours in the
counting-room; keep your eyes open; tell no one why you are there--_no
one_, mind you; and, who knows? you may come to the bottom of a
detestable state of affairs."

"Then there is no immediate danger?"

"No."

Anthony pondered, pressing the black ash into the pipe bowl with his
forefinger.

"I will stay," said he, at last.




                                   V


That night was not a very comfortable one for Anthony. He lay awake for
a long time, his straight-forward mind laboring with the facts of the
day; when he did finally drop off, his sleep was not a deep one; it was
thronged with grotesque images, and incidents that caricatured what he
had seen and heard.

Once he awoke. It was a moon-lit night; through the window he could
see the bell swinging in the tower across the way; he reasoned that it
had just done striking, and the blows had awakened him. He tried to
see the hour by his watch, but could not; so he arose and took it to
the window. It was one o'clock. He stood moodily looking down into the
street so silvered and quiet; from somewhere, a long way off, came the
rumble of wheels and the notes of a coach horn; and he shivered as he
thought of the harassed passengers, beginning a journey in the thin
chill of the night.

He was about to turn from the window when a movement caught his eye
in the shadow cast by the tower; it was a dim, leisurely movement,
and well toward the edge, where the shadow met the moonlight sharply.
Almost at once he saw its nature; the figures of two men came into the
light and paused. They seemed on the point of separating, and the pause
was for a parting word. They shook hands with the quick, hard clutch of
persons well satisfied, and each turned away. But one, he who had faced
eastward in the direction of the river, suddenly paused.

There was something familiar to Anthony in the gesture that stopped
the other man; and the two joined once more in talk. However, it was
but for a moment. The man with the familiar gesture seemed to ask a
question, which the other answered, and in so doing lifted his hand
and pointed at Anthony's window. The first man threw back his head; a
ringing laugh broke the stillness, and Anthony at once recognized him;
it was the man with the saddle-bags who had come ashore that morning
from the New York packet.

Anthony watched the two separate; the one held steadily toward the
river; the other crossed the street toward the inn; and a moment later
Anthony heard the outer door open and close. He stood for a moment in
the center of the floor and pondered; there was something in the scene
he had just witnessed which started a cold shuddering in his blood--the
same feeling he'd experienced on many a night as the wilderness closed
around him, and he knew the shadows were peopled with gliding forms,
each bearing a weapon that might let out his life.

But this was civilization! This was the capital city of the nation!
The two men may have been cronies, detained somewhere by the flavor of
a particular bottle. How was he to be sure that it was his window at
which the man who had entered the inn had pointed? There were other
windows; it may have been one of those. But, even though it had been
his, what did it signify? A hundred reasons, each entirely innocent,
might account for the gesture. The fancy that the thing held a danger
amused his reason; but still the creeping continued in his blood, and
instinct rang its warning in his pulse. He went to his chest, threw
open the lid, and took out a heavy, knotted walking-stick, iron-shod
and formidable. He was balancing this in his hand and regarding it
from under frowning brows when he caught the sound of a light foot in
the hall; it paused at his door; his head went up, and, clutching the
cudgel, he stood listening.

The latch lifted softly; there was an instant's pause, and then the
door began to push inward. Anthony saw a young man with a tall hat,
a fashionably cut coat, with metal buttons, small-clothes, and shoes
that had silver buckles. He carried himself very erect and with perfect
composure. Closing the door after him, he advanced to the bedside, and
took a chair. It was plain that in the uncertain light of the room, to
which his eyes were not accustomed, he fancied the bed occupied, for he
bent his head forward and addressed it.

"Now," said he, "if you'll be good enough to wake up, I'll have a few
important words with you."

There was a pause, as he waited for the stirring of the sleeper; none
followed, and he reached out his hand. As it met with only empty
sheets, he exclaimed impatiently; and then out of the semi-darkness
came the voice of Anthony.

"Perhaps," said he, "a little candle-light might improve matters."

"Oh," said the intruder, turning with perfect composure toward the
sound, "so you are there? I took it for granted that at this hour you'd
be abed."

Anthony struck a light and touched it to the wick of a candle; then,
the knotted stick in his hand, he stood glowering at his visitor.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said the man. He placed his tall hat upon
a table, and seemed quite at his ease. "Also," and he nodded at the
cudgel, "I'm quite mortified to have given you alarm."

"You need not disturb yourself about that," said Anthony, grimly. "I'm
accustomed to alarms, and also to what follows after." Then, with the
sudden cut to his voice which always told of a rising temper, "What the
devil do you mean by easing yourself into my room, like this?"

"Sit down," said the man, unruffled. "And let us talk."

"I warn you," said Anthony sharply, "that that won't do. I will not
sit down, and I will have no talk with you except upon one subject.
What are you doing here?"

The man crossed one leg upon the other and examined Anthony in the
candle-light.

"I can see," said he, "that they've spoken the truth. Your temper lifts
too quickly for a northern climate. If you'll be advised, you'll go
quietly back to--is it New Orleans?"

There was something very clear in the voice; it was the crisp utterance
of a man who knew his own mind, and had complete confidence in what he
said. Anthony, as he looked at him, saw that he had a slim, elegant
figure, that his face was of classic regularity; but there was a cold
assurance in the eyes and a sneer about the lips.

"Once more," said Anthony, "what are you doing here?" He took a step
forward, and his right hand closed about the handle of the stick.
"Jocular reflections upon my temper, and impertinent advice, are not
answers. Come, now!"

The intruder smiled, easily.

"I suppose," said he, "you are one who prides himself upon sticking to
a point. It's a good quality, enough; but one should never permit such
a thing to blind one to matters of more interest." He looked at Anthony
with the same easy smile, and through it were the sneer and the cold
confidence of the eyes. "This port is no place for you," he said. "Be
advised. There is a ship sailing to-morrow for Havana; from there to
New Orleans is no distance at all."

Anthony waited for no more. Like a wolf he was upon the other and had
hauled him to his feet; then the iron-shod stick lashed out, showering
blows upon the man's head and shoulders. Overwhelmed by the suddenness
of the attack, the intruder fell back against the wall; Anthony threw
open the door, seized him by the scruff of the neck, much as one might
an offending cur, and, without a word, pitched him into the hall, and
his hat after him and slammed the door. Then he stood his weapon in a
corner, put out the candle, got back into bed and fell instantly asleep.

Quite early in the morning he arose; he descended the stairs briskly,
his mind fully made up as to what he should do. He ate his breakfast
of hot eggs, and cold sliced ham, and breast of fowl; and he drank his
tea. Then he took up the knotted stick and went stumping determinedly
through the bar on his way to the street.

"Mr. Stevens!"

It was the landlord who hailed him, a man with a paunch of fine
proportions, and the face of a serious cherub. Anthony stopped.

"Last night," said the host solemnly, "you engaged in an altercation. I
do not know the merits of the case, sir, but Mr. Tarrant will, I think,
send some one during the day to meet you."

"Is Mr. Tarrant the gentleman whom I was compelled to pitch out of my
room?"

"He claims that you mishandled him; but just how or why he did not say.
Should he," and the landlord's cherubic countenance was filled with
interest, "send a friend to converse with you, and you should chance to
be out, what report am I to give of you?"

"None," said Anthony curtly. "I am not at the beck and call of Mr.
Tarrant, or any of his friends."

"He has a rare eye at forty paces," said the host, with a nod. "A very
rare eye. They say there was no better shot in the navy than he, at
that distance."

But Anthony did not pause to make reply; out he went and down Chestnut
Street at a clipping pace. There was to be no more vague talk; he'd had
enough of that the day before; there were to be no more hintings, no
more warnings without body enough behind them for a man to grasp. He
would have plain speech, now; and short speech, or he'd know the reason
why!

The hour was rather earlier than the hour he had started out on the
morning before. There was no such hurrying of drays and porters as
then; Water Street was stirring slightly, but the river front was still
sluggish with sleep, and the deep sea ships in the docks and the stream
were as silent as though deserted. He had no idea that Magruder would
be in his place of business at this hour, but impatience would not
permit him to wait; if he found the place closed, he could tramp about
the docks, and return at an hour that promised better.

The shutters were still up at the windows that faced the wharves, and
the heavy door was fast. Anthony, however, recalled that the trader
had his counting-room at the back, with its windows opening upon an
alley; and he made his way around the building on the chance that it
was by a door on this side that Magruder usually entered. Here, too,
the shutters were up; there was the door, as he expected, and it was
standing slightly ajar.

Evidently Magruder, or a clerk, had just arrived, and had not yet time
to let daylight into the place. Anthony shoved the door farther open
and went in. He found himself in a sort of anteroom, cluttered with
nail kegs, bits of plank and cordage, and all the rubbish and refuse
of shipping; there was a dark passage that he felt led to the wareroom
through which he had passed on the previous day; almost at his hand was
a door leading into the counting-room. He lifted the latch of this, and
it opened readily; the place was dark save for here and there a gray
dart of day that came in at the chinks in the shutters.

"Hello!" Anthony spoke loudly, so that his voice might also carry down
through the passage into the other parts of the building. "Magruder!
Are you here?"

But there was no reply. He then rapped with his stick upon the floor,
but no one came in answer. Making his way through the passage, he came
to the wareroom, dark, heavy smelling, and with rats scuttling about;
again he called, but still received no reply. Back at the counting-room
door, he looked in; by this time his eyes had grown more used to the
dimness, and he began to make things out. There was the cupboard
bulging with papers; there was the high desk where Magruder had stood
when he first saw him. There must be a pewter candle-stick upon one end
of this; Anthony had noted it the day before because the candle end
had guttered so, and trailing down the metal holder was the "ghost's
shrowd" held by believers in omens to be a sign of peculiar portent.

Anthony felt for this and found it; with his fusee he struck a light,
and in a moment had the candle stump burning with a long flame. His
shadow danced hugely upon the wall as he turned to look about; and
it was then that he saw Magruder, sitting in a chair, hunched in a
horridly crooked way, his mouth open in a frozen cry, great clots of
blood darkening his neck-cloth, and dead!




                                  VI


Death by violence was no new thing to Anthony Stevens; no man could
sail the seas he'd sailed, or penetrate the regions he had gone
through, and not have seen sudden and bloody ends a-plenty. But there
was an unexpected terror in this one; death had flipped its hand here
with a grotesquery that was horrible, and the young man felt himself
grow sick.

His eyes went about the counting-room: there was none of the litter
that shows a place hastily ransacked; the drawers of the desk were
closed; the cupboard was as it had been the day before; a strong box
set against the wall was securely locked and unmolested. The thing had
not been done for robbery, then. Revenge, perhaps? A man who dealt
as closely as Magruder would be likely to anger many; no niggard, in
Anthony's experience, had ever gone scot-free. Your clutching, greedy
trader always, at some place or other, over-stepped the line, and was
it to be wondered at if--

But Anthony, with a sharp gesture and a tightening of the mouth, put
this whole train of thought from him. It was like the drugs some
shipmen brought with them from the East; it lulled and gave false ease.
In this very room, the previous morning, Magruder had said:

"Outside there, in the docks, there are a score or more of fine,
deep-water ships; on the wharves and in the warehouses there is much
rich stuff. 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 shivered a little. The place seemed cold; his flesh was damp;
his huge shadow, cast upon the wall by the flare of the candle, seemed
bent with the same fear that had filled the man now dead. As he stood
there Anthony tried to sense the shape of this dread; and each time a
sort of blankness came upon him. The house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, as
his mind drew it toward him, was plain, solid, normal; he could not
imagine fear trailing through its doors. But there could be no doubt
about Magruder; he had sensed the thing, and because he had spoken of
it he had paid with his life.

As Anthony looked at the dead man, his breath caught sharply, and he
frowned down at him. Then, taking the candle, he held it closer; the
blood upon the neck-cloth was hard and dark, not fluid and red as it
would have been had the crime been newly done. He touched the body; it
was rigid.

The young man put down the candle. The crime, then, was not of that
morning. It was some hours old. It had been done during the night.
Because of some urgency of business, probably the arrival of his brig
_Bristol Pride_, Magruder had remained in his counting-room until late,
with his bills of lading, and what not; and death had walked in on him
out of the night.

Walked in on him! What had occurred to himself in the night came back
to Anthony; and his mind tightened about it. Again he saw the two
men in the moonlight; again he saw the one point to his window, and
directly afterward come tramping into his room with his orders to leave
the city. And the other! He had gone toward the river; he had gone in
the direction of this very place!

Facing a tangible possibility, Anthony no longer felt that the room was
cold; his skin grew normal; his pulse beat calmly; the shadow on the
wall no longer had the cringe of infectious fear.

There came a sound from the depths of the building. Once more Anthony
went into the passage and along its length; at the far end of the
wareroom a door stood open; a porter was taking down the shutters.
Anthony was about to call to him; but his lips closed upon the sound,
and he turned and made his way quietly to the door by which he had come
in. He looked out; he saw no one in the alley; and in a moment he was
walking away, with all the unconcern he could call into his manner.

In trudging from the Half Moon to Magruder's, Anthony had worked
himself up to a high pitch of exasperation; more than once he made the
stout stick whistle as he slashed it through the air. He had formulated
certain questions that must be answered. To the devil with all this
tongue-wagging, and nothing coming of it.

But now he knew all he desired; and he had not asked a question. Also
he knew what he had to face. It was men! And it was blows! Good! They
were things he understood. When he came face to face with the men he'd
know what to say; and when the time came for the blows--Anthony smiled
here--rather grimly, to be sure; but it was the first smile of the
morning.

At Water Street and Mulberry, Christopher Dent's apothecary shop was
open, and Anthony went in. The little man was eating broiled fish
in his laboratory and had a big book in the Latin tongue propped up
before him. He shoved his spectacles up on his forehead and greeted his
visitor.

"Sit down," said he. "And take some of the halibut. I'll get you a
plate. It came fresh into the market this morning."

He began bustling about; but Anthony stopped him.

"I've had breakfast," said the young man. "An hour ago."

Christopher settled into his place at the table once more.

"You are an early riser," said he. "But, then, you always were. Many
and many a time we'd cross the river before sun-up in the spring, when
the dandelions were beginning."

Many of the tricks of boyhood persist in later life; and one of
Anthony's had been, when he was perplexed, to go to Christopher Dent.
The little apothecary had earned a great name among the youth of the
old city district by his wisdom as to stone-bruises and warts, stubbed
toes and lacerated shins; and because of this it was taken for granted
that he also spoke with authority on other things. And now the old
instinct became active in Anthony, and he told the apothecary of how he
found Magruder. Christopher shoved his spectacles still farther up on
his head, closed the book, and forgot about the fish.

"Dead!" said he.

"As a stone," said Anthony.

"And no one was about--the shutters were up, and the door was standing
open?"

"Yes."

The little old apothecary stared with round eyes.

"I knew Mr. Magruder," said he. "At odd times he'd come here for a
pennyworth of dragon-root, which he used for an asthma. A close man;
he spent little and said less. He so seldom mixed with people that I'd
have ventured he'd not a friend, nor an enemy, anywhere. What manner of
blow killed him?"

"I did not look narrowly," said the young man, "but it seemed in the
nature of a stab."

"There are some desperate rogues going about," said Christopher,
shaking his head. "Desperate, and cunning, too. Did you speak with the
watch after you gave the alarm?"

"I gave no alarm," said Anthony. Then he told of how Magruder had
written him at New Orleans, of his interview with him on the day
before, of his talk with Dr. King, and of his visitor at the Half Moon
in the small hours of the morning.

"God bless us!" said Christopher Dent, his eyes wider than before.
"What can it all mean?"

"I thought," said Anthony, "it would be best to come away quietly from
Magruder's and say nothing. As it is, the porters or clerks will find
the body in good time; then my name will be in no way connected with
the matter, and that, I think, will be of service to me."

The little apothecary considered a moment, and then gravely nodded.

"Yes," said he, "you are right. You are quite right. The city will be
in a state over this; the officers will be much exercised. If you'd
made the thing known, they'd have asked questions of you. To keep
yourself from any touch with this villainy you would have given guarded
answers. The officers are not without perception; they would have noted
your hesitancy and would, like as not, have insisted upon a clearer
statement. And that," with a look of great knowingness, "you'd probably
not be inclined to give just now. Yes, you are quite right to say
nothing; the body will be found in due course, as you say, and so no
harm will be done."

A man came into the outer shop, and the apothecary went out to him.

"I want," said the man, in a voice that Anthony seemed to recognize, "a
few pennyworth of Spanish flies, and pitch enough to make a plaster of
some size."

"For man or beast," asked Christopher dubiously.

"For a horse--a gelding with a hurt shoulder."

"I would not advise the pitch," said the apothecary; "when cold, it
grows hard, and will dull the virtue of even cantharides."

"But it will stick," maintained the other, "and no kicking or rubbing
will get it off. And this horse is the very devil for kicking and
stumbling and knocking against things."

"A small quantity of Venice turpentine," said Christopher, "and a
little yellow wax--"

"I will have pitch," interrupted the man. "You may be able to doctor
humans, Mr. Dent, but you don't understand horses. They need strong
medicines and strong words, else they'll get entirely out of hand.
There'd have been no accident last night if I'd been able to speak
properly to the beast; but having a lady passenger I had to mind my
tongue."

Anthony changed his position so that he could see the man. Yes, it was
the coachman with whom he had talked at the Half Moon; and the young
man went hastily into the shop. The man gave him a nod of recognition
and a thick-shouldered salute.

"An accident, did you say?" questioned Anthony. "It wasn't serious, I
hope."

"Only for the horse," said the man. "He's young and not much used to
being driven at night; and the way along the river as you turn the end
of the fish-market is not very light. 'Twas there he stumbled, and I
could go no further."

Anthony cocked a questioning eye at the man.

"The way along the river?" said he. "And turning the end of the
fish-market? What were you doing there?"

"It came of my passengers changing their minds," said the man. "We were
in Chestnut Street near to Fourth when they suddenly bethought them
that they'd do well to drop in on some one else before going home. Down
among the wharves is no usual place to go visiting of a night; but, as
that was their orders, there I went--or as far as I could; for after
the horse fell they got out and I saw no more of them, for I was well
occupied in getting back to the stable with a crippled beast on my
hands." Here he turned to the apothecary and added confidently: "Yes,
let it be pitch. I know that to work well. Don't be afraid that I'll
mix the fly into it; I'm too old a horse-leech for that. Get your pitch
just hot enough to run, do you see? Spread it upon a common cloth,
sprinkle the blister upon the face of it, and clap it on the shoulder.
Let him clump about as he will, there it is fixed; and in a day it will
have drawn all the humors of the fall away."

"He will have fever from the shock," said Christopher. "His pulse
will be heavy and his tongue rough. In that event I would advise
pond-dogwood. A plain infusion of the bark makes a draft, bitter, but
agreeable and efficacious."

What the man with the injured horse said in way of reply, Anthony did
not hear; for his attention was being given to little groups of people
who were hastily gathering and dissolving, gathering and dissolving,
on the street; other people were hurrying along talking excitedly with
each other. Christopher Dent, following Anthony's gaze, also saw them;
he opened the door and spoke to a victualer who was passing, wiping his
hands on his apron.

"What is it? What has happened?"

"They say a man has been killed," said the victualer. "Some merchant or
other; killed in his own counting-room, below here on the river front,
near to the fish-market--some time during the night."




                                  VII


It was a day or two later, and Anthony went to the counting-house of
Rufus Stevens' Sons and again inquired for his uncle. The same affable
man who had spoken with him on his previous visit came forward, and
once more regretted Mr. Stevens's absence.

"But," said he, "he is on his way. The vessel he named to sail in
should be in the bay by this time, as the weather has been good, and
she is a good sailer. Is there anything we can serve you in?"

"Nothing, thank you." Anthony was turning away.

"What name shall I say?" asked the affable man.

"Stevens."

The affable manner was instantly reinforced by one of much respect.

"It may be that you are related to Mr. Charles," ventured the man.

"His nephew," said Anthony.

The man at once produced a chair.

"I shall call Mr. Whitaker," he said.

Anthony would have asked him not to do so; but just then he caught
sight of a woman's figure in another room, the door of which was open,
and before he had taken his gaze away Whitaker came up.

"This is a pleasure," said Whitaker, shaking his hand. "Mr. Stevens has
not returned, but we're glad to see you, anyhow."

"I'm told he's expected back shortly."

"Yes, but then you never can tell what the wind will do off the capes.
Devil of an excitement going on in the city, isn't there? what with
this fellow up the street being taken off as he was, and all that. I
don't think I've seen anything but gossiping knots of people, coroners'
juries, and city officials for the past two days."

Anthony nodded toward the open door.

"I thought," said he, "I recognized some one inside there."

"Oh, Mr. Weir?"

"No, the lady. Isn't it Mademoiselle Lafargue, daughter of your
Monsieur Lafargue, of Brest?"

"Daughter of Lafargue!" Whitaker glanced, surprised, into the adjoining
room. "Is that who it is?" He pulled at his neck-cloth to give it a
better set and asked with interest: "How long have you known her?"

"Why, I can't say that I know her at all," said Anthony. "It just
chanced a few days ago that I exchanged some words with her father."

"So he has a daughter," mused Whitaker in an injured tone. "And he
never so much as mentioned the fact while I was at Brest; and I was
there upwards of a month! I'd never have taken him for that kind.
He seemed much more of the gentleman." As Anthony made no reply to
this, Whitaker went on. "On the whole, I don't know what to make of
Lafargue. He seems peculiar. Yesterday I happened to mention to Captain
Weir--that's him talking to mademoiselle--that I'd seen Lafargue at the
coffee-house, and I really think he didn't like it. I believe, in my
soul," said Whitaker, "old Lafargue is here unexpectedly; and what he
means by it I can't say."

The girl, as Anthony watched her, was standing with one hand resting
upon the back of a chair; her head was held well up, and she was
talking spiritedly.

"Who is Mr. Weir?" said Anthony, his gaze going toward the man to whom
she was speaking.

He was above the average size, of angular, powerful frame, and his
hair was sprinkled with gray. His face was well looking, but singularly
mask-like; his eyes were deep-set and steady; they had the quality of
cold, green stone. But it was his movements that attracted Anthony's
attention. While the girl talked he paced backward and forward; each
move had a peculiar deftness; each foot was put down much as a hand
might be--a combination of sureness and power which reminded Anthony of
some of the huge cat-like beasts of the wilderness. There was a fine
dignity about Mr. Weir; his air was one of authority; across his left
jaw was a red seam.

"Have you never heard of him?" asked Whitaker. "He's been with the
house since your grandfather's day; and, between ourselves, I don't
see how your uncle could do without him. A fine, upstanding man, very
fair, and with a great mind for detail. It's strange you haven't heard
of him. It was Mr. Weir who commanded your grandfather's ship _Argus_,
when she outran and outfought two English corvettes and a sloop-of-war.
His name is written into the histories. A very capable person; it's a
pleasure to work under him."

Just then the girl turned and came, agitated, toward the door of the
room. There she paused.

"I shall repeat your words to my father," she said. "He is old and not
in good health, and what you have said will be a shock to him."

"He is a man, and will understand the advisability of what I say," said
Mr. Weir, his eyes cold, green, and unemotional. "Assure him of my
consideration, and say that I hope to see him soon."

Without a word the girl came out into the counting-room. As she passed
Anthony on her way to the street, her head was bent, her eyes upon the
floor; for an instant the young man fancied that she raised them ever
so little and saw him. He took off his hat, but she never paused. Mr.
Weir opened the street door for her; Anthony heard her low voiced
"Good-by," and she was gone.

"Mr. Weir," said Whitaker, "may I present Mr. Anthony Stevens?"

The cold, steady eyes of the man seemed to take in Anthony at a single
glance; and he held out his hand.

"I had heard you were in the city," said he. "Dr. King mentioned it. In
the absence of your uncle, permit me to welcome you."

Later Whitaker was called away, and Weir said:

"After your father's death I had all but forgotten that he had a son;
then one day I received a report from our correspondent at New Orleans
that brought you back to me in a way that insured your not slipping me
in the future."

"What was that?" asked Anthony.

"It was an account of your affair with Alvaro," said Weir, and again
his steady eyes took in the young man from head to foot.

Anthony smiled.

"There was a great deal of talk about that at the time," said he, "but
it was, after all, a matter of no large consequence. Montufars had
suffered greatly from the toll-takers who occupy the reefs and islands
below New Orleans, and was hard put to it at the time to meet his
business obligations. He feared to let a vessel go out, knowing the
pirates would loot it; and in the end his spirit broke completely. I
saw that something must be quickly done if he was to be rescued from
his embarrassments, and the quickest method was to visit Alvaro.

"I found the old thief snug in his den, overlooking the principal
street of New Orleans. There was not a merchant trading in the port
who did not know this man was the agent of the pirates, that it was
he who bribed the authorities to keep their hands off, and that every
seafaring enterprise had to pay for his protection. Why men will
permit such bloated old spiders to get the upper hand of them," said
Anthony, "I cannot understand."

"What did you do?" asked Mr. Weir.

"I laid a loaded pistol on the table before him. I told him that two
ships of Montufars were due within a week's time, and that one was to
sail, outward bound, directly. And, further, I said, if any harm came
to any one of them, be it ever so little, I would shoot him dead."

"And what followed?"

"All three were allowed to pass about their business, unmolested; and
in consequence Alvaro still lives, fat as ever, and taking tribute from
those who are afraid of him."

Mr. Weir laughed; and as he did the red seam across his jaw looked
deeper and darker; the green, flint-like eyes seemed colder.

"That is a deal like your grandfather would have done it," said he.
"But what action did the port officials take? for in preventing the
looting of these ships you interfered sadly with one of their most
cherished privileges."

Anthony made a wry face.

"They made me feel that," said he. "And, because of their hostility,
any vessel I sailed in was marked; finally, it was impossible for me to
get one; and so I took to the inland trade, which I have followed ever
since."

Weir nodded.

"I've heard of some of your doings; it may be," seeing Anthony's
questioning look, "that our agent, noting the interest of the house in
the matter you've just described, was at some pains afterwards to keep
himself in the way of tidings of you. At any rate, he'd often jot down
bits of news concerning your enterprises." He studied Anthony for a few
moments, and then asked, "Has your interest in land traffic taken away
all your desire for the sea?"

"You are taking it for granted that I had such a desire," smiled
Anthony.

"No one with a drop of Rufus Stevens's blood in his body could be
without it." They talked about old Rufus for a space, and then Weir
asked: "Have you seen your uncle since you left here as a boy?"

"No."

"You'll like him," said the other. "And I feel sure he'll like you."
And then, after another little period of talk, "Have you ever sailed as
master of a ship?"

"No, as mate only."

Mr. Weir nodded.

"Yes," said he, "I think your uncle will be greatly interested in you."
And then when Anthony shook hands with him, about to go, he added: "The
moment his vessel docks, you shall be notified. Are you lodged at one
of the taverns?"

"The Half Moon."

"I shall remember that."

Anthony left the counting-room and started up Water Street. Directly
ahead, a carriage was drawn up close to the foot-path, and the traffic
of the street was ill-humoredly skirting it. As the young man was on
the point of passing, he heard a woman's voice; turning his head he saw
Mademoiselle Lafargue leaning from the open window of the vehicle, her
eyes wide, her face white.

"Mademoiselle!" said Anthony, shocked.

"I have been awaiting you," she said. He was about to speak, but she
gestured him not to do so. "The other day my father and myself gained
by your good will. You showed yourself a friend, though a stranger. If
you saw us again in need of help, would you come forward, once more, to
give it?"

"I would," said Anthony.

"We are in danger," she said. "How great, and how immediate, I do not
know, and there is not a soul in the whole world to whom we can appeal
but you." She spoke to the coachman and the carriage started. "Thank
you," she said to Anthony, gratitude in her frightened eyes. "To-morrow
you shall hear from me." With that she was gone; and Anthony, his tall
hat in his hand, stood staring after her.




                                 VIII


It was fairly well into the afternoon; Anthony had shaved, dressed his
hair, and attired himself smartly. He sat in the public room of the
Half Moon, rather cherishing the hope that Mademoiselle Lafargue might
show some early sign of requiring his service. A pursy-looking man in
top-boots, and with his pockets stuffed with papers, occupied a bench
near to a window, and talked with a gentleman wrapped in a greatcoat
and with a rug across his knees.

"The watch," said the pursy man, "is all but useless. They cannot
prevent wrong-doing, and when it is done they are unable to bring the
malefactors to justice."

The man in the greatcoat drew the rug more closely about his knees and
seemed unhappy.

"It is very distressing," said he. "A crime like this, and no one to
place it upon. For what are we taxed if it is not for the punishment of
offenders?"

"No goods were taken," said the pursy man. "No harm was done save to
Magruder's life. That alone seems to have been the purpose of the
criminal. A stab-wound, says the surgeon; a stab-wound in the neck, and
struck not so shrewdly! 'Twas a clumsy hand that did the deed; but,"
and here the speaker wagged his head, "an apprentice is as good as a
journeyman, so long as the task is accomplished."

"There are city lights," said the man in the greatcoat; "there are
safeguards for life and property; the watch is well paid. But the
streets are not safe; prowlers can go to and fro as they will; houses,
places of business are entered, blows are struck, lives are taken. Yet
the prisons are unoccupied; the gallows are unused."

"I have heard a whisper," said the pursy man, "that some one is
suspicioned." He nodded his head, and panted, as though the thing
excited him. "It was not the watch who came upon the thing; the watch
is too slow-going for that. But, when all was confusion and every one
at his wit's end, it bobs up unexpectedly of its own accord."

"Some one suspicioned?" said the man in the greatcoat, hungrily. "Who
is it?"

But the other shook his head.

"I don't know," said he. "It was only a whisper I got, and it was not
meant for my ears. This Magruder had a ship in that day, and there was
much to occupy him at his place of business. He remained after his
clerks and porters had gone, so they tell; and, about eight, went to
a tavern for a chop and a glass of ale, for he was none of your great
eaters, having a slim stomach and a none too liberal hand. The people
of the tavern say he left there before nine, and it's thought that he
went straightaway back to his counting-room and there remained."

"But the suspicioned person?" said the man in the greatcoat, anxiously,
not caring to miss this chance of putting the prisons and gallows to
their proper use. "How came it to fall upon him?"

"Some one," said the pursy man, "was seen to leave Magruder's place
by the counting-room door, which is in the back. Very quietly is the
manner in which the person is said to have left, and at an hour that
was unusual."

"There should be no difficulty in apprehending the villain," said the
other man. "All the evilly disposed in the city should be taken charge
of; and the man could be picked from among them."

But the pursy man seemed to doubt this method.

"That would not suffice," said he, "for we could not be sure the crime
was done by one given to public villainy."

"You would not think of suspecting any honest man!" said the other,
aghast.

"What would you say if you heard--only in a whisper, however, and the
whisper not meant for you--that the criminal was not a man at all, but
a woman?"

Anthony felt his blood chill; he waited to hear no more, but arose and
went into the passage. Here, just entering, he encountered Whitaker,
who was most gracefully attired in cream-colored pantaloons, a blue
coat with dull copper buttons, a frilled neck-cloth, and a fawn-hued
beaver, the brim of which curled magnificently.

"I thought I'd chance upon you," said this young gentleman, as he shook
Anthony's hand. "I'm on my way to Mrs. Newell's, here in Fourth Street.
Charming woman, and loves music. She usually has some one who can
finger a harp, or a pianoforte; there's a German who plays upon a flute
most excellently; and some of her guests always sing. Come along; Mrs.
Newell will be delighted."

Just at that moment Anthony had desire for neither music nor light
company; he'd much rather have talked if Whitaker had been a person
with whom he could have discussed what was in his mind. But, at the
same time, he had no desire to be alone with his thoughts; so, with his
arm in that of the fop, he was led away to Fourth Street.

Mrs. Newell's house stood in a little court, just above Chestnut,
a brick-paved place, with handsome trees, little spaces about the
door-steps for growing plants in summer-time, and trellises for
rose-vines under each window. Mrs. Newell herself, as Whitaker had
said, was charming, a little mouse of a woman with dark eyes and an
engaging manner.

"You are just in time to hear Tosini," she told Anthony. "A fine
performer. He will play one of his own sonatas."

Mrs. Newell's drawing-room was crowded, and Anthony was presented here
and there to little groups of ladies. Tosini was a dark, Latin-looking
man with curly black hair, shot with gray; from the box of his violin
he drew sounds that melted and thrilled, and left the ladies fluttering
with delight.

"Astonishing tone," commented Whitaker, as he patted approvingly with
his gloves. "Wonderful vibrations. Sometimes I think strings and wood
have magic in them when brought together. Remarkable playing."

A round-faced man then blew a melody of Blanck's out of a German flute,
and a young lady with a small, sweet voice sang "Love in a Village,"
to the tinkling of a harpsichord. Then another young lady with a harp,
and an enterprising youth who bore a violoncello, joined forces with
the flute and violin and made their way through a quartet of Bach's,
to the gratification of every one. This done, there was a great
chattering and clamoring and exclaiming. Anthony stood at one side
rather disconsolately, Whitaker having deserted him, when he saw Mrs.
King smiling at him from across the room. At once he made his way to
her side.

"I saw you as you came in," she said, "but you did not permit your look
to go anywhere but straight ahead, and so I couldn't catch your eye
until now. I'm sure you enjoyed the music; you looked as though you
did."

"It was a treat to me," he returned. "A Spanish sailor thrumming
a guitar in the forecastle, or some indifferent fiddling at a
trading-post, has been the only music I've listened to for a long time."

"Your mother was a beautiful musician; too beautiful, I'm afraid, for
the city of her day. We rather resented finish," with a smile. "Have
you made up your mind to remain with us?"

"I have not yet seen my uncle."

"Oh, that wonderful uncle," laughed Mrs. King. "So much depends upon
what he does or says. A mere nod of his head will change the plans
of hundreds. If he speaks, his intimates seem to expect a magical
occurrence. But," and she nodded her assurance, "you'll like him.
Charles has not been spoiled by adulation, for the reason that he has
not noticed it. In many things he is still a boy. You are twenty-five,
and he is fifty; but you are his elder in temperament."

They talked of New Orleans, of Anthony's experiences, of his mother and
father; then they returned to music, and Mrs. King, pleased, commented
upon the growing taste in such things.

"It must be the large number of people from continental Europe who
have come among us, because of the revolutions and disorders going on
there. Some of them are so charming that their accomplishments cannot
help being imitated. Yesterday at de Lannoy's--Monsieur de Lannoy was
a count in France--I heard a young French girl sing in a way that
was extraordinary. And she was quite free and self-possessed; not at
all like our girls who take a feeling of something like guilt into
everything that is not usual. She is here with her father; they are
strangers in the city. Monsieur de Lannoy had known her father in a
business way at Brest."

"At Brest!" said Anthony. "What was her name?"

"Lafargue. A very beautiful creature, and, it seemed, in the short time
I talked with her, with a mind as wonderful as her voice. But in spite
of all the sparkle in her manner I could see she felt but little of it.
At times her eyes actually seemed to have a look of fear in them. So
many of the _émigrés_ have that look. Their experiences must have been
dreadful."

"No doubt."

"She said she was a stranger," said Mrs. King, "and had been here less
than a week. And yet," amusedly, "at five o'clock young Tarrant called
for her. A handsome girl can't be a stranger for long anywhere."

Anthony felt a flush of resentment rise to his face; he fumbled with
the fringe upon the arm of the chair in which he sat and glowered at
the floor.

"It had been arranged that he should call for her," added Mrs. King.
"She, being so newly arrived, was not sure that she'd find her way back
to her lodging-place."

"I have met with this Tarrant," said Anthony. "But our dealings were
brief. What manner of man is he?"

"He is very well known," said Mrs. King. "And inclined, I think, to
play the part of a ruffling blade, such as is common in London. He was
once in the navy, a lieutenant, and also in the merchant service."

Just then Whitaker came up; with him was a lady who laughed and talked
incessantly.

"We were just speaking of Mr. Tarrant," said Mrs. King. "Perhaps you
can tell Anthony more about him than I."

"About Bob?" said Whitaker importantly. "Quite right. I know him like a
book. Astonishingly clever fellow. Great ability. And has a real talent
for clothes. No better dressed man in the city. Takes his hints from
Europe. They say he has correspondents who keep him posted."

The lady who held Whitaker's arm here began to laugh once more.

"Oh," she said, "you are overlooking the most interesting thing about
him. Please do tell that."

"Do you mean the altercation?" asked Whitaker.

"To be sure," laughed the lady. "It's so amusing. To think of such a
thing happening to Bob Tarrant!"

"It seems," said Whitaker, whose manner showed that he scarcely
approved of his companion's mirth, "that Tarrant had an encounter a
few evenings ago in which he was taken rather by surprise. The story
goes that he was engaged in carrying out a matter of some importance
when a certain individual--the name has not yet come out--ran counter
to him. They tell me that Bob remonstrated with him, but to no purpose.
And then, before he quite realized the turn the affair had taken, the
person struck him."

"Oh, Dick!" pleaded the laughing lady, now laughing more than ever. "Do
tell it all! Bob was thrashed," she informed Mrs. King and Anthony.
"Soundly thrashed, with his hat all broken and red welts across his
face. Thoroughly discomfited, they tell me, and raving with rage. What
will he do now?" laughed the lady. "He has been so looked up to by all
our youths!" with an arch glance at Whitaker. "So patterned after in
all the things that make a man of fashion and spirit! How in the world
can he redeem himself?"

"Well," said Whitaker, "I suppose it is amusing, if one is inclined to
take that view of it. The impulse is to laugh at any awkward thing that
happens to one who has carried himself as high as Tarrant. But, at the
same time," with a shake of the head, "it may be no laughing matter in
the end, for Tarrant, I hear, has spent the last two days at a quiet
place up the river with a pair of pistols, improving his eye."

The jolly lady ceased laughing; Mrs. King looked grave.

"Oh, no!" said she.

"I'm afraid it's true," said Whitaker. "He's of that fashion and has
winged his man a dozen times or more."

"But the law," said Mrs. King.

"Of course," said the dandy. "There is one. But who would dare appeal
to it?"

When they had taken their leave of Mrs. Newell a little later, Whitaker
hooked his arm into Anthony's as they turned out of the little court.

"Tarrant will have this fellow's blood," said he. "It will be the
regulation number of paces, a quick exchange, and then God send the
poor devil a good surgeon!"

Anthony said nothing, and so Whitaker's mind turned to a matter of more
immediate moment.

"I'm supping at the Crooked Billet to-night," said he. "If you have
nothing urgent to occupy you, suppose you join me. It's an excellent
place. Their venison pie is famous."

Anthony gave cordial agreement to this, and the two, still arm in arm,
strolled toward the river.




                                  IX


The Crooked Billet stood facing the water, midway between High and
Chestnut Streets. Swift packets huddled before it; their masts towered
overhead, all stepped with a rake; all the cordage had the taut
trimness of government craft.

The tavern was built high from the ground to keep it out of the wash
of the tide, which sometimes overflowed the docks; it had a broad
comfortable look, and a promise of cheer within. The principal room was
set with oaken tables; the floor planks were scrubbed to a degree of
whiteness, and overhead the beams were brown with smoke. Outside, after
sundown, the air had an eager nip, for it was now well into the time of
year; and the open fire and whale-oil lamps of the tavern had a cherry
glow. Little groups were already gathered at the tables; waiters were
going backward and forward bearing hot, hearty dishes and tumblers of
steaming drink.

With the assurance of an old hand, Whitaker selected a table; and an
attentive waiter made them comfortable.

"First," said Whitaker, "let us have a trifle of French brandy to put
ourselves in humor." Anthony made no objection to this, and the waiter
departed to bring the drink. "Old Ned Stapleton, who once was a sort of
lord of all the inns in the city and had a master knowledge of cookery,
used to say that between meals there was formed a secretion that was a
most active poison, and needed to be cut away by ardent spirits before
more food was tasted. It is so possible a thing," nodded the dandy,
"and the prevention so pleasant a one, that I've always given heed to
it."

They drank the brandy, and then Whitaker gave his attention to the
ordering of the supper.

"A venison pasty," directed he, "and one of comfortable size and
that has stood long enough to make it desirable. Also we'll have
some parsnips, roasted potatoes, and greens. Fish?" and he looked at
Anthony. "Suppose it is a boiled rock, with eggs shredded upon it?"
Anthony nodded, and so rock it was. "And ale," said Whitaker, as the
waiter was departing once more; "a tankard each."

Shipmasters and mates, merchants and upper clerks, ate of the good
food, drank the excellent liquor of the Crooked Billet, and enjoyed the
warm fire and the lights.

"A settled, respectable gathering," said Anthony, with a smile, as his
eye went about. "And all out of much the same mold. In New Orleans,
now, one would see many breeds and kinds; and not only would honest
traffic be talked of, about the tables, but many kinds of devilment as
well."

Whitaker wagged a wise head.

"Don't be misled by appearance," said he. "In my travels I've learned
that roguery is roguery the world over; it has its place in every port,
and all manner of men are engaged in it. If your evil-doer has the air
of a church-going man, is he any the less a rascal?"

Anthony shook his head.

"I've found," said Whitaker, growing even more impressive, "that
people take on the manner of those about them--in a general way. Now,
for example, look at those two gentlemen warming their legs at the
fire, and so enjoying the flavor of their drink. A comfortable man of
business, and a middle-aged clerk who has possibly been with him for
years? No such thing. That old codger is one of the biggest rascals
that ever shaved a note, and the other has arranged more stinking
villainy than any dozen others in the port."

"It is possible," said Anthony, not at all amazed; "the greatest rogue
I ever encountered was at Batavia, and he looked like a comfortable man
of family."

"Not more than a good step from here," proceeded Whitaker, "there is a
section known to shipping men as the Algerian Coast--and rightly, too,
for those who have their trade there are pirates to a man."

"I have always fancied that business was conducted rather primly in
this city," said Anthony, "and that your authorities looked after
shipping malpractice with a keener eye than is done in warmer waters."

"No eye can catch these gentlemen," stated Whitaker; "for their doings
are underground; or, if not that, then bent in some cunning way to the
shape of the law. Their whole procedure is rich in rascality; many a
ship has gone down, and many a business house, also, to their gain."

The boiled rock arrived, smoking hot, upon a large dish and garnished
with egg as desired. Afterward the venison pasty, and a notable dish
it looked, was placed before them, with stewed whole parsnips and some
tender young cabbages.

"Ned Stapleton was fat," said Whitaker, as he set his ale tankard
down, "and if it were not for that I'd agree that his idea of life was
the pleasantest and most profitable for a gentleman. What can be more
agreeable than snacks of good cookery amid pleasant surroundings, and
with well-conditioned liquor to keep it company?"

"It has its virtues," admitted Anthony, filling his plate with the
savory contents of the pasty. "I'll never doubt that."

"But to be fat!" exclaimed Whitaker. "That is not a state of body for a
person of taste. God save the man that the smallest tailor can't reach
around with his tape. He is lost!"

They were engaged interestedly with the food when the door opened and
admitted Dr. King and Captain Weir.

"Well," said the physician, as he shook Anthony's hand. "I see that it
has not taken you a great while to hear of our advantages. Captain Weir
you know, I think."

Anthony once more shook hands with Weir; and as he looked into his face
he again noted the level, steady eyes, the fixed expression, and the
scar across the jaw. Whitaker had also arisen to greet the new-comers;
and a few moments later, while he was engaged in some talk with the
captain, Dr. King said in a low tone to Anthony:

"Weir is a man well worth cultivating; he has the strongest hand in all
your uncle's affairs. He is firm, sane, reserved, unemotional, never in
haste; and little escapes him."

"Different sorts of men," said Whitaker, after the two had left them
and taken a table at the other end of the room. "Totally different,
but, I should say, equally dependable. Fine quality, both of them.
But Weir is none of your easy-mannered ones, like the doctor; courtly
conduct isn't taught on the decks of Yankee ships."

"They are close friends, though, I suppose?" said Anthony.

"No," replied Whitaker; "no. I think they admire each other in a
practical way; but they are not at all intimate. Their being together
to-night is, I think, because of you. Dr. King, I think, desires a
place made for you in the counting-house."

"I see," said Anthony.

Active inroads had been made in the pasty; the tankards had run low
and been refilled when Anthony, chancing to look up, saw Mademoiselle
Lafargue and her father moving among the tables toward him. At once he
pushed back his chair and arose. His eyes met hers, but she averted her
face and passed him by without a word or sign. A waiter opened a door
for them, which apparently led into a smaller room; and then it closed,
leaving Anthony standing, stunned.

"That was unkind!" exclaimed Whitaker. "Most devilishly unkind. She
hasn't the excuse that she didn't see you; she looked full at you."

Anthony sat down, a frown upon his face.

"I hadn't expected that," said he. "But, then," with a laugh, "under
the circumstances, what reason had I to expect anything."

Whitaker discoursed philosophically upon the ways of women--upon the
vagaries of young ones in particular. Anthony endured it silently;
then, so it happened, the door through which the girl and her father
had passed was opened once more, this time widely. Anthony saw a group
of people--men and women; there was a table loaded with food and drink,
and Mademoiselle Lafargue was talking earnestly with a handsome young
man whose dress showed him to be a person of fashion.

"Well, dash me!" exclaimed Whitaker. "There's Bob Tarrant!"

The girl's attitude seemed one of pleading; she was asking something
of Tarrant, and he seemed reassuring her with courtly grace. And, as
Anthony watched, the man turned to another, him who stood holding the
door open, and nodded. The man at the door laughed; Anthony shot him a
look, and recognized the big young man who had thrown the saddle-bags
from the deck of the New York packet. Then the door slammed shut, and
the young man, a quizzical look upon his face, strode through the
public room.

He stopped at the table at which sat Anthony with Whitaker.

"Good evening," said he to Anthony, his even teeth gleaming
good-naturedly. "Well met, sir. I'd thought to see you again, but I did
not expect it to be under conditions like these."

Anthony looked at him quietly, while Whitaker was plainly astonished;
all who sat in hearing distance were slued about in their chairs, their
food neglected while they listened.

"Well?" said Anthony.

"Time alters things sadly," said the big young man, "and apparently it
requires no great space to do it, either. Only the other day I would
have said you were creditably placed in a certain young lady's favor;
and I'd had good reason, for you took up that little matter of my
making with promptness, and stood to it nobly." He dragged a chair to
the table and sat down. "But to-day," he said, "I see you displaced.
She has turned her back upon you; and not only that, but she has taken
into her confidence one who sends me with a rather grave message."

"To what effect?" scowled Anthony.

"Mr. Tarrant is of the opinion, since you saw fit to lift your hand to
him the other night, that some redress is due him. He has desired me to
speak to you, or to any friend whom you might name, and learn if you
are of a mind to give him satisfaction."

The words were fairly low; but there was a sudden stir and whispering
in the room. Whitaker, astonished, looked at Anthony.

"Is it possible," said he, "that it was you who struck Tarrant?"

"It was," replied Anthony. "And now, as a personal friend of Tarrant's,
it would perhaps be best if you withdrew; I have no desire to involve
you."

But Whitaker spoke promptly.

"I have always been upon good terms with Tarrant," said he; "but still
it does not follow that I should abandon another friend because of
that."

"Well spoken," applauded the big young man. "Crisp, and to the point.
Here is a gentleman of much the same kidney as yourself," to Anthony.
"Impulsive; ready to take up a cause at a moment's notice." He laughed
and seemed immensely entertained. "Never an inquiry; never a thought
that the matter might be otherwise than stated."

"Suppose," said Anthony quietly, "we indulge in as few observations as
possible."

"Excellent!" approved the other good-humoredly. "Just what I should
have expected of you." He composed himself to a smiling gravity and
resumed. "Well, then, as Tarrant has received a blow from you, I, as a
friend, have come to ask that you refer me to some one with whom I can
make arrangements for a meeting."

"You are carrying out a code I am not too familiar with," said Anthony.
"But I think your coming on this business into a public place and
bawling it out so that every one must hear is contrary to the accepted
practice."

The other glowed with appreciation and made a wide gesture.

"If I had known--" he began; but Anthony interrupted him.

"You know now, at any rate," said he.

"Having offended, I shall carry out the remainder of the affair with
all possible decorum," mocked the big young man.

"You may carry it out in any way you choose," said Anthony, "for, as
far as I am concerned, your part will consist only in taking back word
to Mr. Tarrant that I decline a meeting of any sort."

Whitaker was a little pale; but he sat still. Again there was a stir
among the surrounding tables, followed by a deep silence.

"Then," said Tarrant's representative, "you refuse?"

"I do," said Anthony.

"Do you give any reasons?"

"None."

The big young man arose.

"You are aware," said he, "that you will be posted?"

[Illustration: "'YOU ARE AWARE,' SAID HE, 'THAT YOU WILL BE POSTED?'"]

"In any action that is taken against me," said Anthony, "I shall know
how to defend myself."

"In all likelihood, the first time Tarrant meets you in a public place
he'll brand you a coward."

Anthony looked up at the speaker, and replied quietly:

"If he does, I'll beat him like a dog."

The other stood for a moment, as though waiting for something more;
but, as Anthony was silent, he turned, and in a moment the door which
had admitted him to the public room closed behind him. Whitaker spoke
in a low voice.

"Of course I do not know what is usual in New Orleans. But it must be
the same as anywhere else. Tarrant is held a man of consequence here,
and to refuse him satisfaction would be a grave thing socially. Is your
mind completely made up?"

"Dueling," spoke Anthony, "is a code that has no place in the modern
world; it is murderous and preposterous."

Whitaker shook his head.

"There is a law against it, but the man who refuses a challenge is
marked."

Anthony looked more grim than ever.

"I am never troubled," said he, "by the way people regard me. And fear
of society's disapproval is only entertained by those who value its
countenance. There is no force that I know of that can make me place my
life in jeopardy at the hands of a practised man-killer; neither can it
compel me to go out in cold blood and kill him."

Whitaker wriggled in his seat.

"I'm afraid your uncle--" he began.

"I have not seen my uncle in fifteen years," said Anthony, coldly; "and
his opinions in the matter can have no weight with me." Then he leaned
across the table, seeing the grave look in the face of Whitaker, and
said kindly: "I think my attitude troubles you. Please do not allow any
duty which you think due me as a chance acquaintance to entangle you in
a disagreeable situation."

Whitaker swallowed hard, but he was firm.

"You see," said he, and his voice was so pitched as to be unheard by
the curious ones about him, "my group is the gayer one,--Tarrant and
his kind,--and it holds to certain things as necessary in a position of
honor! But, damn it all, Stevens! I'll overboard with the whole lot of
it; for, after all, what you say is nearer the truth; only most of us
have never had the courage to admit it."

A door was heard to close sharply. Tarrant was in the public room, his
eyes going about, his face flushed with passion. At sight of him a
murmur arose; then it grew until it was a sort of subdued roar, shot
through with startled cries; for the duelist had sighted his man and
was advancing swiftly toward him between the rows of tables. Whitaker
said to Anthony:

"You had better get up. He means to strike you!"

Anthony made no reply; he sat still and glowered at his plate. A close
observer would have noted, though, that his swift, powerful body was
adjusted for a sudden leap and a tigerish lashing out. Tarrant reached
his side.

"Mr. Stevens," said the man, fury shaking his voice, "I have received
your message."

Anthony turned his head and waited.

"Let me say to you," proceeded Tarrant, "that while your attitude may
serve in a mongrel community like New Orleans, it will not be tolerated
here." Anthony was silent, but Whitaker saw his rigid jaw, and noted
his back hunch as the great muscles grew tight. "For the last time,"
said Tarrant, "will you--"

"One moment, please," said a hard, quiet voice.

The duelist turned, and saw the mask-like face of Weir, and a pair of
eyes that were as cold as ice.

"I would advise, Mr. Tarrant," said Weir, "that you carry this matter
no further. When the facts are known, it will be generally seen that
you cannot require any action from this gentleman except that which he
is giving you."

The eyes of Tarrant seemed to dart flame.

"What! What!" breathed Whitaker in Anthony's ear. "He'll not dare face
Weir! He'll not dare!"

But before it was made clear what was in Tarrant's mind he was
surrounded by a sudden surge of people. There was a hubbub of voices;
doors slammed, other people hurried forward; there were oaths and
bitter vows, and the pleading of the tavern's people for order. Then
Tarrant was led away. Weir bowed to Anthony in return for some word of
thanks, and turned back to Dr. King. Whitaker, a little later, with
a most leisurely air, settled the bill; then he and Anthony got up,
passed through the staring groups about the tables, and left the place.

As the dandy was parting from Anthony at the door of the Half Moon he
said:

"Well, I think Weir has ended the matter as far as you are concerned;
for, once he's pronounced a judgment on a thing of this kind, no one
will think of taking it otherwise. He's an authority. And it will be
easier for you, too. As it stood, though I think you were right, you'd
have had an extraordinary position to maintain."

"I am much in Mr. Weir's debt," said Anthony.

Whitaker nodded.

"When I heard his voice," he said, "I knew that was the end of it. No
matter what Tarrant's state of mind, he'd never try to face down Weir."

"Why?" asked Anthony.

"Well, any man who knows Weir properly--and Tarrant does, for he
once sailed under him--would not care to measure skill with him in
a struggle. Tarrant is a swift, courageous blade, and like a whip
for giving offense or taking it. But Weir is of another kind. He has
something in him," and Whitaker shook his head, "that most rufflers, no
matter how desperate, fear."

       *       *       *       *       *

Not a great while after Anthony and Whitaker had left the Crooked
Billet, Monsieur Lafargue and his daughter, in the private supper-room,
off at one side, also stood up to go. Tarrant, now recovered from his
rage, was beside them; and the big young man smiled good-humoredly in
the background.

"I am greatly in your debt, sir," said Monsieur Lafargue, to Tarrant.
"You have shown yourself a friend, at a time when a friend was greatly
needed."

"Sir," said Tarrant smoothly, "I am glad to have been of service to
you, and to mademoiselle. For no gentleman could have witnessed what
I have witnessed in your affairs and not come forward. I saw you
about to fall in the hands of Anthony Stevens, the most subtle of
double-dealers, and of course," with a gesture, "I had to do what I
could to prevent it."

"But, sir," and it was the girl who spoke, "are you quite sure of all
you say?"

"Mademoiselle," said Tarrant, "what I have stated is a very grave
thing; and so, before saying it, I considered it very carefully. As
your father will tell you, the house of Rufus Stevens' Sons has long
been engaged in commercial practice which cannot be sanctioned by
honest men; things have been done with insurance, and with merchant
moneys adventured in their care, which no one of shrewdness can
overlook. Is not your father's money in some of the dealings of this
house? Has he not persuaded his friends at Brest to venture theirs?"

"That last," said the old Frenchman, "is the worst of it." He shook his
head, and his hand gestured helplessly. "If loss comes, I will never
forgive myself."

"There was another who had risked his money, one who knew how your
father was situated with the firm, one who wrote him a letter," said
Tarrant, still addressing the girl. "I refer to Magruder. He saw how
matters were going with the house and feared the result. Magruder
somehow knew--he was a cunning, ratty kind of a man, who knew many
things he was not credited with--that your father had moneys involved,
and so wrote him a letter of warning. Is it not so? It was this letter
that brought you and your father to this country? Am I right? But for
all his writing Magruder was afraid; he'd not meet your father openly;
he dreaded some unseen danger."

"And it seems he was right in that," spoke the big young man, his smile
growing broader. "Events, I think, have proved he had reason for his
dread."

"Before you could arrange to speak with him," said Tarrant to the old
man, "he was done to death." And as Lafargue shuddered, and the girl
turned away, Tarrant went on: "Who was interested in having this man
die at this particular time? Could you say? Who stood in fear of what
Magruder might tell? Whose rascally dealings were about to be exposed?
The people most interested in the house of Stevens, as you know very
well!"

"I thank you," said Monsieur Lafargue tremblingly. "You have gone to a
deal of trouble, sir, for our sakes, and have probably saved me from a
great mistake."

"Avoid all conferences with the Stevens firm, or any one bearing the
Stevens name," said Tarrant, shaking his hand. "To deal with them in
any way will bring you and your daughter, both, misfortune."

"But how is my business here to be carried forward?" asked the old man.

"Take heed! If you went to them now, you could merely state what you
suspect," said Tarrant. "You would be placing yourself in their hands,
for you have no proof of anything. My advice to you is to wait." He
nodded to the old man understandingly. "Of course, an indefinite stay
here will be expensive, and your means are limited; I know that. But I
have suggested a way of surmounting the difficulty. Money can be had
readily; old Bulfinch is your man; you have only to ask him for it."

"You are kind," said Monsieur Lafargue. "I should feel helpless and
alone, indeed, without you."

Tarrant went with them to their carriage; and when he had handed them
in, and their driver sat with the reins in his hands, he said:

"Remember what I have told you--both to-day and to-night. I
repeat it all now. Keep to yourselves. Do not trust the firm of
Stevens--especially do not trust young Anthony of that name; he is, as
I have shown you, the most ruthless of them all. Have no confidences
with any one; be silent, and you will win through."

Then Tarrant went back to the supper-room; the big young man was seated
at the table; and across from him was a white-haired old man, with the
rosy, gentle face of a saint.

"Good!" said Tarrant, at sight of the old man. "I had hoped you'd not
keep us waiting, old moneybags!"

The new-comer laughed; it was a laugh that had a soothing, oily
quality; one white hand stroked his well-shaven chin.

"I strive to be prompt," said he. "It's a virtue that has a deal of
value in a business way. And being early to-night repaid me in an
unexpected way; for while I waited in the public room I witnessed your
encounter with Captain Weir."

Tarrant sat down; with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands,
he cursed in cold anger.

"Some day," he said, "I'll drive a bullet through that man's skull, so
help me God!"

But the saintly old man held up a protesting hand.

"No, no!" said he. "Oh, no! We are friends. We are all friends
together. We have business relations with Captain Weir. No violence; no
discord. It would be to the disadvantage of us all."

"My thought!" said the big young man. "My thought, exactly, Mr.
Bulfinch. Let us put all private matters to one side; for the present,
at least, let us work for the common good."

Tarrant regarded them both with cold eyes.

"Is it for the common good that Weir affronts me at almost every turn?"
said he. "Am I possessed of more patience than the run of men, that I'm
continually asked to bear his impertinence?"

"Do not forget," said the old man in his soothing voice, "that the plan
we are working under is, in a general way, one laid down by him. And he
disapproves of the way you have selected in dealing with young Anthony
Stevens; he fears it is not a good way."

Tarrant sneered; but it was the big young man who spoke.

"I have no good reason to hold my hand where this same Anthony Stevens
is concerned," said he. "But, on the whole, I agree with Weir. Keen
young blades like this are not apt to be budged by hostile talk, or the
threat of blows. It only makes them all the more resolved."

"It is the captain's desire," said old Bulfinch, "to manage the matter
carefully; he plans to be friends with this young man, to encourage
him, to support him. And, then, one day will come an occasion when what
is necessary can be done with safety. And it _will_ be done."

"I have no stomach for craft when a smart blow or two will serve as
well," said Tarrant bitterly.

But the big young man wagged his head in disagreement.

"I once thought that, myself," he said, "and risked my bones every day
for a little gain. But Weir's way gives fine profits and no risks;
we squeeze our toll out of shipmen and need never even take to sea.
Instead of facing a roused captain, with a ship's company behind
him, on his own deck, we now, thanks to Weir's brains, make a little
arrangement with that same captain before he goes on board; and the
ship and cargo are ours at whatever place we say, and without striking
a blow."

Old Amos Bulfinch smiled; his rosy, saint-like face glowed with
mildness.

"Could anything be better put?" he asked of Tarrant. "Would it be
possible to state a perfect case in more comprehensive words? Sir," to
the big young man, "I thank you."

"But even in the thing you give Weir so much credit for," said Tarrant,
"all is not done that could be done. Why are our operations held to a
single house? Why should we be forced to be content with Rufus Stevens'
Sons alone? There is Girard; there is Crousillat; there is a half-dozen
more. Good profit is to be had by extending our operations to all of
these--"

But the smooth tones of Amos Bulfinch checked him.

"Rich they are, those merchants," agreed old Amos, "and their ships
are many. But each man of them is as keen as a knife-blade; each has
a thousand eyes! Where a thing can be done in the shadow of Rufus
Stevens' Sons with ease and comfort, it could only be undertaken, in
the case of these others, with much danger; at almost any moment we
could expect to be laid by the heels."

"Weir is a dog-fox; I'd follow his plan without question where I'd
not even listen to another," said the big young man. "Leave the other
houses alone. This one is rich enough, for the time, at least."

Tarrant regarded the younger man, and then the elder one, with a curl
at his lip.

"You both have a deal of respect for Weir's opinions in some things,"
he said. "And yet, strangely enough, you have very little in others.
There is no thing which he has spoken more sharply against than the
proposed dealing with the French agent, now on his way here, in the
matter of letters of marque. And yet _you_ strongly favor the project."

"The matter of the letters of marque is to be a venture of our own,"
said the big young man. "That is, if the captain is disinclined to join
us."

Old Bulfinch nodded.

"Quite right," he said. "It is to be an affair of our own. But we shall
be prudent, for all that. We shall be exceedingly careful that every
legal aspect be observed."

Tarrant laughed.

"A saying like that has an odd sound," said he, "when I remember that
Blake here," and he pointed to the big young man, "was brought north
to take active charge of the matter--Blake, who for years has given as
much thought to the legality of any action as he would to a snap of his
fingers."

The big young man smiled; but it was old Amos who spoke.

"Blake," said the old man, "is to take charge when all is said and
done; the legal status of French privateers, recruited and armed in our
ports, will have been passed upon when he sends out the first of them."

"And when they are passed upon and take to sea," smiled the big young
man, "then will come the time to forget legal forms; rich merchantmen
will be our only need, and the seas between here and Rio are crowded
with those."

"Well," said Tarrant, "God knows I don't want to put myself in a
position to block any such flow of circumstance. If there are prizes to
be had, let us have them. If we get Weir's help in the matter, well and
good. If we do not, we can, as you suggest, go on without it."

"This Frenchman, Lafargue, was an excellent thought," said old
Bulfinch. "Oh, excellent! He can do much for us if properly managed."

"I have found a way for that," said Tarrant. "He is without money; I
have recommended that he go to you."

"I am always ready to accommodate gentlemen, upon good security," said
the old money-lender smoothly. "A good name or two on the back of a
bill will go far with me."

"His bill will have no name upon it," said Tarrant. "And he has no
security."

Old Bulfinch looked at the speaker, astonished.

"What?" said he. "What? Oh, surely, now!"

"In the matter of Lafargue," said Tarrant, "names and securities must
be forgotten. You must only remember that Lafargue is a man to receive
special treatment."

"Very careful, special treatment," agreed the big young man, nodding.
"He must be beholden to us, he must be tied to us, tightly, in some
way; and, of all ways, to have him owe you money is the readiest and
best."

"In the matter of money," said old Bulfinch, wincing, "it is wise to
use care. Money is not easily come by; and it should not be too easily
parted with."

"Any money spent in the matter of Lafargue will be well spent," said
Tarrant. "We must have his friendship; for through him we hope to gain
the countenance of this other Frenchman, Genêt."

"And keep well to mind who and what Genêt is; he is the French
minister, now on his way here for the sole purpose of arming American
ships to sail under the French flag. He was Lafargue's friend in
France," said the big young man, "and we must see to it that he is our
friend here."

Tumblers of hot drink were brought them, and, with the plates and cups
pushed to one side of the table, they talked and drank and planned.
The coming of Lafargue to the city, so it seemed, had startled them,
at first. Untold harm might have been done by it, had not Charles
Stevens happened to be away. But now, on the whole, they were pleased
with the old Frenchman's arrival. Monsieur Lafargue had no legal proof
of any slack dealing, and so he could not appeal to the law; they had
so filled his mind with apprehension that he'd not dare enter the
counting-room of Rufus Stevens' Sons and frankly tell what he thought
of the various transactions that troubled him. Altogether it was
agreed, they were safe from him. And his tightened circumstances now
delivered him into their hands; being a friend to the French agent,
he'd have much influence. Legalized piracy! By God, it was like a dream
of paradise! You sailed the seas with a good ship under you; you took
what you liked, and the law supported you! Oh, yes, on the whole they
were now pleased with the old Frenchman's coming. They had hoped in the
regular course of things to get commissions for a vessel or two from
Genêt; but now, look you, a fleet was not impossible. Give them the
harrying of the seas for three months' time, and you, or any one else,
could do what you pleased. They would be satisfied.

"But," said old Amos Bulfinch, as he was about to go, "I have seen
Lafargue's daughter. She is not one to be easily misled. By some chance
she might distrust this matter of ours, and might warn her father away."

"Never fear for that," said Tarrant, as he rang the bell for more
drink. "That event has been provided for, and by no less a person than
Weir himself. He has suggested a little ruse, to safeguard those things
in which he is interested; but it so chances that it safeguards our
venture as well. You need fear nothing from the girl; she will have her
mind filled with other matters, I promise you that."

"Keep your ears open in the next few days," smiled the big young man.
"Common gossip will tell you much."

Old Amos wore the look of a peaceful saint, so calm was he of face, so
rosy of color, so white of hair, as he bade them good night; and then
he went out, leaving them together at the table awaiting the liquor
they had ordered.




                                   X


The next morning as Anthony ate his breakfast at the inn he noticed
many glances cast in his direction; waiters spoke to each other behind
their hands, while they watched him out of the tails of their eyes. He
smiled, even while he frowned.

He had finished, and was seated, with a journal, at a window in the
public room, when he noted a slight man of middle age come in, look
about, and ask a question of a porter.

"Mr. Stevens," said the man, in a hushed sort of voice, as he came
forward. "I am from the counting-house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and have
been sent to say that Mr. Charles Stevens is now in the city."

Anthony felt a thrill of satisfaction.

"Thank you," he said. And then, "Did Mr. Stevens direct you to bring me
word?"

"No," said the man. "Not Mr. Stevens--Captain Weir."

"I see," said Anthony.

There was something fragile about the man; his skin had a transparent
quality, his hands were thin and nervous, his whole aspect was worn.
As Anthony looked at him, he became aware of something that impressed
itself upon him as a glow--a pallid, luminous something--white, like
moonlight.

"I will step down to the counting-house during the course of the day,"
said the young man. "I trust Mr. Stevens is well?"

"Quite well," said the man.

This luminous quality which Anthony felt the man threw off also lit up
his eyes. They were deep-set eyes, light in color and full of pain; in
them a pale hope seemed constantly lifting itself through shadows, only
to sink again.

"Is there anything more?" asked Anthony, as the other lingered.

The man shook his head, but did not move.

"I am Tom Horn," said he. "As a boy, I worked as clerk for your
grandfather. And now I am clerk again."

There was an oddity in this simple statement that supplied a missing
portion of Anthony's conception of the man. Surely he was not quite
firm in his mind.

"In your grandfather's time," said Tom Horn, "the circles flowed freely
about the world. They were wide and wonderful, and the sun and the wind
and the stars were in them." He bent closer to Anthony: "Do you know
what makes the wind to blow?" he asked.

"No," said Anthony.

"No more does any one else," said Tom Horn. "No one in all the world
knows what makes the wind to blow. And no one knows why water flows in
circles, and rings in every ship, every island, and every man. Once,"
he said, "I saw a circle around the moon. The world moves in a circle.
I do, too. I began as a clerk; and I am a clerk once more."

"You held a better position once, then," said Anthony.

"I was supercargo in the _William and Mary_," said Tom Horn. "Three
voyages in all. She was a stout ship, and well officered. But what can
wooden planks and good intentions do when once the circle begins to
narrow? Nothing. It is like one man setting his strength to prevent the
world turning over. All circles move. There is no power under God's
that can stop them."

With that he turned and went out; but in a few moments Anthony saw him
peering in at one of the windows, and in his eyes were at once the
hope and fear that, perhaps, marked his madness.

It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when Anthony arrived at
Rufus Stevens' Sons and was received by the affable clerk.

"Yes, Mr. Stevens is in, sir," said this personage. "I will speak to
him."

He hastened through a doorway, and in a moment hastened out again.

"You are to go right in, sir," said he.

Anthony entered. The room that Charles Stevens had fitted up for
himself was low-ceilinged like the others; its width and breadth
were great; the floor was laid with rugs of marvelous colors and
texture, and the walls were hung with rich draperies, pictures, and
strange-looking arms. The furniture was all of far-off lands; there
were things of ebony, and ivory, of silk and gold, and the breath of
the place was vital with rich essences.

Charles sat upon a divan and nursed his lame foot; he was a
young-looking man; his color was fresh, and his hair as dark and
thick and vital as it had been at twenty-five. He was talking with a
settled-looking person who sat at a table with a quill and an ink-pot,
scrawling figures upon a sheet of paper.

"I would not lay out another groat," Charles was saying, "upon a ship
of the build and stowage-room such as we now have. They are cramped,
they are slow, they are tricky. What we want is vessels that will carry
both cargo and canvas, and will stand up under a wind that blows above
the ordinary."

The settled man looked up from his figures.

"What results I have reached--what results every ship-builder has
reached--are reared upon tried and tested things. Little by little we
learn how to improve a hull so that it gives less and less resistance
to the water; and carrying-room, Mr. Stevens, is largely dependent upon
the shape of this hull. A ship is a ship; it is not a hogshead with
masts in it."

Charles Stevens's laugh was singularly young. He got up and limped up
and down the floor, both hands waving.

"Siddons," said he, "I have the same struggle with you every time I
ask anything that is not customary. It's in the records of the house
that my father went through the same thing with your father. But keep
this in your mind: it is the necessities of trade that improve ships;
if their advance had been left to the builders, we'd still be hugging
the coasts in galleys and afraid to venture out of sight of land. The
Yankee ships are making ours look like Venetian caracks; they have
moved ahead of us, Siddons; they are winging it into Calcutta carrying
almost twice our merchandise, and doing it in less time."

The settled man consulted his figures.

"You talk of vessels of seven hundred tons burthen," he said,
plaintively. "Who ever heard of such things?"

"In New England," said Charles, "they not only have heard of them
but have built them." He held up two fingers of his left hand and
pointed to them with the forefinger of his right. "Build me two ships,
Siddons,--twins,--of live-oak, clear of all defects, bolted well, with
all clamps and spirketings and braces of the best metal, and give me
room in their bellies to stow cargoes that'll open the eyes of all
Massachusetts."

"But seven hundred tons!" complained Siddons. "Is there water enough in
the ocean to keep such a monster afloat?"

"Who said anything of seven hundred tons?" demanded Charles. "It was
the Salem ship that measured that. The pair you are to build for me are
to be of a thousand tons."

Siddons gasped and curled up in his chair.

"A thousand tons! The seas would break their backs in the first blow."

"Ship-builders have been saying that with each additional inch since
the beginning. So don't worry me with it; I want the vessels, and they
are to be built on this river. The Siddons yard has always laid down
the keels for Rufus Stevens' Sons; so get your computers to work; see
that the timbers are properly seasoned, and the ironmongery gotten
under way."

"There must be new ways erected; there must be new docks," complained
the ship-builder. "The outlay will be frightful."

"But think of the income, Siddons," said Charles. "Think of passing the
Delaware Capes, inbound from Calcutta, in seventy days." And as Siddons
paused in the act of gathering up his sheets of paper, and gazed at
him, his jaw hanging slack, Charles laughed and said, "How old is your
son, Siddons?"

"Twenty, passed."

"Get him into the yards as quickly as you can. You need a fresh eye.
Before he has reached your limitations, a two months' trip from the
same port will be thought a long one." As the ship-builder moved toward
the door, Charles added, "When can you give me the figures?"

"In a week," replied the man.

"Excellent! In a week I shall expect them."

A number of times in his limping up and down the floor, Charles had
passed within a few feet of Anthony, but he had not paid the slightest
attention to him; now, as he closed the door upon Siddons, he turned
with a boyish smile and looked at him.

"Anthony!" said he. "Robert's Anthony!" And, as he looked, the smile
changed in character; the pleased look in his eyes became one of
wonder. "You should have been called Rufus, for your grandfather," he
said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," said Anthony.

"At that age your grandfather was master of a ship voyaging half across
the world," said Charles, "God was in the same mood when he fashioned
you two." He looked for another space, and then added, "Yes, they
should have called you after him."

Emerging from the surprise, he shook Anthony's hand with great warmth.

"I'm greatly pleased," said he, his face a shining proof of it; "I'm
amazingly pleased. I had no thought that such a pleasure as this
awaited me. So your father and mother are both dead." He nodded at his
nephew wistfully. "Both dead and gone. And you left alone, and I never
so much as sending you a line of writing."

"These things escape one," said Anthony; "especially when they happen
so far away."

"A brother is a brother, no matter what the distance; and you were of
my own blood. There was never a time when I did not hold your mother as
the most beautiful and best of women; there was no reason why all these
years should have gone by, and I holding my tongue; no reason at all."

They sat down.

"Have you been in the city long?" asked Charles.

"Less than a week. I inquired here for you, but learned you were away."

"And you've had a devil of a dull time, I know, going about in strange
places."

"Why, fortunately, no. I dropped in on Christopher Dent--"

"What--old Kit!" Charles laughed, and curled himself up in a corner of
the divan, nursing his lame foot. "Good soul! I'm glad you thought of
him."

"And while I was there who should come in but Dr. King, and he, when he
found who I was, instantly invited me to supper."

"Excellent!" approved Charles. "It couldn't have been better."

They talked for some time of Dr. King and of the city and its changes;
then there came a tap upon the door, and the affable clerk put in his
head.

"Mr. Clark, of the _Starry Cross_, sir, when you are at leisure."

"I'll speak to him in a few moments." Then, as the clerk withdrew,
Charles said to Anthony. "The skipper of one of my tea ships. He
reached port while I was away."

"I'm afraid I've come in on you at a time when your attention is much
engaged." Anthony got up. "Perhaps to-morrow or next day you'll not be
so pressed."

"Sup with me to-night," said Charles, putting his arm about Anthony's
shoulders. "I want you to make the acquaintance of Captain Weir."

"I've met the captain already," said the young man.

"You've not wasted your time, at any rate," smiled his uncle. "But sup
with me, anyhow; there's thousands of questions I want to ask, and to
answer."

"Thank you," said Anthony. "I shall be glad to."

He shook hands with Charles once more and then left the counting-house.
At the Half Moon, he encountered the round-faced coachman, seated upon
his bench in the passage.

"Good even, sir," said the man. "I suppose they are well settled by
this." And then, as Anthony looked at him questioningly, he added. "I
mean Mr. Lafargue and his daughter--in their new place."

"New place!" said Anthony. "Have they gone?"

"Why, yes; this morning," said the coachman. "And all their luggage
with them. But I couldn't say where. Seeing as they're friends of
yours, I thought you knew."

"No," said Anthony, "I didn't."

And then he went, in a heavy-footed way, up the stairs to his room.




                                  XI


The house of Charles Stevens stood in Ninth Street, close to Chestnut.
The building was set back from the street and in the midst of a garden
which even now, in the bareness of the autumn, looked pleasant with its
tall trees, its neat walks, its sun-dial and dove-cote. A black servant
in a livery coat admitted the young man; and from the passage he heard
the voices of his uncle and Dr. King.

He was shown into a large room on the second floor. This was crowded
with rare furniture; its hangings were rich and delightful to the eye;
upon stands and shelves were examples of bronze and gold and pottery
such as Anthony had never seen before. Charles greeted him.

"James," said the merchant to Dr. King, "here he is, come to visit me
like a good fellow, forgetting all about how I've neglected him."

Dr. King shook Anthony's hand, smiling.

"At any rate," said he, "he shows the right disposition. And we should
be glad enough to have him back."

As Anthony settled into a chair, Charles limped up and down the room in
mounting excitement.

"I've heard of your damned goings-on," stated he, eagerly. "To-day,
when you'd told me you'd been in the city almost a week, I was on the
verge of commiserating you on your loneliness; and here I learn that
you've left a trail of very active devilment strung out behind you." He
paused in front of Anthony and clutched his shoulder exultantly. "So
you pummeled that infernal sneering fire-eater, Tarrant, did you? What
for?"

"He intruded upon me, and refused to give an account of himself," said
Anthony. "And, I suppose, I was in no humor to listen to him."

Once more Charles limped up and down; his eyes blazed with excitement.

"A porter saw you pitch him out!" cried Charles. "He saw you pitch him
into the passage, and has told it all over town." Here Charles filled
the room with his laughter. "He saw you throw his hat after him," he
gasped between bursts; "and he had to help the damned villain to his
feet, and down the stairs." For a moment he choked back his mirth. "Out
into the passage!" he said. "And with his hat after him! Oh, what a
picture!" And again he laughed consumedly.

"You know him, then?" said Anthony.

His uncle composed himself, took a seat in a big chair, and nursed his
lame foot.

"I have known him these five years," said he. "And in that time I've
found him to be a knave and a cheat. It's true he once served aboard
a United States frigate, and with some distinction; but a thing like
that doesn't light a man through a whole lifetime of roguery. His open
doings are of that rakehell kind countenanced by many honest people as
the outcomes of a large nature and high spirit. But his connections
with the money-lenders and slimy shipping-agents of the Algerian coast
are kept out of view and are known to only a few, and even those few
don't know enough to speak publicly against him. But," and he looked
at Anthony with narrowed eyes, "what of this answer you made to his
challenge?"

"It was the answer I'd make to any man's challenge."

"You are not afraid, then," and the eyes of the uncle devoured him, "of
being thought a coward?"

Anthony smiled.

"The man who is afraid of being thought one, is one," said he.

"By God!" said Charles. "That's what your grandfather would have said!
They are the very words."

Here Captain Weir was shown in, and after greeting Anthony he sat down
at the far end of the room with the merchant, while Anthony talked with
Dr. King.

"Well," said the physician humorously, "he seems to approve your
doings, even though they've been a trifle heady."

"At any rate," said the young man, "he is no friend of Tarrant's; and
that is in my favor."

Dr. King lost his jocular expression, and shook his head gravely.

"The time was when the American merchant had only the elements, falling
markets, and an occasional corsair to contend with," said he. "But,
now that he is growing prosperous and takes his share of the world's
wealth, the birds of prey have gathered. Let him show a sign, however
slight, of financial weakness; then his sky is dark with them, their
beaks whetted to pick his bones. This is the first hint I've had that
Tarrant is concerned with the filthy tribe; but I shouldn't wonder if
it were true."

"I can understand money-lenders and note-shavers thriving in a port
like New Orleans," said Anthony; "for under the hands of the Spanish
governors honesty must always pay a toll. But in a city as well managed
as this, where banks are numerous, why should a merchant in need of
funds go to a usurer?"

Dr. King smiled and shook his head.

"After you are here a while,--if you make up your mind to stay,--you
may learn that even a soberly governed place like this has its public
tricksters. There are many things a money-lender dare not do--openly.
But it is the habit of some of them--as your uncle just now said of
Tarrant--to carry on certain operations underground."

The dining-room of Charles Stevens on the floor below was appointed
with the same high-pitched taste as the others Anthony had seen;
indeed, so lavish had become the exhibition of treasure that it
resembled the heaped-up loot of a commercial conqueror.

"Every ship of ours that enters port carries something that I cannot
find it in me to sell. It may be a rug, or a gold cup, a cushion,
a bolt of rare silk, or an ivory or bronze carving. I have amulets
and arms and precious stones from places that are in the books
of few traders," added Charles, who had read his nephew's look.
"Unfortunately," and he laughed a little ruefully, "I am a collector,
as well as a merchant."

There was a soup of terrapin, into which a deft cook had introduced the
faint fragrance of a very old sherry. Sturgeon steaks followed, with
a wonderful sauce, and with them deviled oysters and a Johannisberger
that made Anthony's palate curl in rapture.

"So Siddons is appalled," smiled Charles; he looked at Anthony, but
addressed Weir. "Poor fellow, it does not take much to frighten him.
Because he is asked to add some feet to his ship ways, he acts as
though we required him to enlarge the solar system."

"Perhaps," observed Captain Weir, "it would be well to reconsider the
thing, and put it into the hands of the Carters; they are younger and
have moved with the times."

But Charles smiled and shook his head.

"No," said he. "The Siddons yard builds honest craft; they built the
first my father designed, and so they'll build these for me. Properly
prodded, they'll do well enough; on launching-day you'll find us in
possession of a pair of well-found ships that'll out-stow and perhaps
outsail anything that carries the United States flag. Dick Siddons has
always complained, but he has never failed me."

While other matters of food were being brought in, Charles Stevens
talked. He was a fascinating talker; all history seemed at his finger
ends, and especially the history of shipping. He drew dazzling
pictures; events as recorded in his mind were always striking. He
followed, at one period of the talk, the great movements of the armed
world in the track of each fresh discovery of iron. The greed behind
these movements, their terrifying injustices, the gross world fat they
accumulated, the merciless labor they brought upon those who had no
share in what their work produced, never seemed to present themselves
to Charles. He saw only the surge of the thing, the sharp-pointing,
definite track, the panoply and power that came into life, the romance
in the thought that, snuggling beneath the surface, in places unthought
of, except by a venturesome few, there lay the thing that made men
great.

"He looks upon it," thought Anthony, "as the old Spaniards of the gulf
must have regarded the idea of the fountain of life. It is a sort of
magic."

Charles talked of ships and storms, of fabrics and ports, of men and
nations, of ideas, prophecy, and signs in the heavens. Anthony followed
his flowing words, enthralled by his enthusiasm and the rich color of
his thought. But at the same time there was a spot in the young man's
brain which remained alert and which the golden flood could not sweep
away. And at this spot was an alert sentry, a direct inheritance from
old Rufus; and this sentry watched and listened unemotionally. He saw
a man moving with joy among the mountain-tops, drinking the thin,
strong air as one would drink a heady wine; he saw the long leaps,
spectacular and full of grace, from peak to peak, the flashing symbols
of victory upon victory. But he did not once see him set foot upon the
level earth where the plodders sweated in obscurity. The man's dream
was a soaring one, full of color and gorgeousness; he caught lightly
at wonders which those who moved in the lower levels did not even see;
but, once seized, he threw the wonders to the plodders, and seldom
thought of them again.

"To this man," reported the sentry posted by old Rufus in Anthony's
brain, "life is all heights. There are no depths. To him, great deed
follows upon the heels of noble effort; magnificent achievement springs
full-armored into being, glory is a thing made by a single motion. The
romance of commerce, as Dr. King called it, he holds to his heart; the
reality he leaves to others." Anthony followed this report soberly, for
the sentry was one in whom he had great faith. And before he closed his
wicket for the night the sentry added, "And I wonder who these people
are, through whose hands the realities pass?"

There was a space, after the plates had been removed and the wine and
tobacco were brought in, in which Charles took Dr. King into a room
adjoining, to point out an example of the work of a Persian artist for
whom he expressed great admiration, and Anthony was left with Captain
Weir. There was a silence for a moment, and then Weir said:

"Your uncle is in one of his talkative moods to-night." His level gaze
was fixed upon Anthony with inquiry, but from his mask no indication
was to be had of what was in his mind. "When a man talks we are often
able to get a definite impression of him," said Weir.

Anthony nodded, but said nothing. The other waited; then he proceeded.

"I talked with Dr. King for some time to-day. He told me that he had
tried to induce you to remain in the city and go into Rufus Stevens'
Sons. I agreed with him that this was a thing greatly to be wished."

"What," asked Anthony, "do you think I could do that another could not?"

"I don't know," said Weir. "But I have a feeling that you are needed,
and that the house is your natural place."

"But," said Anthony, "I do not know my uncle's attitude."

"He means to ask you to resume where your father stepped out. He's told
me so." There was another short pause. "What answer will you give?"
asked Weir.

"I'll do it," said Anthony.

And Weir, leaning across the table, gripped his hand.

"That's what I expected you to say," said he. "And I am very glad."

But as he turned away his head there was a glint in the green,
stone-like eyes, a glint that Anthony did not see.




                                  XII


A crier with a bell advanced through Dock Street; as the tongue
monotonously _galing-galanged_ against the sides of the bell, the man
chanted with equal monotony:

"A hogshead of rum! To whom it may concern: a hogshead of fine Jamaica
rum will be sold at vendue at the warehouse of William Stone, in
Mulberry Street, at two o'clock to-day."

"Another damned cutthroat must be asking for his pound of flesh!"
grumbled a gentleman, whose bulbous nose was pinched blue with the snap
of the cold. "Stone's interest is no doubt due, and he's forced to
send out a crier and sell a hogshead of liquor to keep the shark from
turning over on his back."

Mr. Sparhawk, who bore the blue-nosed gentleman company, smiled dryly.

"Mr. Stone, from what I hear of his affairs, need not bother himself.
He's so safely in the hands of Bulfinch and his handsome sons that he
has no more chance of escape, Mr. Stroude, than the north star has of
falling out of the sky."

Mr. Stroude swore eloquently.

"Bulfinch is a villain," announced he. "And I wish his sons were at the
devil!"

"There are a great many who are equally pious with regard to them,"
said Mr. Sparhawk, "but at the same time the stairs leading to their
den are wearing thinner and thinner under the tread of these same
gentlemen's feet."

"I have merchandise to the value of eight thousand dollars," protested
Mr. Stroude gloomily, "and with it I have a good name in business. But
can I borrow two thousand dollars in a reputable way? I can't! Will
any institution in the city take my note on any terms that correspond
with my position as a merchant? They will not! And why?" demanded Mr.
Stroude of the world, as he swept it with his eye. "Why not? It is
because the law permits them but a fair interest, but if they can force
me to go to their secret co-worker, Bulfinch, they can make me pay as
many times that as my necessity compels."

"Bulfinch is, I know, much favored among some financial people,"
admitted Mr. Sparhawk, with the perky manner of a small bird. "He has
at command any sum that can be reasonably asked of him. And, for an
accommodation like that, he feels bound to make his demands."

"But my heart's blood!" said Mr. Stroude, his nose going a very deep
blue, indeed. "Must he have that?"

"Perhaps," soothed Mr. Sparhawk, "he will not go so far. At any rate,
here we are, and you shall soon know."

Off Dock, at Third Street, was a group of old buildings, none in very
good repair; through these a brick-paved thoroughfare cut its way.
This was Harmony Court, and here a second group of buildings crouched
behind the first, as though to avoid the full glare of day. There were
a number of shabby tin signs upon a shutter, and perhaps the shabbiest
of all bore the inscription: "Amos Bulfinch, Broker."

"So it's here our gentleman keeps himself," grumbled Mr. Stroude. "I
knew it was in this neighborhood, but I didn't think it would give
quite so dirty a promise."

Mr. Sparhawk led the way into a dim passage which smelt musty, and the
walls of which were greasy with the touch of generations. When the
perky gentleman said the steps leading to the place of business of Amos
Bulfinch had been thinned by the tread of his patrons, he spoke the
truth; for thin they were, and very dirty as well. A dim oil lamp, on
a landing, lighted the way; and at the top of the steps was a door upon
which the money-lender's name occurred once more. They went in.

"Good morning," said Mr. Sparhawk, to a gangling-looking man who sat at
a table upon which was spread a quantity of much-handled papers. "This
is Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch, son of Amos," to Stroude.

"Yes, I know," said Stroude. "Glad to see you."

Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch smiled; his teeth were large, and there were
wide spaces between them; his hands were enormous and covered with
freckles; he had outstanding ears, an unruly thatch of coarse hair, and
pale, watchful eyes.

"What name?" asked Mr. Nathaniel, as he shuffled eagerly among the
dirty documents. "Is something due? Eh?"

"Not yet," said Stroude. "No, not yet."

"But," insinuated Mr. Sparhawk, "Mr. Stroude is hopeful."

Mr. Nathaniel laughed.

"They are always that," said he. "It's surprising how much hope is
brought into this place."

"And very little is ever taken out again, I'll venture," mumbled
Stroude, to himself. He looked about at the dirty walls, the worn
furniture, the dusty files of papers hanging from hooks; the air of
mean sordidness chilled him. "No," he thought, "no one ever took
anything out of this place, unless it was a curse."

"I do not see your brother," said Mr. Sparhawk, of Nathaniel. "Where is
Rehoboam?"

"He is going his rounds," said Nathaniel. "No one pays unless they're
made to, and Rehoboam is apt at explaining the law. He knows its
regulations very well," admiringly. "There are few solicitors who have
a defter turn for it. He can tell to the breadth of a hair how much a
man may delay in the matter of a debt before the prison keepers may
put their hands upon him."

"A pretty talent!" said Stroude. Then, in his thoughts, he added, "I
wonder what length of time a man must serve as the devil's acolyte
before he reaches so much wisdom as that."

Sparhawk and Stroude sat down, and Nathaniel began thumbing his dirty
papers with much the same enjoyment a gourmand shows in eating a dainty
dish. There was a soothing voice lifted in an inner room, dimly heard,
yet full of assuring sweetness.

"That," whispered Sparhawk to Stroude, "is old Amos."

"I know," nodded Stroude. "I've heard him before, though he's never had
occasion to use his honey on me."

Answering the money-lender was a quavering voice, decidedly French in
accent, and pitched to a note of anxiety.

"I am not known here," said the quavering voice, "except by Rufus
Stevens' Sons. With them I have moneys invested. But there are reasons
why I should ask no favors of them."

"To get a name upon the back of a note is no favor," explained the
sweet voice. "No favor at all. It is a matter of business."

"There is no one but them; and to them I will not go," said the
quavering voice, with a deal of native decision. "I am sorry to have
intruded upon you, monsieur, and taken your time."

There was a scraping of chair-legs upon the floor; then the
money-lender was heard to say:

"Wait! do not be in haste, Monsieur Lafargue. Let us consider. Mr.
Tarrant sent you here, and Mr. Tarrant is my very good friend. I would
go greatly out of my way to oblige him. Of course, to have Rufus
Stevens' Sons upon your note would be desirable; but as this is an
exceptional case we'll say no more about it. What sum did you say you
required?"

Nathaniel paused in his thumbing of his documents; his wide mouth hung
open, surprisedly, as he listened.

"What?" whispered Stroude. "What? Old Bulfinch lend money without a
sponsor?"

But Sparhawk, whose perky manner seemed suddenly frozen into one of
interest, motioned him to be still.

"One thousand dollars," said Monsieur Lafargue, "for six months."

"It is a good sum," said the money-lender. "It's a round sum. But, as
Mr. Tarrant speaks for you--"

"Wait," said the old Frenchman. "Let it be understood, sir, that Mr.
Tarrant does not vouch for me. My acquaintance with him has been quite
brief."

"Mr. Tarrant _vouch_ for you!" the money-lender was heard to laugh; and
his gangling son, outside, giggled, and winked his pale eyes in great
enjoyment. "No, I understand that, monsieur. But I have heard that you
were this nation's friend when it needed a friend in France during our
days of struggle; also it's been said that you helped forward the cause
of the people in your own country; and these things mean a deal to a
republican like me."

Stroude seemed stupefied by these virtuous sentiments; Sparhawk pursed
up his lips and closed his eyes reflectively. The jaw of Nathaniel once
more hung open in surprise.

"Sign your name to that," resumed the money-lender, "and you shall have
the money in hand."

There was a sound of some one getting up, the snapping back of locks,
and the groaning of heavy hinges. Papers rustled and gold chinked on a
table. Then the strong box was closed and the bolts were re-shot into
their sockets.

"Well, now," said the soothing voice, "that is done with. There I have
your note of hand, monsieur, and you have my money."

"With the conditions what they are," said Monsieur Lafargue, "I am
astonished at your generous treatment of me. We do not transact
business upon such principles in France."

"No more do we here," said the money-lender, "except upon such
occasions as this. But we must do our best by our French friends,
more especially when they, in turn, are friends of so distinguished
a patriot as Citizen Genêt." Sparhawk, who had continued to sit
with closed eyes, now opened them, narrowly; his breath all but
stopped. "You are a friend of the citizen's, are you not?" asked the
money-lender in his sweetest voice.

"We have known each other many years," said Lafargue.

"To know a patriot like that must give a deal of satisfaction," said
the money-lender. "A great deal of satisfaction, indeed."

A few moments later the door of the inner room opened, and Monsieur
Lafargue, infirm but holding his white head up with his customary air,
came out. Following him was Amos Bulfinch.

"Mr. Sparhawk," said the latter with a little bow, "I'm pleased to
see you here. And you, sir," urbanely, to the frowning Stroude. Then
turning to Nathaniel, he added, "My son, the stairs are dark and not
quite safe for a gentleman of Monsieur Lafargue's years. Will you go
with him, down into the court?"

Monsieur Lafargue protested; but Nathaniel reared himself up to his
gangling height and took one of the old Frenchman's arms in his clutch.

"It's no trouble," grinned he, showing his large teeth, with the spaces
between. "I'll have you down in a moment."

Their steps were still sounding upon the stairs when Amos Bulfinch
turned his mild look upon Mr. Sparhawk and then upon Stroude; and
a close observer would have noticed that it rested longer and with
greater interest upon Stroude.

"A trifling matter of business," explained Mr. Sparhawk. "Mr. Stroude
desired me to introduce him. You've heard of him, maybe."

"Often," said Amos in his sweet voice. "Glass, and crockery, and
imported ware in Mulberry Street. A fine, profitable business, very
active, and not overcrowded."

Stroude was about to answer this, but Sparhawk stopped him.

"You are quite right," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It's an excellent business,
and prospering. But there come times in mercantile life," with a little
gesture of regret, "when ready money must be reckoned with."

"That is true, Mr. Sparhawk," said Amos soothingly. "Not a day passes
but that is brought home to me."

"What would you say," added Mr. Sparhawk, "to loaning Mr. Stroude a
matter of three thousand dollars--gold?"

"How soon?" asked Amos Bulfinch, looking at Stroude in a most
beneficent manner.

"To-day," said the merchant.

"To-day? Impossible! That is the way with all of them," to Mr.
Sparhawk. "They think I have only to pick the money up. What security
is there?"

Mr. Stroude displayed some documents, which Amos studied minutely.
Nathaniel reëntered just then; and he also gave the matter the closest
attention.

"And what names?" asked the money-lender. "Of course, they must be good
ones."

Stroude grudgingly mentioned one or two; and father and son shook their
heads at each other.

"We have them already," said Amos.

"A half-dozen times," said Nathaniel. "They won't do."

"My people object to the same name so often," said Amos. "They are very
strict. And when they object the rate goes up."

Stroude writhed at this, and Sparhawk asked:

"How high?"

The money-lender, who still had Stroude's paper in his hand, folded it
one third.

"Oh, no," said Sparhawk. "Oh, dear, no!"

"There are, besides, interests, costs, and other things," said Amos
in his honeyed way. "It is too bad. Maybe your friend had better go
somewhere else."

"They may treat him better," suggested Nathaniel with disbelief.

Stroude's blue nose paled.

"But a charge like that!" protested he. "It's monstrous!"

"Added to it," said Amos, still fingering the paper, "there are apt to
be brokerage charges, besides, there is my small portion to be fixed
upon it finally."

He folded the paper in two and stood creasing it between thumb and
forefinger while Stroude began to choke and to pull at his neck-cloth
feebly.

"Perhaps you'd better not favor us," said Amos. "We never advise
anything."

"Terms are always plainly stated," said Nathaniel; "and patrons are
left to use their own judgment."

"Well?" asked Mr. Sparhawk of Stroude.

"Can I get the money to-day?" asked the merchant, his trembling hand
still fumbling with the neck-cloth. "To-day, without fail?"

"It will be at your office in one hour," said Amos Bulfinch,
soothingly. "I will send for it at once." Under his father's
directions, Nathaniel sat down at his table and made out the note;
when it was ready, it was passed over to Stroude, who read and buttoned
it up in his breast pocket.

"My son, Rehoboam, will pay the money over to you," said the leech;
"and I would ask, Mr. Stroude, that you have the necessary signatures
ready affixed, to avoid delay."

Stroude stumbled a little as he went down the stairs; and the perky
little Mr. Sparhawk carried a wrinkle of interrogation between his eyes
as he went with him.




                                 XIII


In the window at Christopher Dent's, among the gray dried herbs, the
crooked, moisture-seeking roots, the barks and flowers, there had stood
for a long time a small board upon which had been carefully lettered
the information that upon the second floor desirable lodgings were to
be had.

"Clean and roomy," Christopher described them in his talk. "And not of
too great cost. The furnishings are not sumptuous, but are adequate to
a modest taste; and any one inclined to occupy the premises must be
so adjusted as to see no harm in occasional fumes resulting from the
distilling, simmering, fermenting, or otherwise compounding of curative
drugs, medicines, or chemicals. Any one of such a habit of mind will
find themselves reasonably well bestowed." The board, however, had
now disappeared from the window; this hinted at the second floor's
being occupied; and a glance upward carried the hint to the border of
certainty. The shutters were all open; and lights were seen behind
trim white curtains. Water Street was quiet of an evening; the drays
had ceased to trundle over the stones; porters, clerks, and merchants,
who had all day been matching themselves against the mounds of goods
that grew before the warehouses, the bills and figures and entries
that crowded the desks of the counting-rooms, and the wits and wants
of buyers, sellers, and agents, had all melted from view, into their
homes, or into the bars or eating-rooms of favorite taverns.

Christopher Dent sat in his back room, his spectacles upon his nose,
and a big book in Latin text upon his knee. A cheery fire crackled in
the stove; two candles burned upon the table; and a number of other
books, each as big as the one Christopher held, lay beside them.
Outside the yellow flare lurked the retorts, the rows of bottles and
jars full of pent-up possibilities, still and waiting. Tom Horn sat
upon a bench near the stove; he rubbed his knees in the warmth, as the
little apothecary looked at him over the edge of his spectacles.

"In none of the elder tongues," said Christopher, "is there much to do
with the sea. As you say, the ancients were wise; they had a knowledge
of many strange things; but they seldom ventured far from land, and so
the sea as we know it was a darkened thing to them. So, knowing nothing
of its secrets, they could scarcely agree with you. Bear in mind," said
Christopher earnestly, "I am not denying; I only announce a lack of
authority in the ancients."

"The sea," said Tom Horn in his hushed voice, "has a meaning. It is
more than a mass of water, washing around in the hollows of the world."

"I grant you that," said Christopher readily. "I grant you that
much active principle is in the sea; it holds many vital elements,
crystallized or in solution. Soda, for example, is the cinder of
sea-plants; and without this friendly alkali we'd many times be brought
to a stand. The ocean gives rare and agreeable substances to materia
medica, and in time, as we plumb its depths, it will give more."

But Tom Horn shook his head at this conception.

"I have watched the sea with the sun on it," he said; "and I've watched
it running through the night. Hurricanes blow over it and make it leap
and rave; but hurricanes die down, and the sea goes on. It is always
muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it, hour after hour; it's
always muttering over something it has hidden. But it never tells; it
keeps its secrets well."

"The moon guides the ocean's tides," said Christopher. "And the wind
ruffles or smooths its surface. It does nothing of itself."

"That is a common error," said Tom Horn, "and held to by men who have
not watched, and seen, and listened. The sea slips around the world
in a circle. It touches and knows all things. And inside the great
circle there are many smaller ones, all moving the same way." He leaned
forward in his chair so that his face was close to Christopher. "The
world moves that way, too--does it not?--round and round. And so do the
stars, and the moon, and the wind." There was a little pause, and then
Tom Horn's hushed voice grew more whisper-like than ever. "Who ever saw
a circle begin?" said he. "Did you?"

The little apothecary looked perplexed, and regarded his questioner
seriously over the lenses of his spectacles.

"No one ever did," said Tom Horn, "because they begin outside the
world's rim. The circle of your life, now, began ages before you were
born, and in the emptiness of space. It grew narrower as it neared the
earth, and the day it touched its surface you began to live. And so it
went around and around, and so it continues to go around and around; it
keeps growing narrower and narrower, as it has done from the first; it
gets tighter and tighter about you. And one day it will close, and so
disappear, upon a little spot of ground, in a quiet place. And there
you will lie."

"Thankfully, I hope, and untroubled," said Christopher Dent soberly.
"And with the little that's been given me to do well accomplished."

The street door opened, and Christopher went into the store.

"Good evening, Mr. Sparhawk," said he.

"Good evening," said Mr. Sparhawk in his perky little way. "I hope I
find you very well, Christopher."

"Quite," said Christopher. "Never better, indeed."

"And prosperous, too, I trust."

The little apothecary moved his hand toward his store of dried plants.

"The fields," said he, "and the roadsides and thickets and stream
margins have never in my day given themselves so completely to
medicinal production. During the spring and summer the earth teemed
with curative power, and I harvested abundantly."

Mr. Sparhawk rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

"Excellent," said he. "I am delighted to hear it. And, I think," said
he, wisely, "I see the law of compensation at work in what you say; if
nature brings us a sickly season such as we've seen of late she makes
up for it in her lavish gifts of healing agents. Nature is remarkable,"
and Mr. Sparhawk wagged his head, "and the more minutely she is
studied, the more remarkable she becomes."

The apothecary agreed to this readily enough, and advanced testimony
containing instances proving how really remarkable she was.

"And that you are prospering, Christopher," said Mr. Sparhawk, halting
the testimony at the first opportunity, "is gratifying. But," and
he looked about with his lips pursed primly, "to have fat stores is
one thing, and custom is another. I hope trade is active with you."
Christopher nodded, and Mr. Sparhawk, much pleased, nodded in return.
"Excellent!" said he. "That is good. Of course, in a profession such as
yours,--and a most interesting and necessary profession,--custom must
be active if one's income is to retain a proper level."

"Usually that is true," said Christopher. "But," and he beamed through
his spectacles, "just now I am not forced to depend upon my trade
alone."

"Ah!" Mr. Sparhawk looked both surprised and expectant. "I see. You
have other sources of revenue, then?"

"Yes," said Christopher. "Lodgers."

"Lodgers!" Mr. Sparhawk now looked more surprised than ever. "So you
have taken in lodgers?"

Christopher pointed toward the ceiling.

"Two of them," he said. "French people."

"Two Frenchmen," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Well, well!"

"One Frenchman, and his daughter," Christopher informed him. "The name
is Lafargue."

"I have heard of them," nodded Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite genteel people,
I think; and the father is engaged in a commercial way with some one
in the city. So they are lodged in your house? Well, well, I am glad
to hear it. You have been too much alone this long time, Christopher;
and that is not good for a man. Now, these people will not only add to
your income, but they'll give you someone to chat with. That will be
a pleasure. For I suppose," and Mr. Sparhawk smiled agreeably at the
little apothecary, "you do chat together?"

"I have spoken with them," said Christopher.

"Of course you have. That is quite right. They are very presentable
people, as I have said, and are well circumstanced in their own
country. I suppose they have come to America upon matters of pressing
importance."

"I don't know," said Christopher Dent.

"Surely," said Mr. Sparhawk persuasively, "they have at some time or
other asked you for some small item of information that would give you
an idea of their mission."

"Why, no," said the little apothecary. "They have not. They are people
who keep themselves to themselves a great deal."

"I see," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, yes, I see."

He then changed the subject and talked of trade in general, the coming
winter, of the lighting of the streets, of the watch. And then of crime.

"Time was," said he, "when actual crime of any sort was rare among us.
But, now, we've reached a point where even those of violence cause
no more than a flurry. Take that affair of Magruder, now--an honest,
thriving man. Someone enters his place while he is engaged with his
work, and in an instant stops his life. The coroner's jury speaks
harshly against the criminals and invites all law-abiding people
to bring them to justice. But it will take more than a declaration
of indignation and a summons to civic reprisal to effect any good.
The persons guilty of this action are still at large and, from all
appearances, are likely to remain so."

The little apothecary shook his head and looked perturbed.

"Dear, dear," said he. "A pretty pass, indeed. I suspect the safety
of the streets, for all they are so well lit, and so told Monsieur
Lafargue, as he went out to-night."

"He has gone out, then?" said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was interest in
his face.

"A half-hour or more ago," replied Christopher. "And he seemed quite
infirm, and made much use of his cane."

Mr. Sparhawk now made some trifling purchase and left the shop.
Christopher returned to the back room. Tom was staring at the blaze
through the open door of the stove; without turning his head, or
shifting his eyes, he said:

"That was Sparhawk."

"Yes," said Christopher. "An agreeable person. He's considerate of
everything and every one."

There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn said:

"Why did he ask about your lodgers?"

"He didn't," stated the apothecary mildly. "I mentioned them."

"He made you do it," said Tom Horn. "I heard him."

Christopher Dent blinked at his friend in surprise and rubbed his bald
head.

"Last night," said Tom, "I went to the Boatswain-and-Call after I left
the counting-room. I always go there for my supper. Mr. Sparhawk was in
the bar."

"Of the Boatswain-and-Call?" said Christopher. "What was he doing
there?"

"He had a mug of ale, a thick cut of bread, and the leg of a fowl. But,
for all he ate with good appetite, he wasn't there for that. No, it was
to talk with me."

"Did he tell you so?" asked the apothecary.

"No," said Tom Horn. "He didn't need to."

Just then the subdued _rat-tat-tat_ of a knocker sounded.

"Listen!" said Tom, though he never moved and never took his gaze from
the fire.

"It's at the side door," exclaimed Christopher. "A visitor for my
lodgers."

"Sparhawk," said Tom Horn. And while Christopher gazed at his friend,
astonished, steps were heard descending a stairway; there was a murmur
of voices, and then the stairs creaked under a double burden. "He knew
last night they were lodged here," said Tom Horn. "I told him so."

"Do you think," said Christopher incredulously, "that was what he
wanted to talk about?"

"It was partly that," nodded Tom. "But mainly it was about what they
were doing in this country. He made me tell what I knew, without
asking, just as he made you a few moments ago."

Christopher Dent looked completely mystified.

"It is all very odd," said he. "I wonder what he has in his mind?"

"Aye, I wonder," said Tom Horn, his gaze never leaving the flame in the
open stove. "I wonder, indeed."




                                  XIV


Mr. Sparhawk had carefully closed the door of the apothecary shop
and had passed the window with the leisurely air of a man who has
satisfactorily transacted his business. But while still only a few
steps away he had paused; then he went to the side door and knocked the
_rat-tat-tat_ which Tom Horn and the apothecary had heard.

A quadroon maid answered. Was Monsieur Lafargue at home? No, he was
not. But Mademoiselle Lafargue was. Perhaps the gentleman would care
to see her? Yes, it so happened after some consideration the gentleman
would; and he was led up-stairs and asked to wait in a room into which
the staircase opened. In a few moments Mademoiselle Lafargue appeared.
She was taller than Mr. Sparhawk, and dressed in a robe that was not
common in the houses of American women of that time. Her fine dark eyes
were full of questioning as she looked at the visitor.

"I hope I don't intrude," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It's a matter of business
that might not wait with profit."

"Will you sit down?" said the girl.

They sat down. Mr. Sparhawk settled himself comfortably, and put his
finger-tips precisely together; then he regarded the girl with careful
attention.

"You are the daughter of Jean Edouard Lafargue, citizen of Brest, I
understand?"

"Yes," said the girl.

"He is, and has been, agent in France for the commercial house of
Rufus Stevens' Sons," stated Mr. Sparhawk gravely, "and is in America
on business having to do with that concern."

There was a shadow in the girl's eyes; but her voice was level and
unchanged as she said:

"Am I to understand that you are its representative?"

"By no means," said Mr. Sparhawk. "I would not have you understand that
for the world, because such would not be the fact. I do _not_ represent
it."

"It was your confidence as to my father's business that made me suppose
it," said the girl quietly.

"I've mentioned his connection that we might put things on a solid
footing; that is all." He nodded in his perky, bird-like way, and his
finger-tips sought an even more perfect contact. "I desired you to
know that I held him in high esteem; every one having to do with that
excellent house is held in high esteem."

"So I have been told," said the girl, but there was bitterness in her
voice.

"If you will pardon my calling the matter up," said Mr. Sparhawk in
a most confidential way, "and I only call it up because I cannot go
on without doing so, your father's procedure since reaching the city
has been somewhat unusual. It has caused comment. He is a trusted
agent of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and has been these many years; and yet,
though he's been in the city a week, he has not yet called at their
counting-house."

"You say you do not speak for my father's business connections," said
the girl; "indeed, you do not say in whose interests you are here;
and yet you do not hesitate to inquire into a thing that must, of its
nature, be private."

Mr. Sparhawk held up one open hand in protest; his face wore a look of
pain.

"My dear young lady," said he, "pray do not think me guilty of an
idle impertinence. Nothing could be further from my thoughts. I've
said what I said because it is the readiest way I can summon just now
as an approach to a very delicate--an exceedingly delicate--subject."
He regarded her with careful attention. "The Atlantic is wide," he
observed; "and in these unsettled days it is also much troubled. A man
does not venture upon the ocean now, especially with his daughter,
without good reason. That is common sense. And yet we find, in this
instance of your father's so doing, that no sufficient reason has shown
itself. If a firm summons its agent he is, in commercial duty, bound to
obey. But Rufus Stevens' Sons has not summoned your father. In fact,
some in the firm are somewhat aghast at his appearance."

"Well?" said the girl, quietly.

"It has been observed--quite by chance, of course--that in the time
Monsieur Lafargue has been in the city he has ventured abroad upon only
a few occasions."

"He is old," said the girl.

"I have noted that," said Mr. Sparhawk cheerfully. "And I sympathize
with his infirmities. I have heard talk," he added, after a moment's
reflection, "connecting your father with Monsieur--or, as the
revolutionary manner has it, Citizen--Genêt. This gentleman and he,"
and the little man's head took the inquiring bird-like tilt, "are fast
friends, I think."

"Well?" said the girl.

Mr. Sparhawk had evidently expected more or less enlightenment on this
point; but now that he saw none was forthcoming he proceeded with
adroit readiness.

"To-day your father visited another person, Mr. Amos Bulfinch, a
usurer!"

The girl arose suddenly, but before she could speak Mr. Sparhawk once
more lifted the protesting hand.

"If you will favor me with one more instant," said he. Then, as she
stood looking at him: "Thank you. It would seem," said he, "there was
one other person upon whom your father called since he's been in the
city; and, if reports speak truly, the circumstances of the visit were
peculiar. The person I refer to was one Magruder, a merchant, now dead."

The girl sat down; her face was very white.

"My father did not know Mr. Magruder," she said. "He never so much as
saw him."

"The late night," said Mr. Sparhawk, "is commonly spoken of as the
silent hours. But, while these hours have no voice, it has been shown
time and again that they have many eyes. And on that particular night
these eyes seem to have been more than usually vigilant. It is said,"
and Mr. Sparhawk nodded his head, and looked exceedingly unwilling to
credit it, "that upon this visit you bore your father company."

There was a pause of some duration; the girl sat very still, and her
gaze never ceased from searching the man's face. Mr. Sparhawk was
quite composed; he tilted his head and looked exceedingly prim, and he
pressed his finger-tips together with the utmost nicety of adjustment.

"Are you of the police?" asked Mademoiselle Lafargue.

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Sparhawk. "No! Whatever made you
think of such a thing?"

"What is your errand here?" said the girl.

"We shall reach that by and by," said Mr. Sparhawk reassuringly. "Never
fear, we shall come to it in due course." He nodded his head; his
whole expression and manner indicating that here, at least, was one
matter that would be properly attended to when its turn came--attended
to and settled, once and for all. "You say," said Mr. Sparhawk,
"that your father did not know Mr. Magruder; indeed, he'd never seen
him. Very well. Suppose we accept that statement and pass on." Mr.
Sparhawk seemed to test his footing at this new point of advance; and,
apparently convinced that it was safe, he said, "Had your father and
Magruder ever had any correspondence?"

"I know very little of my father's business affairs," said the girl.

"Why, of course, that would be so," agreed Mr. Sparhawk. "I am glad
you've mentioned it." Then he shook his head, and looked disturbed.
"I wish, though, it had been otherwise. Your father's proposed call
upon this man--and, God save us! what an unfortunate time he took for
it!--would indicate that some writings had passed between them."

The girl said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk pondered, his head continuing to
shake dubiously.

"It is peculiar," said he, "that your father should appear so
unexpectedly in this country. It would almost seem," and he looked at
the girl with elevated brows and a face of mild interest, "that he
had been sent for." Once more the girl failed to speak, and he went
on. "But, then, that is most unlikely. Who would send for him, if it
were not Rufus Stevens' Sons? and that they did not is shown by their
amazement at his appearance."

Mr. Sparhawk during the next fifteen minutes said a number of things;
he said some of them gently, others were uttered guardedly, still
others had that insinuating quality which usually forces an answer. But
the girl merely sat and listened, her eyes fixed upon Mr. Sparhawk's
face. At length he arose to go; and then she spoke.

"If it is common rumor that my father and myself were seen at Mr.
Magruder's place of business on the night of his death, why do not the
police of the city take action?"

"It is not common rumor," stated Mr. Sparhawk. "Far from it. There is a
whisper going about that a woman is somehow concerned; but it is only
a whisper, and a vague one. Neither your father's name nor yours has
been mentioned. And the reason for this," Mr. Sparhawk smoothed the nap
of his hat with careful touch, "is that, excepting those who saw you,
no one knows them in connection with the matter but myself."

The girl regarded him quietly.

"In that you are wrong," she said. "There is, at least, one other
person who knows."

"No!" said Mr. Sparhawk, and his leisurely manner became suddenly
swift. "No!"

"At least one other," repeated the girl. "He mentioned it to me several
days ago!"

"May I ask," and Mr. Sparhawk tilted his head sideways with his
bird-like manner, "who it was?"

"Captain Weir," said the girl.

"I see," said Mr. Sparhawk, softly; "I see."

And when he had bidden the girl good night, and the maid had shown
him down-stairs, and he stood in Water Street, buttoning up his coat
against the chill air, Mr. Sparhawk once more carried between his brows
the little frown of interrogation.




                                  XV


Winter crept in. The water in the docks froze; later, great white
blocks were drifting in the river. Then, one bitter night, the
stream was sealed, and shipping was over until the spring, or some
unlooked-for stretch of mild weather.

Anthony had changed his quarters to a neat old house in Sassafras
Street, where he had a bedroom facing the west, and a small snuggery
with a window overlooking the south. Each morning, while the bells in
the towers were ringing seven, his boots were crunching through the
frozen snow on the way to Rufus Stevens' Sons. Always, by half-past
seven on the word of the clock on the counting-house wall, he'd reached
there, hung his great blue coat in a closet, and whipped into the work
at hand.

There never was such a counting-house for order as Rufus Stevens'
Sons. Anthony found that out when he'd only been there a few days.
Its ledgers were models; its clerks had the vanity of perfection; its
windows shone like crystal, the floor planks were white with scrubbing,
and its brass work snapped with the light from fireplaces whose hearths
were ever swept clean of smut.

The deep, cave-like warehouses were equally well kept; the goods in
cases, barrels, and bales were ranked in massive and severe array; the
carts and drays were smart with paint, their horses strong and well
conditioned.

Anthony's place in the counting-house was somewhat unsettled; the
business was so methodical, so well arranged that a new hand, no matter
what it touched, or how lightly, seemed superfluous. And this very
fact he was quick to seize upon, and turn to his purpose.

"I don't think I'll have any real use here," he told his uncle, "until
I can digest the history of the house; I'll have, especially, to
arrange in my mind all its doings of a decade past. I want to grow up
with it, in a sense."

Charles smiled at this. Weir's stone-like eyes were fixed on the young
man's face in an oddly watchful way.

"That has a very thorough sound," Charles said. "But," with a shake of
the head, "it implies a deal of labor."

"I can understand his attitude," said Captain Weir quite gravely.
"There is nothing like becoming saturated with the thing one starts
out to understand." To Anthony he said, and there was now nothing but
encouragement in the singular eyes, "Your plan is an excellent one;
and, fortunately, you can escape most of the drudgery of it, for there
are people still in the employ of the house who can tell you all you'll
need to know."

Anthony permitted himself to drift with the measured trade of the
winter months, and, during this time, he looked about him. Those who
saw to the routine in the counting-room were Whitaker, a new-comer in
the place; the affable man--who Anthony learned was named Griggs; and
then there was Tom Horn, who stood all day at his tall desk and entered
items in his books; also a gray, quiet man named Twitchell, who had
a great pride in the house and glowed when it was spoken of. Anthony
began with Whitaker and carefully led him into speech.

"Of course," said the fop, as he played with a bunch of seals at his
watch-fob, "my service only goes back five years; and most of that was
spent in other places. This is a great house; every one says so. I
never had any trouble disposing of cargo; and I never had any trouble
securing accounts. Of course there were those two ships that went
down--very unfortunate occurrences. Oh, yes, it's a very considerable
house."

Whitaker then went on to speak of the ports he'd visited in the firm's
service, the food to be had in them, the beauty of their women, and
the splendor of their climates. Cooling drinks under the shade of
awnings, with dusky servants to fan one; strange, sweet music that
stole through languorous nights; journeys into the interior on the
invitation of merchants or agents; the magnificence of the lives of the
rajahs: robes studded with jewels; carpets worth fabulous sums, thrown
upon the ground; harems crowded with loveliness; dark eyes everywhere;
adventure; whisperings; wealth; plenty; little effort.

But there was nothing that attracted the sharply focussed mind of
Anthony. He noted that Whitaker was one who never saw the reality
of anything in which he was engaged, except by accident. For a time
Anthony strove to come upon such an occasion; but, except for the loss
of the _Two Brothers_, and the _Sea Mew_, there was nothing outstanding.

"It was a singular chance," said Whitaker, "those two ships going down.
I've often thought about it. Both were well found, finely officered,
with American crews. Rich cargoes, too, and fully insured."

"Then there was no loss," said Anthony.

"Not a dollar, except to the insurance people."

There was another point upon which Anthony desired information; and he
carefully led Whitaker to it.

"You had a narrow escape with the _Sea Mew_," said he. "Your not
sailing in her from Lisbon was quite providential."

"I'd gone down like a stone," said the dandy. "It was only the house's
hurry to get me to Brest, with those papers for Lafargue, that saved
me."

"I remember you mentioned some papers," said Anthony, "but I forget
what you said they were."

Whitaker took on the same resentful look he'd worn when he first spoke
of the matter at Dr. King's.

"I never knew," said he. "Devil of a way, wasn't it? sending me pelting
off like that, and never knowing what it was about. I felt like a fool!
And that old Lafargue's a close-mouthed gentleman, I can tell you. No
danger of any one ever worming anything out of him."

"You thought yourself badly treated, then?" said Anthony.

"Candidly, I did."

"Have you ever said so, here in the counting-house, to any one in
authority?"

"Yes, once in a conversation with Mr. Weir I saw an opportunity to
mention the matter, and did so. Mr. Weir is always considerate and
listened to what I had to say. Then he told me I'd better speak to Mr.
Stevens. But, you know, Mr. Stevens seldom bothers about things like
that; so I took the thing no further. I have no doubt, though, that I
was treated like a junior clerk; for whatever the word was I took to
Lafargue it made a particular stir in his place of business."

"Did you ask no questions, then?"

"You may be sure I did. But no one answered them. It was quite
mortifying."

One day, at the hour for such things, Anthony found himself in a snug
corner of a near-by ale house; quite by chance the affable clerk,
Griggs, who had also come in for a snack, was seated beside him. Griggs
seemed quite put out of countenance by the weather.

"The ice in the river," said he, "is so thick that the whole population
seems skating on it of a night. Access to the Jerseys is very easy now;
carts are going to and fro by the dozens; and venison and wild fowl are
very cheap. But when will an anchor be lifted? When will another ship
get up, to discharge her merchandise? They say the ice is solid all the
way to New Castle."

"And yet," said Anthony, "you must have seen many a winter that was as
bad."

Griggs nodded. He was of that comfortable temper that loves
reminiscence; and, then, his mug of ale was mulled to his liking, hot
and delectable, and smelling of ginger, a drink well suited to keeping
the winter out of the system.

"The last winter Clinton's men held the city was a cold one," said he.
"You are too young to recall it. Their big ships of war were so thick
with ice that it looked as though they were to be cased in it forever.
I try not to speak ill of any one," said the affable clerk, "but those
men of Clinton's were a loutish lot; such guzzlers of malt liquor you
never saw. You'd thought, from the way they acted, that a plain man
such as myself hadn't so much as a mouth on him. In the spring, when
the ice had gone, they left; and glad enough we were to see their
backs. Your grandfather was one of the first to come tearing into the
city afterwards; they'd driven him out two years before, and he'd
carried on what business he could from Baltimore, New London, and other
places. I sat in this very bar, with a mug of this selfsame ale in my
hand, and saw him go by on a fine roan horse. In a fortnight those of
his ships that were left were running in and out, around the capes,
under the very noses of the blockaders. He was a forthright man, was
old Mr. Stevens."

"Was it after that time that you came into his employ?" asked Anthony.

"Oh, no," said Griggs. "Before. In fact, Tom Horn and myself have
almost grown up in Rufus Stevens' Sons. I was a boy, keeping tally on
the docks, when your grandfather was still master of one of Brownlow's
ships; an Indiaman, she was. And when he began to adventure for himself
he selected me to be clerk in his counting-room. And very proud I was
of it."

"Have you always been stationed in the city?"

"Always, except for a few times when I went in a schooner to Havana, or
one of the islands, to see to some small matter."

"I understand the house is one that's always been quite steady--that
there's been few ups and downs."

"No house has had fewer," said Griggs. "A solid, stable business,
if there ever was one. Of course," with a deprecating wave of the
hand, "there have been flurries now and then. Little things, that
were somewhat annoying. But, then, one can't always control excitable
people."

"Flurries!" said Anthony, his interest fixed. "What sort of flurries?
And who were the people who were excited?"

"Misfortune, at times, overtakes every one," said the affable clerk.
"And we have had our full share of it on the sea, from time to time.
Ships have been lost, and there have been discussions about insurance,
and such-like."

"I see; the excited persons were insurance people." Anthony stroked his
long jaw. "What were the discussions about?"

Griggs gestured his contempt.

"Why, I don't rightly know," said he. "I make it a rule never to listen
to foolish clacking. If a ship is lost, say I, she's lost; and the
insurance should be paid over without delay. A few times--in the matter
of the _Sea Mew_, particularly--I was afraid these people would grow
offensive with their prying and their questioning. Mr. Sparhawk, who
is well known to your uncle, seemed to be specially forward in this.
I don't see how Captain Weir kept his patience at times, for it was
usually the captain who received him, and Mr. Sparhawk's persistence
must have been very trying."

Sparhawk! Anthony recalled the perky little man whom he had met at
Dr. King's, and he stored the name away for future reference. This
conversation with Griggs occupied the best part of an hour, but Anthony
got nothing from it; several times during the same week he returned
to the task, but the result was the same. Griggs was a good-natured,
honest, competent man in his work, but thick-headed.

And so Anthony turned to Twitchell. When the subject of the house was
touched upon, the gray old clerk began to beam. It was, so he held, a
model for all other establishments; and that it was so highly regarded
was most gratifying. When one mentioned its name to any one, a sound
footing was entered upon at once. It was a pleasure to be connected
with such a house; indeed, it was almost like being in government
employ. And its ships were so famous! The merchandise it dealt in was
so sought after! And every one about the premises, from the boy who
swept the warehouse to the head of the business, had some jolly or
endearing quality, so that it was the most enjoyable thing imaginable
to be associated with them.

Twitchell, with his silver-rimmed spectacles mounted upon his forehead,
and his quill underscoring in the air all his points, maintained this
level of unalloyed gratification and belief whenever Anthony approached
the subject which interested him most. And finally the young man gave
it up and took to sitting at a window and glowering at the winter
street, the ice-choked river, and the empty ships, hung with their
thousand crystal points of light.

"First I have a dandy," growled Anthony, "who thinks of little but
dress, pretty women, and his own importance. Next, a good-natured
dunce; then a kindly soul, blinded by his own optimism. None of them
ever see anything except what they are asked to see; and so what chance
have I of coming on anything by way of them."

Of course there was still Tom Horn. And Anthony smiled as he thought
of him. Tom Horn never spoke to any one unless he was spoken to. All
day he added, and subtracted, and multiplied, and dotted his "i's"
and crossed his "t's." His white, nervous hands seemed tireless; his
thin body was bent over the high desk where the great books of the
house lay open before him. On the first morning Anthony spent in the
counting-room Griggs said, behind his hand:

"Don't mind Tom. A kindly chap and harmless, but queer."

Once Anthony mentioned the man to his uncle; Charles smiled and said;

"Poor Tom! I'm very fond of him. But I'm afraid there _is_ too much
moon-glow in his mind. He was shipwrecked once, and I think that was
the cause of it. But he's a shrewd hand at accounts; I've seen no
better anywhere, and he's as dependable as might be. But he's queer."

The queerness Anthony was prepared to grant; but after a few days in
the place, when he'd got settled down sufficiently to notice details,
he began to feel it manifest itself in ways that carried a disquieting
touch. Should he pass Tom Horn's desk, Anthony would see him bent over,
scratching away at his figures; but as soon as the young man got by he
had the feeling that the bent head had been lifted and that the man
was following him with his eyes. Sometimes Anthony would sit with a
heap of the routine work of the place before him or turning some vexed
thing over in his mind; then an odd, restless feeling would come over
him, and he'd look up, irritated. Over the edge of the tall desk he'd
see the peculiarly glowing eyes of the man fixed upon him. This Anthony
noted quite often, and in various ways. In the street he'd see Tom Horn
standing behind a bale of goods or a hogshead, watching him guardedly;
or it might be that his vantage-place would be a doorway, or behind
the jutting edge of a sharp window. But always he had the same steady
stare, his brows bent, a difficult something apparently revolving in
his troubled mind. Tom was always first in the counting-room of a
morning; an old porter told Anthony that he was there very often as
early as four o'clock.

"I always have a fire for Mr. Horn," said the man. "There's no telling
when he'll come in and start his day. He's an early bird, indeed, Mr.
Horn is."

Anthony always bade the eccentric clerk the time of day; but Tom Horn
never replied except with a questioning look that continued long after
the young man had turned away. But one morning Anthony had occasion to
hand him some bills for entry, and Tom surprised him by saying in his
peculiarly hushed voice:

"Every one gives me figures. I see figures in my sleep."

"I don't doubt it," smiled Anthony.

"Each figure," said Tom Horn, "is made up of parts of other figures.
Have you ever thought of that? Each leads into each; and so they make a
circle. All circles are open, but they grow narrower. Sometimes they do
it themselves; sometimes," and he nodded his head, his eyes fast upon
Anthony's face, "we make them do it. There's a law for it; it's a law
every one should study."

He again nodded his head, and remained looking after Anthony until
the young man went out of the room. After that, when Anthony saw the
strange eyes upon him,--and this was likely to occur at any hour of
the day,--Tom Horn always nodded to him; and, oddly enough, Anthony
fancied he detected in it something of approval--something, too, of
encouragement.

But the days of the early winter dragged. There was none of the stir
of vessels arriving and departing; none of the receiving of stores of
new merchandise, none of the sudden bustlings and gossip of trade, and
of money and exchange, that quickened things when the river was open.
And, as each slow day went by, Anthony was weighted more and more with
the conviction that no arresting sign would show itself in the midst
of this commercial usualness; no sign _could_ show itself. He watched
minutely; he carefully balanced what he saw against the indefinite
things he suspected. But the result was emptiness. His mind met with
polished perfection; his thoughts seemed to slip futilely about among
the smooth ways of the business. Not one thing threw even the shadow of
a promise across his path.

One early morning, as he shook the snow from his cloak and stamped it
from his boots before the counting-room fire, Tom Horn was arranging
his books upon the desk; and Anthony said, smilingly:

"You'll be a very wise man one day, Tom. All this poring over books
should lead to something."

"The books of the world, hold the world's knowledge," said Tom Horn.
"And too few people give attention to them."

"That's true," said Anthony, "most of us do not employ ourselves with
as many of them as we should."

"Sometimes," said the clerk, "men try to draw their knowledge from the
things in which they find themselves. In that way they limit their
possibilities; for there are always other and wider things that might
serve them better. One man can only hope to gain a little from the
world as it turns, and that little is not of much service. But the
accumulated findings of many men are ready written down. If you desire
to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study them
diligently, study many of them; it will cost you but the price of so
much lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of evening hours that
you'd otherwise throw away."

Anthony smiled.

"That's excellent advice, Tom," he said. "And I've no doubt I'd do well
to follow it."

The nights were long and cold and dark that winter; Anthony had no
desire for social diversions, and he resisted the calls made upon him
by his uncle, by Dr. King, by Whitaker; he desired to hold his mind to
one thing, and every hour was given to its solution.

When he'd shut the door of the counting-room of a night, leaving the
trusty old porter to draw the fires and put out the lamps, he'd trudge
away to some tavern and have a lonely supper; then he'd be off through
the snow, for the weather held sharp, and there was little thaw, to his
lodgings in Sassafras Street, where he'd sit and brood by candle-light.
Now and then he'd allow himself the pleasure of a visit to Christopher
Dent; and there, in the back room, he'd smoke and listen to the little
apothecary's pleased reminiscences of days that had long gone by. Once
or twice during these visits Tom Horn also chanced in to warm his legs
by Christopher's stove, before seeking the room he had in a court
off Front Street. But on these occasions he'd say nothing. Stamping
the snow from his heels, he'd hang his hat upon a peg and take his
accustomed chair by the stove. And while Christopher talked and Anthony
smoked and listened, Tom Horn would keep his eyes fixed upon the young
man's face; what he saw there must have pleased him, for every now and
then he'd break forth into a series of approving nods, and he'd rub his
well-warmed worsted stockings smartly and with much confidence.

Of course, Anthony knew who Christopher's lodgers were; he'd frowned
when he first heard it, and when he reached his rooms that night his
thoughts were far from pleasant. He could never quite forget the
beautiful, spirited creature he'd seen on the first morning after his
arrival in the city; he could never quite forget the tremble in her
rich voice as she appealed to him for aid. Also, and his brow grew dark
at this, he could never forget the look she'd given him that night at
the Crooked Billet, that cold, stabbing look of scorn; and her head had
turned away so that she might not see him, and she had walked into the
conference of his enemies.

Each time after a visit at Christopher's he'd go through this, and each
time the train of thought would have its beginning in some trifling
thing. Once as he left the apothecary's shop he saw the windows of the
second floor lighted up and the lamp glow shining down upon the snow.
Once while he sat with his pipe in the apothecary's back room he heard
a light foot on the stairs beyond the partition wall; the street door
opened and closed. She had gone out! The streets were dark and lonely!
He had half arisen to follow her; then he crushed himself back in his
chair. At still another time he heard the faint tinkling of a stringed
instrument, and the sweet murmur of a voice, singing a little French
song. There was a peaceful something in this that shook Anthony; and as
he sat in his room afterward his thoughts were very bitter, indeed.

He tried not to think of her; but when she gained a way into his mind
his reflections always had one ending. Magruder! Had there ever been
a more vicious and sordid taking off? Was there ever a more bloody or
evil deed? The stains of it were deep on Tarrant and the big young
man. And the girl? Was she not their friend? Had she not been in Water
Street about the time the thing was done? Had not a rumor tied a woman
to the crime? Every pulse in his body sent protests to his mind; but
his mind was fixed, and he'd rise up and tramp the floor.

One day Charles Stevens did not appear at the counting-room, being ill
of a congestion. And in the evening Anthony took him some papers which
it was thought necessary that he see, and found him wrapped comfortably
in a rug before a fire in the library, reading a play-book. It was then
that the words of Tom Horn about books came back to Anthony; and after
he had discussed the matter of the papers with his uncle he approached
one of the crowded bookcases.

"Sometimes I feel the need of a little variety in my thinking," he
said. "Would you mind if I took one or two of these away with me?"

Charles, with the play-book lying upon his snugly wrapped knees, looked
at him and smiled.

"Your grandfather never concerned himself with books," said he; "and
you are such a replica of him that I took it for granted that your
taste must be the same."

Anthony had opened the case and was rummaging among its contents, and
Charles went on.

"Those rakehells of the Restoration will amuse you, if your taste
runs to their kind," and he riffled the leaves of the play-book with
kindly fingers. "You'll find them there in the second shelf, next the
fireplace. Or, if you'd rather take a step back, the Elizabethans
are just below, and they are a crew that'll shake your soul, or
your ribs, just as you'd have them. Those Italian tale-tellers were
shrewd workmen,--there in the pigskin, right under your hand,--but
if you think you'd care for romance nearer to this present day there
is Defoe's narrative of the shipwrecked sailor, and also Fielding's
chronicle of life as he's seen it in his own England."

There was an array of pudgy little books, with stout leather backs and
stained edges, upon a shelf quite low in the case. Anthony stooped,
took one out, and opened it. The eyes of Charles sparkled.

"Voyages!" said he. "That one, I'll wager, is Bartholomew Diaz; how
often I've sailed with him as a boy through the pages of that book,
to the mouth of the Great Fish River. And there is fine old Vasco da
Gama! Many a summer afternoon he and I have doubled the cape, put
the complaining pilots in irons, and thrown their quadrants into the
sea. And Columbus, and Cabot, and the Merchant Adventurers' Company.
There's a rank and file for you, if you want actual deeds and fine
accomplishment; Hawkins, Drake, Davis, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and that
never-beaten Yorkshireman, Martin Frobisher--"

"What are these?" asked Anthony.

At the bottom of the bookcase, stacked one upon the other, was an array
of huge volumes, strong-looking and clean, and each with a number
marked upon the leather back, in ink.

"More voyages," smiled Charles. "More expeditions, traffickings, and
discoveries. But they are quite modern. In those a patient reader would
find a complete record of the doings of Rufus Stevens' Sons, set down
from the beginning."

Again Anthony thought of Tom Horn, but now in a new way. Again he saw
him, with the successors of these same books before him on the tall
desk, and heard him repeat, with an odd significance appearing in the
words for the first time:

"The accumulated findings of many men are already written down. If you
desire to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study
them diligently, study many of them. It will cost you but the price of
lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of some winter nights that
you might otherwise throw away."

Anthony carried one of the big volumes to the table and opened it under
the light. It was kept in a fine, flowing hand, in very black ink and
with its rulings perfectly done.

"That's one of old Carberry's," said Charles. "A fine old fellow. He
was before Tom Horn. Before him was Lucas, and before Lucas was Parker,
a young Quaker who went into a business of his own. Mason had the books
while your father was still with us, but there were two or three others
between Mason and Parker."

Anthony gave him an odd look.

"You seem to have had a number of accountants of late years," said he.

Charles smiled, rather ruefully.

"Yes," said he, "that's true. I don't understand how it is. Our other
work-people stay on with us for years. But, among those who have kept
our accounts, Tom Horn seems to be the only one who could or would
remain."

Anthony's eyes went hungrily up and down the careful columns.

"I think," said he, "I'd rather dip into these than into any other
books you have." And then, as his uncle looked at him in surprise, he
added, "If I'm to come to the core of the firm's doings, I see no more
direct way than this."

"Well, after all," said Charles amusedly, "I was not far wrong. You are
your grandfather over again. He'd have preferred the counting-house
books to any romance or comedy ever penned."

And so when Anthony set out for his lodgings that night, he carried
with him a number of the firm's books; they ran in regular order, and
the dates on their backs were of the years immediately following his
father's withdrawal from the business.




                                  XVI


Anthony found a fine flavor in the old books of Rufus Stevens' Sons, a
rich color, and an admirable reticence. Everything was set down with
clerkly care, but for all that there was no humdrum routine, no dull
insistence on profit and loss, no sordid grasping or squeezing of
little things. The columns of figures, as Anthony studied them, did
not mean so much the dollars paid out or taken in; they did not seem
to deal with hard money, or price, with bargain or sale; when a line
was struck under one of them, the result had none of the smell of the
counting-room; rather it told of singular adventuring, of hazards, of
stratagems in the midst of danger, of bleak days and plunging nights at
sea.

He saw wide stretches of water: he saw a red sun and strange stars,
and high-hulled ships with odd rigs and worked by dark-skinned men. He
saw ports which grew masts as a forest grows trees; he saw boundless
riches, precious stuffs, and ant-like populations; and he felt the
spiritual depression that emanates from vast huddles of submissive
people.

The names of the houses dealt with gave a tropic savor to many an
entry; through a list of merchandise Anthony could fancy a caravan
plodding; the glare of the sands made his eyes ache; he felt the hot
wind on his face.

Batavia! Calcutta! Canton! Silent bells seemed to ring the names in his
mind.

Batavia! Dutch Javanese, a place of stinks, of green canals, of hordes
of slaves, of stolid Chinamen, a place of pepper, of rattan, of
sandalwood; of indigo, arrack and cloves. And its coffee! Its strong,
brown, whip-like coffee that made the nerves jump, and started a fever
in the blood. And Calcutta! held in one of the holy hands of the
Ganges, standing away, many a laborious mile from the sea which made
it; Calcutta, bright, opulent, hot, city of the Parsee merchant, of the
Hindu, the Greek, the Armenian; place of silks, of wonderful shawls,
of rice, ginger, and hides; of oils, ointments, and opium; city of
crowding ships, of tangled flags, of many tongues; gateway of riches;
sluice carrying off the toil of a patient people; filter through which
went all that was good, and which gave back dregs alone.

Then Canton! with its staggering, shell-walled junks, its narrow
streets, its sharp smells, its teeming, sweating, cheapened population,
its grotesque vice. Grass cloth, damask, nankeen. Table ware! oh,
excellent stuff! smooth, durable, shapely, with all the craft of
attentive minds in its fabrication. And tea! The fortunes and the
fragrance that were boxed up in those little chests! The swift
ships that were sent for them: wide-winged ships that took them in,
expectantly, departed hastily, and arrived breathlessly. And then such
a gathering of merchants, such an uplifting of voices, such a scurrying
and planning, such a laying out of money, such profiting and such
satisfaction! Boxes of magic! Little chests of sorcery! marked with
incantations and odorous of flowers.

A little wicket in Anthony's mind would be thrown open at some such
place as this, and the sentinel, posted there by old Rufus, would put
out his head.

"You are a true nephew to Charles," the sentinel would say. "You have a
deal of the strain of blood that makes play of what should be serious
man's work. You refused romances when Charles offered them. You said
you'd rather read the books of the house. Very well, but how are you
reading them? Are they any more than tale books, taken in the spirit
in which you sit down to them? It was your hope, was it not, to come
upon some cunning contrivance, or artful bit of knavery? But it will
take an open mind for that, and a seeing eye; and neither of those are
had by one who reads into a book things that are not there."

"I was wrong," said Anthony. "I admit it. I was wrong."

"The winter is an excellent time for a search like this," spoke the
sentinel; "and the winter is passing. In the spring other things will
take your attention. So work diligently now; give your mind to it, and
put aside all else. The things you have been thinking are those a man
finds who reads by moonlight."

And then the wicket would close with an exasperated little snap; and
Anthony would set himself squarely to his task, hunting, tracing, and
examining. There was now no line of writing in any of the books that
was so honest but it had to prove itself; there were no figures so
obvious but they came under suspicion. As fast as he finished with the
books he had, he brought more to his lodgings, and there was not a
night but one of them was open on the table; his light burned steadily
into the small hours while he read and made notes of those things which
drew his attention.

"A coffee-house or a playhouse would be far better entertainment for
him," said Charles, in speaking of the matter to Captain Weir. "But
when a young man is as set in disposition as Anthony, one may as well
give him his way."

Weir stood at a window with his back turned, and Charles did not see
the ugly twist at his mouth or the narrowing of his cold eyes. But what
he said was:

"I would venture he's nearer right than wrong. A solid knowledge may be
had by doing what he's elected to do."

Whitaker smiled; also he shrugged in the new French way when Griggs
spoke of Anthony's labors. "Of course, every man to his own way of
doing things," said he. "But my own method is to look forward, not
backward; and I've found it does very well."

One night Anthony was drawing on his boots before the counting-room
fire; Tom Horn was busy at his tall desk with his ledgers, a candle
burning on either side of him. He suddenly paused in his labor and
looked at Anthony.

"I have noticed in bits of your writing," said he, "that your pen is
not a skilled one."

"No," confessed Anthony, readily. "I write very badly."

"Your capitals do not tower enough," said Tom Horn; "your round letters
are too full in the belly, and your loops are squat." He peered at
Anthony over the great ledger, the candle on either side toning out
the transparent quality of his skin but adding to the worn expression;
the shadows made the deep-set eyes seem deeper, the hope in them more
despairing. "To give smoothness to your hand," said he, "you should
study some one who took pride in such things." He nodded, his gaze
holding to the young man's face. "Back before my day with the firm's
books, there was a man of the name of Lucas who wrote a very useful
hand. And Carberry, who came after him, also had a well-ordered pen.
You would do well to give attention to both; but, of the two, Lucas
would give you most for your effort."

"I have not yet come to Lucas's period in the books," said Anthony;
"nor yet Carberry's. But when I do I'll remember what you say."

The winter drew on, a series of bitter nights and gray, wind-driven
days; the report came that the bay was a mass of great floes, and that
sledges heavily burdened were venturing a mile or more from shore on
either side. The roads were filled with hard-packed snow; wheeled
vehicles had not been seen for weeks.

Then one evening there walked into the counting-room of Rufus Stevens'
Sons one Corkery, mate of the firm's ship _General Stark_, and, in a
brief seaman-like way, told how the vessel was ice-bound at New Castle
and from all appearances would remain so until the coming of spring.

This news caused Anthony to walk the floor; for the _Stark_ was laden
with hides, drugs, and sugar, and the market for these things was
brisk. The ship should never have ventured into the bay. It seemed that
Captain Small had managed her indifferently.

"Captain Small is ill of a lung fever," said Corkery. "He hasn't set
foot on deck since we left Hatteras."

"As mate," said Anthony, "you took his place. When you saw the floes,
you should have headed the vessel for New York. With the merchandise
landed there we'd have contrived a way to deal with it."

Corkery was a blunt man, with no affectation of speech.

"With a master tumbling about on his bed, and praying to God, and
raving about things that must have passed in his boyhood, I was glad
to arrive, as near as I could, at the place called for in the ship's
papers," said he. "You here in the counting-room can talk of markets
easily enough, for you are always where you can watch them; also, you
can talk offhand of changing a ship's destination, for you've no one to
answer to if you've guessed wrong."

Anthony smiled and nodded, for he knew the mate spoke truth.

"I hope all that could be done for Captain Small has been done," said
he.

"He is ashore at New Castle, at the house of a doctor in the place, and
is being well seen to," said Corkery.

"That is good," said Charles. "And, as to the ship, I suppose all we
can do now is see that she's well watched to keep her from thieves, and
from damage by the ice."

"That is all. The second mate is aboard, and the crew is one to be
depended on. I'll go back myself in a day or two."

But Anthony frowned; and after Corkery had gone he continued to pace
the floor.

"Ah, well," said Whitaker, after a time, approaching him, "it does
no good to fidget. It's the hard season, and nothing else was to be
expected. We can only wait until the ice is out, and the vessel can
come comfortably up to her dock."

"But while excellent cargo is within hands' reach are we to sit here
twiddling our thumbs?"

"What else can we do?" asked Whitaker cheerily. "When a ship is lodged
in the river's gullet as this one seems to be, and there's a month or
more of bad weather still to come, why fret and get in a state of mind?"

But this submissive state did not appeal to Anthony; he resented the
easy air of the counting-room under defeat; so he thought hard about
the matter during the day, and for most of the night; and the next
morning found him in the public room of a tavern on Second Street
where he heard Corkery was lodged. The mate sat before the tavern fire
chipping bits of tobacco from a dark cake, with which to charge his
pipe, and greeted Anthony with a nod; the young man drew a stool up to
the fire and sat warming his hands at the blaze.

"They tell me," said Anthony, "that you are of this port and know the
river and bay very well."

"Why," said Corkery, as he carefully chipped away at the tobacco, "I
was a boy aboard a sloop that sailed between here and Bristol, carrying
bricks; then I shipped on the New Castle packets. Yes, I can claim to
know the river and bay quite well."

"How did you come up to the city?" asked Anthony.

"By sledge," replied the mate.

"In what state are the roads?"

"Filled with snow, but packed hard. The sledge I came up on carried a
good weight of freight as well."

"Are there many sledges in the neighborhood of New Castle, and could
one engage the use of them?"

"The farmers and traders could muster a deal of them," said Corkery,
"and, I suppose, would put them out for hire with little dispute."

Anthony smiled at the fire; and then he began questioning the man about
the position of the ship, and the condition of the ice about her. The
replies being satisfactory, the young man went into the bar and spoke
to the landlord.

"I want a span of good-stepping horses," he said. "Also I want a sleigh
and a driver who knows the roads as far south as New Castle."

The landlord was a Scot, a hard-featured, scrubby man with the manner
of one whom the world had failed to convince.

"There's many a team," said he, "and like enough there's many a sleigh.
And I've spoken to many a man who knows the very roads you have in
mind. But where are they now? is the question, and could they be
engaged if found?" He frowned and looked doubtful. "But you might try
Churchman in Cobbler's Place," said he.

Churchman was located; he was the exact opposite of the Scot; he
took life as a pleasant experience, and seemed to have the fullest
confidence in everything.

"I have just the span you want, and exactly the sleigh," said he. "But
the driver is another matter. Couldn't you drive yourself? Your way is
as plain as a-b-c."

Anthony had traveled the roads with Christopher Dent as far as the
Delaware line, on more occasions than one, and he felt sure that he'd
manage to keep to the way. So he gave his orders and went back to the
counting-room. Charles had not yet arrived, for it was still a fairly
early hour. However, Captain Weir was there; he stood with his back to
the fire, his hands behind him, and greeted Anthony pleasantly.

"You are still going on with the books, I suppose," said he, after a
space.

"Yes," said Anthony.

"Mind you don't overdo it; too much candle-light is a bad thing. But
with all this attention you must be making progress."

"Yes," said the young man, "things are becoming plainer to me, I
think." He took up a poker and shoved a billet, which was throwing a
thin spiral of smoke into the room, back into the fireplace. "Though, I
must admit, there are some I don't understand."

"To be sure," said Weir. "That is to be expected. But, perhaps, I could
help you?"

But Anthony shook his head.

"Not yet," said he. "For I haven't made up my mind about the matters,
except to think them curious, and to note that they stand out
singularly."

"Books are kept for a firm's information," said Weir; "but, speaking
for myself, I get little out of them. After a little they are a kind of
a maze, and often mislead me."

"So far, I can't complain of that. But, as I've said, I've come upon an
odd flavor here and there in the ledgers; it's made me curious, and I
hope to come upon the reason for the oddness further on."

Here Charles came in, cheery and rosy from the nip of the cold.

"I have made arrangements to go to New Castle to-day," said Anthony.

Charles threw his cloak to a porter, and looked at his nephew in
surprise.

"Why?" he asked.

"To look at the roads, to get the position of the ship, and study the
chances of getting the cargo up to the city."

Charles laughed good-humoredly.

"Well, thank God, you've got an active mind," said he. "But here's a
thing, I'm afraid, that's bigger than you think for."

"That can't be told until the conditions are known to a certainty,"
said Anthony. "If the roads are as I have been assured they are,
and sledges are to be had, I can bring the important details of the
_Stark's_ cargo into the warehouse in ten days' time."

Charles looked at him for a moment, and then turned to Weir.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Weir. "I've never heard of it being done under
these conditions; but, then," and he nodded his head, his eye fixed
thoughtfully upon Anthony, "we have here a young man who has led trains
through the wilderness, and across the deserts. So, under any human
circumstances, from New Castle to the city should be no impossible
task."

"Well," said Charles to Anthony, "if you have the mind to try the
thing, there it is for you."

An hour later, while the horses were being put to the sleigh in
Cobbler's Place, Anthony told Churchman what he had in mind. The
optimist rose freshly to the idea, his eyes snapping.

"The only thing against you is a sudden change in the weather great
enough to soften the roads," said he. Then he scanned the patch of sky
that could be seen between the walls of the court and seemed to taste
of the quality of the wind. "And there's not much chance of that," said
he. "This cold wind will keep things hard as iron for weeks to come."

Anthony settled the thick, warm robes about him and was off along
Second Street; and, finally below the lower ferry, he struck into
the road that ran along the river. It was afternoon when he drew up
in Chester for a snack of food, some warming drink, and to have the
horses seen to. He crossed the state line in that gray hour just before
nightfall; the wind from the river, away to the left, was bleak and
heavy; the runners whined as they slid over the frozen snow; Anthony's
knees were stiff, and despite the generous wrappings he began to feel
his blood chill. He saw a man cutting wood in a patch of timber not far
from the road, and drove toward him.

"How many miles is it to the nearest tavern where a bed can be had for
the night?"

The ax bit deeply into the log and was allowed to stay so, while the
man beat his blue hands together and answered:

"There's a village about five miles along the way you're going. But the
inn is a rough place, and small; and the food is not over-good."

"Years ago," said Anthony, "when I knew something of the roads further
to the north, I'd hear of a tavern called "the Brig" which I understood
was somewhere hereabouts."

The man's face wore a curious expression as he looked at Anthony. Then
he said:

"It's open still, and is clean, and has excellent, good beds. There's
cookery to be had in that place the like of which you seldom come upon;
and as for its spirits and malt liquors, well, sir, they are rare,
indeed!"

The place where Anthony had stopped was on the shoulder of a hill;
night was now lowering over the desolate winter landscape with its bare
fields, stunted trees, and ice-filled marsh. The wood-cutter pointed in
the direction of the river.

"Do you see that road winding along there?" asked he. "And there, in a
hollow near it, a clump of cedars?"

"I do," said Anthony. "And I also see something rising up from among
the trees like the mast of a ship."

"It is one," said the man, "and with a topmast and rigging all
complete, just as it would be if it were stepped in a vessel instead of
the dooryard of the Brig Tavern."

Anthony looked at the mast for a moment, then turned his eyes upon the
man.

"When I inquired about an inn," said he, "you spoke of an indifferent
one a long way off, but made no mention of this excellent one so close
at hand."

The wood-cutter grasped the haft of his ax and plucked its blade out of
the log.

"The Brig is so off the road," said he, "I thought you'd not care to go
there."

There was a look in the man's face that gave a different story; but
Anthony did not stay to go further into the matter; he thanked him,
turned his horses back to the road, and proceeded on. In a little while
he came to the place where the winding road crossed the main one;
taking to this he journeyed on toward the tavern. The winter twilight
had grown thicker; and ahead in the hollow where the cedars grew, night
had already thrown itself down. There was a dull glow from the inn; it
served to light the way through the trees, and as Anthony's sleigh drew
up a man came out of a barn with a lantern.

"What, Mr. Blake," said the man, "are you back so soon?"

"I am not Mr. Blake," said Anthony, as he threw aside the robes and got
out. "What encouragement is there here for a traveler who has the mind
to stay overnight?"

The man held the lantern up so that its lighted candle might bring out
Anthony's face.

"I was sure you were Mr. Blake," said he. "Your horses feet pattered
on the road just as his do, and you came in at the gate in the same
free fashion."

"As I so resemble friend Blake in those ways," said Anthony, "I wonder
is he like me in being hungry and in need of a fire and a bed."

"I have no doubt but you can have both if you inquire within," said the
man. "And if you desire I'll rub and feed and bed your horses."

Anthony turned the animals over to him, and walked up the paved way
to the door of the tavern. There were some massive hewn steps leading
up to the door, and a hood projected over it to keep out the wash of
the weather. Anthony went through the wide hall and into a room at one
side. Two men sat by a fire playing drafts, and a woman stood by the
table watching them. One of the men was a furtive, dry-looking person
with a patch over one eye; the other was Monsieur Lafargue. And she who
stood looking on was his daughter.




                                 XVII


As Anthony stood in the doorway, unnoticed by those in the room, a
man came down the passage. It was the landlord, a massive man, with a
glowing vitality and a quick eye.

"Pardon," said he, "I did not know monsieur had arrived. I was
expecting no one, for the night is shutting down."

Anthony followed him along the passage and into another room; this was
larger than the first, but it was snug enough, there being a good fire
blazing, and the curtains being drawn to keep out the bleak look of the
falling night.

Anthony warmed himself by the fire and examined the host, who was
without doubt a Frenchman--a huge, swift man who at once gained the
attention.

"I had hoped to reach Wilmington before night overtook me," said
Anthony. "But I could not do it; and so I recalled this place."

A quick, bright interest was in the landlord's eye.

"Ah," said he, "monsieur has been here before?"

"No," said Anthony.

"So few come to us from the roads," said the man. "We are out of the
track, you see. Our guests are from the river: masters and mates and
supercargoes of vessels working up to the city, or bound out to sea,
who are at anchor awaiting orders, or repairs, or one of many other
things. It was for them, monsieur, that the inn was originally built."

"You have not much patronage when the ice is in the river, I suppose?"

"Ah! then it is a lean time, indeed," complained the host. "There is
nothing."

"And yet," continued Anthony, "as I think I've noticed, you do not
altogether lack patronage."

"A few people who will be gone as soon as they have eaten and rested,"
said the Frenchman briefly. And then, "Will monsieur remain for the
night?"

Anthony replied that he would; also that he was hungry and looked
forward to a good supper; and then, with many assurances, the landlord
left him. The young man stood before the fire for a time, his eyes
fixed on the floor, frowning, his hands clasped behind him. There was a
moaning of the winter wind among the high, pointed roofs of the Brig;
and the mast planted in the dooryard sung keenly.

He tried to think what Lafargue and his daughter were doing in so
unexpected a place. In pleasanter weather it might be laid to the
desire of strangers to journey about, but the bare fields and cold
roads beckoned no one on days like these. For a space he wondered at
their presence; then, easily, so easily that he was not aware of it,
his mind slipped into the thought that mademoiselle was beautiful. He'd
always known it, yet he'd never felt it so forcefully as he did at the
moment he'd seen her at the table near her father, amusedly watching
his interest in the draft-board. Her tallness was marked, and--

"What the devil of it?" said Anthony. "She could be as tall and slim as
a spire, and yet it would mean nothing to me."

Again he pinned his mind to a more practical thing. Rufus Stevens'
Sons had a rich ship fast in the ice not many miles below; and Rufus
Stevens' Sons had enemies. Among those enemies--and the young man
would have laid his head on the block in support of this--was Tarrant.
And Tarrant was a friend to Lafargue, and apparently to Lafargue's
daughter. Anthony fixed his eye on the long flare of a candle, and
stood frowning at it. He had always thought her hair quite dark; but
now he knew it was not. There was a great deal of copper in it, a deep,
rich copper that had shone warmly in the candle-light. He wondered what
that something was that candle-light had--it seemed to bring out truth
so. That's why they burned them on altars, perhaps, or that's why their
lighting, spoken of in certain books, was always the signal for the
appearance of pixies and fairies. He stood for a long time so.

Then he took his eyes from the candle and cursed himself for a fool!
The gentle shape against the lovely glow was gone; in its place
was the dirty hull of the _General Stark_, fast in the grip of the
river; and filling the remainder of Anthony's world were the eyes of
Tarrant--cold, malicious eyes, and greedy, too, and fixed upon the
helpless vessel.

A man came into the room and smirked at Anthony.

"How do you do, sir?" said he.

It was the man with the patch over his eye, and he approached the fire,
where he warmed his large-boned hands and basked in the heat with many
little gasps and whistlings of pleasure.

"A bitter night," said he. "A bitter, raw night. It's very fortunate
that one has a place like this to depend upon when affairs draw one so
far from the city."

"It is so," said Anthony.

"A fine, generous place," said the man appreciatively. "Good food and
drink, clean beds. Comfortable surroundings. A traveler should give
thanks for gifts as good as these."

"Especially as the place is so unexpected," said Anthony.

Again the man smirked. He rubbed his hands together over the fire;
there was something furtive in the way he did this, as though he were
filching the warmth, and getting pleasure out of the fact that no one
noticed it.

"The inn _is_ curiously located," said he. "Very curiously. I've spoken
of it more than once. But, then, shipmen are a fine-hearted lot, and
when they come up from the sea they want comfort ashore. And who will
blame them?"

"Not I," said Anthony.

There was a little pause; then the man spoke again.

"You are connected with shipping, I'd say."

"Yes."

The man nodded.

"There is something of the manner of the seaman about you," said he.
"And yet," with another smirk, "I seem to see the merchant, too."

"You have an excellent eye," said Anthony.

"I wonder," said the man, "if I've ever come upon you before. I have
a passing acquaintance with most of the traders, ship-owners, and
traffickers in the port, and yet I can't recall you."

"I have been in the North only a short time," said Anthony. "I'm of
Rufus Stevens' Sons."

The man sucked in his lips, and left off warming his hands; his one
good eye searched Anthony's face with startled sharpness.

"A good house," he said finally. "An excellent house. You are perhaps,"
and he said this with care, "that nephew to Charles of whom I have
heard."

"I am his only nephew," said Anthony.

"There are those who speak of Charles as erratic," observed the man
with the one eye. "But that is an error. He _is_ different from most of
his occupation, but difference signifies nothing to a man's discredit.
He is an unusual and desirable person. I congratulate you in him."

Anthony nodded. He wished the man would take himself off, for the
furtive manner and crafty eye did not please him.

"It is too bad your ship is in so unfortunate a situation in the
river," said the man. "Some one has told me that she carries cargo of
immediate value."

"Yes," said Anthony.

"But what can be done?" said the man. He awaited an answer; but none
came, and he proceeded. "Providence decrees these things, and so it is
scarcely proper for us to object."

Anthony was one who did not readily put the blame of things on
Providence, and he held his tongue with difficulty. However, he saw
the one-eyed man shrewdly awaiting an observation from him, and that
made silence easier. The stranger talked of ships, cargoes, weather,
and misadventures, but Anthony replied only briefly; then the landlord
came in, and laid the cloth for the young man's supper. Anthony sat
down, and the one-eyed man, with a parting smirk, left the room. The
supper was hot and plentiful and good; the host served him himself with
great attention. When he had finished, Anthony sat and smoked a Spanish
cigar by the fire, listening to the wind whining among the roofs of the
tavern and quite at his ease. Now and then the tall, graceful figure
in the candle-light would venture to the edge of his thoughts, but he
drove it back with resolution.

A clock from somewhere in the place struck nine; Anthony arose and went
to see to his horses. He found them well provided for, in warm stalls,
watered and fed, and bedded thickly in fresh straw.

"A good team," said the hostler, who held the lantern so that Anthony
might see that all was well. "Well set upon their feet, and with fine
barrels and strong legs. I like sorrels; they are not as common as
some, and they have plenty of courage."

"I suppose," said Anthony, "you have handled horses for a long time."

"Yes," said the man, "for many years, indeed. I've been employed at
a half-score inns in my time--inns that have stood on much-traveled
roads, and have taken in all who came their way."

"The Brig must be a quiet place after those," said Anthony.

The man smoothed his jaws with a nervous hand.

"I like a place to be quiet," said he. "There's few come by this track,
for it leads only to the marsh and the river. Yes, it's quiet here; and
I am away from all urging."

Anthony looked curiously at the man; the rays of the lantern were in
his face, and his deep-set eyes showed the habit of fear.

"The main road is a good piece away," said he. "I'm glad of that, for
I'm afraid of roads. There are many strange things that happen on
them. If you listen, in quiet weather," said he, and pointed in the
direction of the highway, "you can hear that one speak. Of a night in
the summer-time I lie awake and listen to it whispering in its sleep
as though it were dreaming. The dreams of roads must be strange ones,"
said the man. "There are times when they must be monstrous. And I keep
from them as much as I may."

"It is a queer thing to be afraid of a road," said Anthony.

"You'd not say that if you'd had as much to do with them as I," said
the man. "I know what they are. Much danger is to be met on roads;
many an honest man has lost his life upon them; and many a foul thing
creeps along their lengths."

"I've traveled a deal," said Anthony, "and I've met with no harm."

The man shook his head.

"Do not trust them," he said. "More than any other time, do not trust
them of a night. There is more goes on of a night on the road than is
thought."

"If a man does not come to know the highways by traveling them, how is
he to do it?" asked Anthony.

"To know a road, even in a small way," said the man, "you must live
by the side of it a very long time. You must lie down by it in the
darkness; you must listen for its mutterings, and to the pulse that
beats always in it; you must give your mind to the messages it brings
of happenings a long way off. Yes, roads are strange, and for all
their talk you never get the full truth of their doings. That's why I
am afraid of them. When travel is high, and they are flowing along,
they try to take one with them. Did you know that? You can feel them
reaching out for you and grasping at you. A quiet place is best; and
this place is very quiet. There is nothing goes by this door that might
take one up and away. Yes, it's very quiet here; there is nothing to be
afraid of."

Anthony went back to the fire, and sat for an hour or more considering
what he'd better do next day; then he called the landlord, and a porter
was given a candle and told to show him to his room. This was at the
side of the house facing the river; and when the porter had gone
Anthony blew out the candle, pulled back the window-curtains, and stood
looking out. The wind was blowing in gusts, and had a thin, bitter
sound; clouds were driving along the sky; the stars were small and
cold and far away. Across the dismal wrack of the winter marsh he saw
the ice-choked river, running like a gray streak across the darkness.
He watched this for some time; then he drew the curtains once more,
relighted the candle, opened his roll of belongings, and prepared for
bed.

It was a solid, honest-looking room: the bed had tall posts and a tick
swollen with feathers; the sheets were white and smelled sweet as he
stretched himself between them. There was not a sound but the wind and
the shaking of the window-frames. All the people of the countryside
must be indoors, he thought, to avoid the cold. And they showed good
sense in that. There was nothing so disagreeable as a bleak night,
afloat or ashore; and there was nothing quite so comfortable as a
snug bed. He had nothing to say against good company, mind you, or
a cheery fire and some hot drink, and tales of adventuring here and
there. Many a bad night might be turned to pleasant account that way.
It was a fine, good-humored, and companionable way. But, after all, a
good bed--long enough, so that one might stretch out in it--was best;
you could lie and think if you had the mind, or you could doze off
luxuriously with nothing to prevent you.

Anthony dozed off; and then he slept. And finally he awoke. He did not
know how much time had passed; but he did know that his room door was
partly open, and that some one stood there looking in. The part-light
glinted coldly upon the long barrel of a pistol; a man held the weapon
in both hands, and it was pointed toward the bed; one eye of the man
glanced sharply along its length, and the other was covered by a patch.

Then there were quick feet in the passage; there was a voice,--a
woman's voice,--angry, but whispering, a scuffling, a curse! Then the
door closed and a key shot-to the bolt. Anthony leaped out of bed;
he opened the door with his own key, and looked out. The passage was
lighted grayly by a window at one end; it was empty and silent. For an
instant it was in his mind to believe he had been dreaming; but there
upon the floor, the morning light cold upon its barrel, lay a holster
pistol, its hammer drawn back at full cock.




                                 XVIII


As he stood looking at the pistol lying on the floor of the passage, a
rage grew in Anthony's breast; he returned to his room and drew on his
clothes; into the passage he went once more, took up the pistol, and
looked to its loading and priming at the window. Then, lowering the
hammer and holding to the barrel, he thumped upon the door nearest him
with the butt.

"Landlord! Everybody! Turn out! My life has been put in danger in this
damned house! Landlord!"

From door to door, down the passage, he went; the pistol butt fell
noisily upon each, and at each he swore bitter oaths.

"Landlord! Out with you! By God, there's not a man in all this place
but must answer to me!"

There were hurried sounds behind the closed doors; a servant of the inn
came toiling up the stairs.

"Sir," said he. "You'll have the house aroused. What is the matter?"

"Get me the landlord," directed Anthony. "Tell him not to delay. I have
a sharp word or two for that good man."

"The landlord is still abed," said the servant.

Anthony took him by the scruff of the neck and held his face against
the glass of the window.

"Who do you see in the yard?" demanded he.

It was the landlord himself, and hastily leading out a team of
swift-looking horses, attached to a sleigh. At the same time a man was
seen to cross the yard from the direction of the tavern door; it was
the man with the patch over one eye, and he took the reins and stepped
into the sleigh. Anthony tore at the window to open it, but it was
fast; with the pistol butt he smashed the glass, and while it was still
crashing and jingling he shouted.

"Stop! I'd like a moment with you, sir!"

The man in the sleigh gave one upward look, then wheeled his horses to
face the road. Anthony leveled the pistol and fired; the heavy ball
smashed through the back of the sleigh; there were cries from all parts
of the inn; then, seizing the remainder of his belongings, Anthony ran
down the stairs.

At the outer door he met the landlord, thick-set, swift, with bright
dangerous eyes; and the man held out a hand to stop him.

"Monsieur takes many liberties," said the landlord. "He smashes my
windows, and fires at my guests."

Anthony saw the hostler with whom he had spoken the night before
standing at the door of the barn.

"My horses," said he, "and let me have them quickly."

"First," said the landlord, and the hand was still held out, "we shall
speak a few words."

"So we shall," said Anthony, as he looked at him from under frowning
brows. "And they shall be very few." He struck aside the man's hand and
gripped him by the shoulder. "What manner of place do you keep here,
where your crony tries to murder a traveler in his bed, and you lend
your ready help to have him escape?"

The Frenchman, with a heave of his powerful body, pulled himself free;
there was a savage glint in his eye and a purposeful set to his jaws.
He leaped at Anthony like an ape, and at once had him cleverly about
the body.

"Now, my loud-crowing young gentleman, I'll show you something," said
he.

There were some of the tavern's people who had gathered by this;
heads were seen at windows, and each face wore a grin of derision for
Anthony. Softly, creepingly, the cunning grip shifted and improved
itself. From the ease of the things doing, the young man knew he was in
the hands of a master of wrestling; he saw the bulging of the big thews
under the Frenchman's clothes, and the swelling of his thick neck.

"In another two minutes," said a voice, "he'll not have enough breath
in his body to whisper with. And a little space ago he was talking loud
enough."

Anthony thought he knew this voice; he cocked an eye over the shoulder
of the straining Frenchman in its direction and saw the big young man
of the New York packet.

"Hah!" said Anthony, "it was half in my mind that you'd be here, my
friend." The hostler, whom he had ordered to make ready his sleigh,
stood in the barn-door, the harness in his hands, his mouth open.
"Don't waste my time, good friend," Anthony called to him. "Get the
horses to the sleigh; for after I've finished here I'll want to take to
the road in the wake of the person who just left."

The Frenchman was proceeding in a methodical, workman-like manner; his
thick arms were contracting steadily about Anthony's body; under their
pressure the young man felt his ribs bending, his vitals crushed, and
his breath grow short. And all the time the Frenchman growled like a
surly dog.

"We shall see in a moment," he wheezed. "We shall see how you'll talk
when I've done with you, my high-stepper!"

But Anthony had a plan in his mind, and his thoughts were now on it
alone. He threw his weight forward, and the Frenchman gave back; the
tavern yard was thick with snow, frozen over in a rough crust; at one
place where much water had been thrown there was a smooth ice, and it
was upon this that the young man forced the wrestler. To put forward
the effort needed in his bone-crushing the man needed good footing;
and here he had none. Once upon the glassy spot he began to slip, and
his grip grew slack. Anthony's right knee instantly came up, short,
sharp, vicious; once, twice, thrice it struck the Frenchman in the
stomach, and he went a deathly green. Anthony tore himself from the
weakened grip, and lashed out with his fist; it struck the wrestler on
the side of the head, and he fell and lay without motion.

"My sleigh in two minutes," said Anthony as he glanced toward the barn;
then he stepped to where the onlookers were grouped, and his lowering
eyes marked each one. They were mostly young, or in the prime of life,
sailormen, or having the look of mercantile pursuits, hardy of body,
keen of eye, and of ready manner.

"My life," said Anthony, "has been put in danger in this place, and
until I have good and sufficient proof to the contrary I shall believe
that each man of you had a knowledge of it." He lifted his gaze to the
windows, some of which had been thrown up despite the bitter weather.
"I don't know why this is," said he to them, "but," and with his chin
out he defied them, "it would give me a great deal of pleasure to go
into the matter with you."

"It's an honest inn," said the big young man, as he smiled
good-humoredly at Anthony. "And filled with honest people. Your
romantic disposition and instinct for situations, if you'll let me say
so, sir, are leading you astray."

"I waken in the early morning," said Anthony, "and see a man with whom
I talked the night before holding a pistol pointed at me. A few minutes
later I see him about to drive off, assisted by the landlord. I attempt
to follow; the landlord tries to prevent me, and you all stand about
and agree that he's in the right." Out of the tail of his eye he saw
his horses being put into the sleigh; and he went on: "I think I could
remain here to good advantage for an hour or two," said he, "but the
gentleman who just now took to the road has the first claim to my
attention." He moved with a long stride toward the sleigh, and helped
the hostler with the traces and reins; also he looked sharply to the
buckles; and while doing so he continued, "However, I shall keep this
place in mind, and the questions I have to ask I will ask some of you
when we meet again."

"You think, then, there will be another meeting," laughed the big young
man.

"At any rate," said Anthony, "you and I shall meet." He got into
the sleigh, wrapped the robes about him, and took up the reins. "So
give thought to it; I've had you in mind for some time, and want no
advantage over you."

And then he spoke to the horses; in a moment they were out of the inn
yard, and Anthony was facing toward New Castle in the track of the man
with the patch over his eye.




                                  XIX


Anthony had a feeling that the one-eyed man had taken the road toward
Wilmington; so he put the sorrels to their best, and the miles spun
behind them. The man ahead had no such horses, and Anthony felt he'd
bring up with him before the next few hours went by. His first halt was
at a decent-looking tavern on the verge of Wilmington. While giving his
horses time to blow, he ate a little food and talked with the landlord.

"It's early for travel at this time of year," said he, as he munched
the boiled beef and the good white bread. "I suppose I'm the first of
the morning."

"Oh, no," said the host, an honest, stout man, who looked as though his
judgment of ale was of the best; "there have been several passed before
you."

"None you knew, however," said Anthony.

"I knew them all," said the stout tavern-keeper. "There was old
Ned Dance with his bags of meal from the miller's, and Simon, the
cabinet-maker's man, from Chadd's Ford; and then there was the master
of the French ship--"

"What French ship?" asked Anthony.

"She that lies a few miles below; an armed ship she is, too, perhaps a
letter-of-marque, but with only a few men aboard of her."

"What appearing man is her master," asked Anthony with interest.

"Not a Frenchman, though you'd expect him to be. He's American, right
enough, and one that I'm not fond of because of a kind of slithering
laugh he's got. And he wears a patch over one of his eyes."

Anthony smiled and seemed to enjoy the bread and beef much more than
before.

"So that's who my gentleman is!" he said to himself. "And with an
ice-locked ship." Then he said aloud, "I suppose he was on his way to
his vessel when he went by?"

"Where else?" asked the host. "He never goes further south than that;
and no further north than the Brig Tavern, which is off the road, some
miles from here."

"I have heard that is an excellent place of entertainment," said
Anthony.

"It was for many years," said the host, with a nod of the head, "and,
as far as food and drink and such-like go, is so still. But," and here
the nod turned to a shake, "in other ways it seems different now. I've
heard ill reports of it."

"It's a place for shipmen to stop, I've been told," said Anthony. "If
that is so, there cannot be a great deal wrong with it."

"There are shipmen and shipmen," said the stout tavern-keeper. "Some
are honest and give their minds to bringing their ships home, all snug
and trim, and carrying profitable merchandise; others again have never
sailed an honest voyage and never stowed an item of cargo that was
properly come by."

"Pirates," smiled Anthony. "But there are none such in these waters."

"Where there is gain to be had there will your villains gather," said
the host. "There is a rich city up the river, and in that city there
are many crafty rascals."

"I'll not deny that," said Anthony. "But cunning roguery and open
plunder are different things; many a man would venture one who would
fear the other."

"Things have altered since my grandfather's day," said the host. "Then
there was Kyd and Teach and Avery, sailing into the bay when ever
it pleased them, trafficking with the merchants, being friends of
governors, having in their ships' companies those who were members
of state assemblies, walking the streets of towns, with their heads
up brazenly, and known to every man and woman who met them. To-day,
of course, things are different," added the man. "They are quite
different."

"And better?" said Anthony, and there was an expectant look in his eye.

"As to that I'll not say," answered the tavern-keeper. "For I'm not
sure. We have our own officials now, if that's any gain for us. But men
are the same as they've always been; they crave money still and will
use dark practices and outlawed ways to get it. There's many a fine
ship that passes out beyond these capes that's never heard of again."

"Storms blow at sea as they've always done," said Anthony.

"True; and the knowledge of that is what keeps people's minds from
other things; they place all to the discredit of wind and wave. But,
sir, there are ships still at sea that can't show papers; even now
there are lonely headlands and reefs and sandspits that could harbor
bands of ruffians. And more than that: there are merchants and traders
and agents--the rascals of whom I just now spoke--who can market loot
and communicate intelligence."

"Is it your thought," asked Anthony, "that the Brig Tavern is being
used as a means of furthering some such traffic as this?"

The man shook his head.

"I could not go before the authorities and so swear," said he. "But odd
things are said of the place; it seems much used just now by those who
are forwardest with their talk of arming American ships and sending
them out under the French flag against the British."

"I've heard whispers of that purpose, but nothing to give attention
to," said Anthony.

"This war in Europe will give excuse to many a rascally thing in our
waters before we are done with it," warned the landlord. "Mark you
that."

Anthony finished his bread and beef, and drank the mug of ale which had
been brought to him; and, after some further talk with the landlord,
he paid his score, took to his sleigh once more, and in the course of
some few hours was in New Castle. He gave no more thought to the man
with the patch over his eye; he now knew where to find him and would
attend to him later on. The _General Stark_ was pointed out to him as
she lay ice-locked about a hundred or more yards from the shore; and
he lost no time in getting aboard of her. He talked with the second
mate and spent that night in the ship. Next day he went briskly to work
collecting sledges for the work in hand; messengers ran roads, notices
were posted at stores and taverns, and by the third morning upward of
a hundred stout teams were drawn up on the river-bank, ready to carry
through the project. The hatches were off the _General Stark_, and the
merchandise was hoisted cheerily out of her; spans of horses did the
hauling at the tackle; the sledges were brought to the ship-side and
received the cargo as it was swung out of the hold. By night all the
valuable parts of the vessel's cargo were transferred; and by dawn next
day the caravan, one sledge behind the other, started up the river
road. Corkery had rejoined the ship by this; and he stood on deck, his
elbows on the rails, watching the long file of laden vehicles as they
plodded onward.

"That is the kind of enterprise this river knows little of," said he.
"You'll make a stir when that merchandise gets to the market, Mr.
Stevens; they'll open their eyes."

The gray of early morning was upon the leaden river, with its ridges
of dirty snow and its dispirited, helpless ships. Anthony's eyes were
fixed upon a schooner about a mile away, from the galley of which smoke
was arising.

"That, I think, is a French armed vessel of which I have heard," said
he.

"She is French, and she is armed," answered Corkery.

"I have a trifle of business aboard of her," said Anthony.

The deck was littered with broken bits of timber, thrown down in the
hurried work of hoisting the cargo; and from this Anthony selected a
stout cudgel. He threw it over the ship's side; then, without another
word to Corkery, he slid down a rope, put the cudgel under his arm,
and, with hands thrust deeply into his pockets, set off across the ice
to the other ship.

As he reached its side a voice called in French.

"Well, my early morning friend, what is your wish?"

Anthony looked up. A small man, dark of skin, and in a red mob-cap,
leaned over the rail amidships and eyed him with disapproval.

[Illustration: "A SMALL MAN ... LEANED OVER THE RAIL AMIDSHIPS, AND
EYED HIM WITH DISAPPROVAL."]

"To come aboard," said Anthony.

There were some steps let down from the schooner's side, and he
quietly climbed them. The small man met him at the rail and put out a
protesting hand.

"It is forbidden!" said he. "This is the French republican ship _Le
Mousquet_, and not a merchantman."

Anthony put the hand aside.

"I desire to see the captain," he said.

"The citizen captain is at breakfast in his cabin," said the small man.
"He will see no one."

But Anthony was knocking at the cabin-door in another moment.

"Enter," said a voice. Anthony went in, and there he found the man with
the patch over his eye engaged in pouring chocolate from a pot into
a silver cup. Surprised, the man put down the pot; then he smirked at
Anthony, collected enough, and said:

"Ah! so it is you! I have heard news of you and your ship. You are a
man of purpose, sir. Allow me to congratulate you."

"Citizen," said the small man, putting his head in at the cabin, "it
was against my directions that you are intruded upon."

"It is no matter," said the captain. "The gentleman will be going in
another moment." He took up the silver cup and sipped the chocolate.
"To what, sir, do I owe this visit?"

Anthony kicked aside the little table which sat before the one-eyed
man, and the things it held crashed to the floor. Alertly the small man
seized him.

"My friend," said Anthony tolerantly. "I have no business with you, and
less desire to do you harm. So go outside like a decent fellow."

He threw the little man from the cabin, and shut and locked the door;
and as he turned about he saw the schooner's master taking a pistol
from the cupboard. The pistol exploded as the cudgel struck it; and
the bullet tore through the housing. Then Anthony gathered the man's
neck-cloth in his grip and beat him until his knees grew limp and the
blood ran from him; then he dropped him upon the floor and went upon
the deck. The small man was there; and with him were the black ship's
cook and a boy who had round, surprised eyes and held a cutlass as
probably one had never been held before. Anthony smiled as he looked at
them.

"Citizens of the republican ship _Le Mousquet_," said he, "I have every
sympathy with your cause and great respect for your vessel. But your
captain had earned a beating at my hands, and has received it. You'll
find him inside there, looking a deal worse than he actually is. A
little water thrown upon him will be all he'll need; but you'd do well
to get that at once. And so: good day to you!"

Then he went down the steps at the schooner's side and trudged away
toward the spot on the river-bank where he could see his sleigh
awaiting him.

The journey up to the city was much slower than the one down. The
heavily laden sledges, some of them drawn by oxen, kept constantly
moving, but their day's accomplishment was not great. And, then, the
men of the caravan must be provided for, the cattle must be fed,
watered, and rested, and a guard must be kept all night through. In
these things Anthony's experience with pack-trains in the deserts and
mountains served him well; and the morning of the fifth day saw the
sledges drawn up at the door of the warehouses and a score of porters
busy carrying and trundling the merchandise within.

"Well," said Charles when Anthony finally came into the counting-room,
"here you are, and there is your work very well done, my boy: I'm proud
of you."

Anthony slept soundly that night and until noon next day. When he
reached the counting-room once more, he found it bustling actively.

"There's been more real buying and selling in an hour to-day than there
has been in the last month," said Whitaker, rubbing his hands, much
pleased. "Captain Weir has been at the City Tavern since morning, and
you never saw such a stirring as he has around him. The news of the
cargo has spread about like a breeze; every one knows of it and seems
to want hides and drugs and coffee."

That evening, as Anthony was examining some tally-sheets which
Twitchell had given him, word came that Charles desired to see him
before he left. A few minutes later Anthony went into his uncle's room;
Charles sat in the corner of his small sofa which was drawn up to the
fire, nursing his lame foot and watching the flames as they licked at
the hickory logs. He bade Anthony sit down, which the young man did.

"What you've just done," said Charles, "shows me you are of the
outdoor breed, and one who can bring off victory in the face of stern
conditions. As I said to Weir a while ago, a man like you would be
wasted in a counting-room; and I'd not like to see that. In a month,"
and he looked at Anthony speculatively, "the ice will be out of the bay
and the _General Stark_ can put to sea. A cargo will be awaiting her at
New York for Havana; at Havana there'll be tobacco and rum and sugar
for Liverpool; and at Liverpool there'll be ironmongery, woolens, and
piece-goods for the East."

"Well?" said Anthony.

"Word has come that the _Stark's_ captain is dead," said Charles.

"I saw him twice while at New Castle," said Anthony, shocked; "and they
thought him improved."

"He was a steady, good seaman," said Charles, "and we shall miss him
much;" and then, the speculative look still in his eye, "Would you care
to take the ship and sail in his place?"

"No," said Anthony.

"Don't be hasty," said Charles. "Let your mind work with the thought a
little. Think."

"I have no need to think," said Anthony. "I stay in this counting-room
until I've mastered its history."

"You surprise me," said Charles; "for I felt sure the blood of your
grandfather would speak there."

"Perhaps it has," said Anthony quietly.

"Weir said you wouldn't take the ship; indeed, he said you shouldn't."
Charles laughed and nodded his head. "I never saw the captain agree
with any one as he does with you. He seems to be always of your mind
exactly. Whatever you think best, he consents to at once."

And Anthony, as he listened to this, felt a stirring of unrest in his
mind; it was a vague thing, yet it left him questioning, and, somehow,
insecure.




                                  XX


February passed, and, midway in March, the ice broke in the river and
bay, and ships began to move up and down. But while waiting for this
Anthony had gone on with his study of the old books of Rufus Stevens'
Sons; and the deeper he got into them the more thoughtful and puzzled
he seemed, the more elaborate were the notes he took, the more he
frowned as he went about his business during the day, and the more he
felt a desire for some one with whom to talk and compare judgments.

But, also, there was another interest looming during the late winter
and early spring. This was the first of the new ships which Charles had
ordered; all winter the work had gone forward at the Siddons yard in
Shackamaxon; shipwrights, joiners, blacksmiths, worked under the sheds
and in the open; the huge ways were the wonder of the waterfront, and
as the oaken hull grew and began to rear people formed parties of a
Sunday or a holiday and drove up the river road to see it. The work had
reached this stage about the time the ice broke up; and then, with the
sight of the moving shipping to stir his blood, Charles began to urge
haste.

"The _Rufus Stevens_ must be launched, have her masts placed, the
rigging bent, and be in the dock receiving cargo by the last week in
June," said he.

"That will be six months' building time," said Siddons. "I know vessels
have been put into the water in that space, but they were not of this
one's quality and substance, seasoned timbers and excellent joining.
Six months! Why, sir, the like has never been done on this river.
Here we've gone through a severe winter; come wet or dry, cold or
snow, we've not missed a day; if we couldn't work on the structure,
we've worked under the sheds at making ready the timbers or forging
the ironmongery. My calculations were the middle of September at the
earliest, and that was promising much, Mr. Stevens."

But Charles insisted; and so the hum of the Siddons yard increased as
the spring warmed. Such a hammering and sawing as there was; such a
chipping and shaving and boring and fitting the clever old place had
never seen before. It had been Anthony's practice, at least twice a
week, all winter through, to make a visit to the yard, for the growing
might of the _Rufus Stevens_ fascinated him. He had been there the day
the keel was laid--a keel of solid, seasoned, toughened oak, as surely
fitted, as strongly braced as old Rufus' spine had been. And to this
grew the ribs, powerful, graceful, bent cunningly to waste the impact
of the sea and to give space to the ship's cargo. Then the beams went
in to brace the frame--mighty, weighty, strong beams, of live-oak that
was like iron; beams that had been nursed and molded and cut to fit by
shrewd joiners. Live-oak had been Charles's highest demand--live-oak
that had been felled in proper time, and seasoned in the sun and rain
and wind. The stem was made of it--a great, cutting stem that would
throw the seas lightly apart; the stern-post was of it, and also the
transoms, aprons, knight-heads, hawse-timbers, and keelson; and it was
all clean and without defects.

And now, in April, the hull towered like a monster against the
background of low sheds; workmen swarmed eagerly over it; their hammers
_rat-tat-tatted_ like the beaks of woodpeckers; the clean smell of wood
was everywhere. In a dock at one side floated huge round timbers; the
dark mouth of a shed opened down to the water's edge, and here other
timbers of a like kind had been drawn out, and workmen, each with a
deftly used adze, were shaping the new ship's masts.

Anthony would walk among the chips and shavings, breathing in the
fragrance of them: the level drumming from the hollow body of the
making craft filled his ears; the smiths in their dusky forges
fashioned red bars into bolts and clamps and hooks as he stood in their
doorways; and from the depths of the yard he caught the glint of the
full river in the sun; he saw spread sails creeping down to the sea;
the smoke of the city floated across the blue sky; the trees were green
along the shore; and the spring filled his body as it had when he was a
boy. And there was the island, the green, long, narrow island, midway
in the river, with the spur of sand shooting out toward the south,
which the rising tide would cover.

And then as his mind went back he would see the bobbing head of a
youthful adventurer above the water, a naked, white, boyish body
breasting the crosses of the current, drifting to leeward of a
market-seeking sloop, climbing the bow-chains of an anchored schooner;
and then he would see him, slim, exultant, alone, on the rim of the
island, waiting for the tide to turn, that he might slip back with it
to the dock which had been his starting-place.

But, also, the spring brought other things than the new ship and
thoughts and feelings of boyhood. The shackles of winter having fallen
from the port, matters sharpened remarkably. Glum faces gave place to
eager ones; markets were exceedingly active; merchandise flowed in with
gratifying steadiness; cargoes were rich, rare, of unexpected quantity.
There seemed scarcely a day but a ship, home-bound from the East, from
the West Indies, from the Spanish countries, rounded the bend in the
river, her sails full and her decks alive with her company. Each time
one appeared a watching merchant thrilled with opportunity; and this
thrill found its way into the crush and scuffle at the City Tavern, in
Walnut Street, where traders and dealers and merchants met and arranged
their affairs, and bought and sold and drank and smoked. It was a
low-ceilinged place, with wide windows, sanded floors, square-setting
chairs, and oaken tables. It rattled with tableware and glasses; and it
clacked with tongues, offering and accepting, protesting and praising,
promising and rejecting. Captain Weir transacted most of the business
for Rufus Stevens' Sons that was done here, but Anthony frequently
visited the place to get the touch of the market and watch the temper
of the moment.

And so, one day, he went in and sat down on a settle by an open window
with a glass of French brandy and a pipe, and composed himself for
half an hour's comfort. It was a sunny, blowy day with great palisades
of white clouds sweeping over the city toward the sea; a tree growing
near the edge of the pavement was white with buds; old horses tramping
over the stones tossed their heads, and their rekindled eyes seemed to
see the green pastures and bright streams of their youth. The brandy
had a fine, full scent, and was thick and smooth upon the palate; the
tobacco, too, was aromatic and soothing, and Anthony smiled at the day,
at his own feelings, at the world; and he sat back, contentedly, to
listen and see.

A thick-set little man with bandy legs, and a bullet head set
aggressively upon his shoulders, stood near him.

"I understand your brig _Anna and Sarah_ is in," said he to a
Quaker-looking man. "Is she stowing anything that might take my
interest?"

"I have sundry items to offer," said the Quaker-like man. "Rum of
approved quality. And West Indian tobacco. On Clifford's Wharf, just
taken out of the brig, I have Muscovado sugar in hogsheads, excellent
for any common use."

"There's a-plenty of sugar to be had," said the thick-set man,
slapping one of his bandy legs with a whip which he carried. "I could
stock a warehouse with brown or white, in an hour. But of your rum,
now; what's that?"

"It is of Jamaica for the most part; but there's some of Cuba. It's all
of a good age, a rich brown color, excellent strong body, and has been
well kept. It is mostly in barrels--barrels once used for sherry, which
gives that flavor so much desired; but there is a quantity in puncheons
of full ninety gallons, still in the brig, but ready for delivery in a
reasonable time."

To Anthony's right was a hook-nosed man who smoked a pipe in nervous
puffs; money and exchange seemed to trouble him enormously, and he
talked with a stolid, comfortable-looking man across the table from
him, in high exasperation.

"I wouldn't give that for all the beggarly pistareens you could cram
into a sack," stated the hook-nosed man, as he snapped his fingers.
"Such stuff is not money, and should not be recognized as such. And
then your Netherlands guilders, your mark bancos, your florins, francs,
livres, and shillings! What has such rattling metal to do with the
exchanges of civilized peoples? What right, even, have their names to
assume places in the conversations of men of commercial substance?"

"Their place," said the comfortable man, "is small but respectable.
And when gathered together they make great weight in the world. Your
florin, now, is a realer thing to many a man than your pistole, because
it is nearer to his reach. Livres, pistareens, francs, and shillings
turn the balance of the world in a time of stress, sir; and they make
its prosperity in time of peace."

But the hook-nosed man had an eager and indignant soul.

"I contend," said he, "that the very weight of small coin, of which you
seem so proud, is one of the things that hang to the rim of the world
and keep it in check. Human-kind is laboring to-day under a burden
of fractional silver that is as overpowering as the copper currency
of the past. I contend that heavy money, like heavy bread, is killing
to the imagination; and without imagination there is no progress.
What inspiration is there in a cold, white coin stamped with the smug
features of some fat-natured prince? Is it a thing to lift a man out
of the ruck? It is not. Never has the possession of a piece of coined
silver caused a man to raise his head and think a thought above his
fellows; the sight of such a coin has never made a slave to rebel
against his master; a till full of them has yet to make a merchant feel
in a fair way of business."

"Enough of them can always be exchanged for others of a higher value,"
argued the comfortable man.

This fact seemed to inspire the other to increased resentment.

"It should not be," he declared. "There is never a time that I lay out
a gold piece and get a pallid collection of silver bits in exchange
that I don't feel I've been robbed. I have no grudge against silver as
a metal, mark you; for as such it has its uses. It is only when you put
a stamp upon disks of it and tell me it's money that I rise up against
you. For then it's a cheat; it's a cold unencouraging thing; and for
all its pretense it's not quick; the only life it has is that given it
by the efforts of men like you."

"Might not the same be said of gold?" asked the other man.

"Never," said he of the hook-nose, positively. "Impossible. For gold,
sir, possesses something more than the natural chemistry of its
composition. And, in spite of the general belief, learned men of other
years did not give their minds to transmuting the duller metals only
because of the profit it might bring them."

"What, then, was it?" asked the comfortable man.

"If the truth were known," said the other, "we'd find that they sought
for a life principle which nature had hidden from us, and which gold
possesses. It is a thing which the eye can see and the hand touch, but
for which we have not a proper understanding."

"Ah!" said the comfortable man tolerantly. "You give a kind of magic to
it."

"I do not," denied the man with the hook-nose. "To prove to yourself
that there's rare virtue in gold, you have only to note its effect upon
dulled, whipped, and joyless things. Put a piece of it into the pocket
of a poor man, and it at once begins to warm him; his eyes see things
not visible before; his mind dreams dreams. Many a man has crept,
shabby and ashamed, before the face of day; and the touch of gold has
brought his eyes to a level, and put some of that curl into his lip
that makes life possible."

A number of persons were speaking through the smoke of their pipes at a
round table at Anthony's elbow.

"By God!" said one, "she came racing home, two weeks before her time,
and looking as fit as a queen! And until she let go her anchor in the
stream, opposite my wharf, she'd never taken in a sail."

"What does your master report?" asked another. "Are there many English
or French war-ships in the trade paths?"

"He sighted some sail of them," said the first man, "but they were too
far away to give him any worry."

"Two days out from Antwerp the ship _Huntress_ had her foremast
splintered by a six-pound shot."

"The British are brisk with their shots," grumbled the second man.

"Too brisk," said the third. "And the French are as bad. If they must
cut each other's throats, why can't they do it quietly? Here we are
at peace with the world and making shift to get our fair share of its
trade, and they must set to popping away at each other, and churning
the sea all into a muddle."

"It may be," said a thin voice from the middle of the room, "that I can
get your interest for a moment, sir. I am disposing of the cargo of the
India ship _Bountiful_. There is ginger and indigo; silk, piece-goods,
plain and in patterns; saltpeter, hides, and shellac. All excellent
merchandise and ready for sale, inspection, and delivery."

Anthony felt some one slip into the settle beside him; and, turning his
head he saw Mr. Sparhawk, trim, perky, and pink of face.

"Good morning," said the little man, smiling and nodding. "The fine
spring days are doing you no harm, I see."

"I'm glad enough to see them come. The winter seemed a long one," said
Anthony.

"It was," agreed Mr. Sparhawk. "And severe. Exceptionally severe. I do
not recall a winter like it in many years." He smiled about the room,
with its eddies of tobacco smoke, its reek of spirits and ale, its
lifting voices and earnest merchants. "You like this hurly-burly, I
think?" said he.

"Yes," answered Anthony.

"Young men always crave conflict," said Mr. Sparhawk. "If it's not
of one sort it's of another. Some like to take themselves away to
strange places and collect merchandise in perilous ways; others covet
the uncertainties of the sea in bringing the goods home; but you, it
seems, are the kind who like to measure wits with the sharpers in the
exchanges, after the ship is in and the cargo on the wharf."

"While I like the attacks and defenses, the doublings and turnings of
merchandizing," said Anthony, "I will not say it is an object with me.
I'd much rather be your collector of good in foreign ports, or your
shipman who carries them home."

Mr. Sparhawk laughed pleasantly.

"And yet Dr. King tells me you've lately refused the _General Stark_,
when your uncle would have made you master of her."

Anthony nodded; but his eyes were fixed upon the earnest traffickers
about him. Mr. Sparhawk put his finger-tips together with precision.

"I would have thought," said he, "that to a youth of your active habit
of mind that would have been an unusual offer. The _Stark_ is an able
vessel, I'm told, and a lucky vessel, which means even more."

"I have no wish to go to sea just now," said Anthony.

Mr. Sparhawk was exceedingly good-humored; he nodded and smiled and
agreed with the young man's frame of mind.

"I think I can quite understand what you mean," said he. "There are
none of us desire to do a thing which we feel is not important. And
it was your putting the ship aside and showing an interest in the
counting-room and the exchange that made me hold _them_ as the things
important to you."

Anthony said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk took out a snuff-box; after offering
it to the young man, he took a pinch and sat tapping the lid with one
finger.

"It is a most interesting thing," said he, "to take note of what
different men regard as important. Now, there was your grandfather, a
careful, far-seeing man, and who gave a deal of attention to all the
small matters of the firm. Then here is your uncle, who would not turn
his head to look at one of them."

"Do not results tell when we are right?" asked Anthony.

"They should," said Mr. Sparhawk, "and probably they do. In your
grandfather's day," with a nod of the head, "the house worked like a
clock. It was regularity itself. One could count upon it absolutely."

"You don't find it so now?" said Anthony, and he looked at the little
man keenly.

"Don't mistake my meaning," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It is still a steady
house; it is still one to hold to with respect. But the steadiness is
not of the same quality. Great strokes are made; fine things are done;
but, between them, other things fail most singularly. There seem to be
pitfalls, so to speak, where in old Rufus's day all would have been
solid ground."

There was a short pause; Anthony laid his pipe upon the window-sill and
studied the smiling, perky little man beside him. Then he spoke.

"Mr. Sparhawk," said he, "I wonder do you recall the night last fall
when we met at the house of Dr. King."

"Very well," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite well. It was a pleasure, and a
surprise."

"Whitaker was there," said Anthony, "and he spoke of several losses
Rufus Stevens' Sons had had at sea."

"He did," said Mr. Sparhawk. "I think I could name the very ships."

"They were the _Sea Mew_ and _Two Brothers_."

"Right," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Stout, able vessels; well found and
competently mastered."

"They were lost, I hear, within a few months of each other," said
Anthony.

"Let us say three," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It was less, I think, but, to
be quite sure, we'll put it at three."

"And the loss of each was noted at the time as singular, I believe?"
said Anthony.

"Unusual," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite unusual."

"During these past months," said Anthony, "I have been going into the
books of the house for some years back."

"Dr. King mentioned that," said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was a pleasant
interest in his face.

"I find in my searching there were other losses before the two we've
mentioned," said Anthony. "And there were some after."

Mr. Sparhawk nodded.

"Your grandfather never had a complete loss," said he. "No matter how
desperate the mischance, something was always saved from the wreck.
And, with his ships, disaster was always written in terms a sailorman
could understand: wind or wave, shoal or rock."

"I see what you mean," said Anthony. "None of his vessels foundered in
the night, like the _Two Brothers_, and left their companies adrift in
small boats on a sea as quiet as a lake."

"That was odd," said Mr. Sparhawk. "That was very odd."

"And the _Sea Mew_?" said Anthony.

Mr. Sparhawk crossed his worsted-clad legs and sat back at his ease.

"Of the two," said he, "the _Sea Mew's_ case was perhaps the most
singular. There were goods in her to the amount of a half-million
dollars, American."

"She sailed from Calcutta, and never made her next port of call," said
Anthony. "There was a good breeze, well able to further a ship on her
journey, but no more; and yet she was never seen again."

"Nor her crew," said Mr. Sparhawk.

"Nor her crew," said Anthony. "Poor fellows."

"Down into the sea they went with her," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Forty of
them, in all."

"That were a worse fate than the _Two Brothers_," said Anthony. "For
there, at least, the ship's company was saved and stood by until the
vessel sank."

"They were saved," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, that's true. But," and he
cocked his head to one side with the motion that so made him look like
a small, old, and very wise bird, "they did not stand by until the ship
sank. I call that point to mind very distinctly. She was still afloat
when they bent sails to the small boats and put away for the French
coast, and so dropped her out of sight."




                                  XXI


Anthony sat regarding the other with steadfast eyes; and in his mind
he saw the ship's boats slipping away over the quiet sea, and the ship
herself, left alone and silent, to any fate that might overtake her.
The rats! The detestable, boring rats! This then, was how they had gone
about their work! Upon a pretext, they would abandon ship,--no doubt in
a given place,--and no sooner were they out of sight than the vessel
and her cargo would be taken possession of by some waiting accomplices
who came up, ready and eager. Then, away with the rascals to some safe
place; both ship and cargo would be sold, and the booty divided between
them. But what he would have said upon this point to Mr. Sparhawk
remained wordless in Anthony's mind, for just then a man came up to
them, a portly man who had the purple tinge of inconsiderate living
about his nose.

"I caught sight of you more by chance than anything else," he said to
Sparhawk. "I have been poking around after you all morning."

Mr. Sparhawk arose and shook the man's hand.

"There's a deal that hurries me in and out," said he. "I can never be
taken for granted at this season of the year." To Anthony he said, "You
have met Mr. Stroude, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes," said Anthony, as he, too, shook hands with the merchant. "I
hope I see you well, Mr. Stroude."

"You see," grumbled the merchant, "a man badgered quite beyond his
patience, sir. What between getting a ship, and checking up her cargo,
and arranging for the continuance of certain moneys, I've had enough to
fret any reasonable person; and now there must come something else."

"Oh, tut, tut!" said Mr. Sparhawk regretfully.

"It's been my experience," said the merchant, "that no matter how much
bother fills a man's day there's still some further devilment in store
for him somewhere before he reaches his bed at night." He looked at Mr.
Sparhawk. "I am given to understand," said he, "you have found some
fault with the _Eclipse_."

"None!" denied Mr. Sparhawk at once. "None. The _Eclipse_ is a fine
ship, and rates first class."

"Then why has her insurance gone up since I spoke to you last?"

Mr. Sparhawk was more regretful than ever.

"That was a most unexpected thing," he said. "I am very sorry for it.
The explanation is this: Mr. Baily holds a large part of your risk, and
unfortunately Mr. Baily is not a bold man. All this talk we hear of the
French privateers is hard on the courage of persons like him."

Mr. Stroude stared.

"What have French privateers to do with me?" he asked.

"There is one at anchor in the stream just opposite the wharf where
your ship is taking in her merchandise. She was fitted out in the early
winter, I believe, but received her letter-of-marque from Citizen Genêt
only a few days ago. She was once of Lewes, in Delaware, and was called
the _Horatio Gates_. Now she is known as _Le Mousquet_."

Anthony stirred at this, but he said nothing.

"Well?" demanded Mr. Stroude.

"I'm told she is mostly manned by Americans of whom we have no reason
to be proud. It came to Mr. Baily's ears to-day that the ship was
taking a great interest in yours, and so he became alarmed. He could
not forget, you see, that you are British-born and are still a subject
of the king; and while the _Eclipse_ is an American ship her cargo is
British owned."

Mr. Stroude snorted,

"Rubbish!" said he. "Utter rubbish! Mr. Baily sees an opportunity to
get a higher rate from me; and I'll warrant that occupies him more than
the chance of a parcel of pirates seizing my goods. But I shall see him
before the day is done, and when I do, sir, let him expect some very
plain speech from me." Then Mr. Stroude went grumpily toward the door.
"British subject! Did I ever try to hide it? For what does the man take
me? And pirates! Good God, one would think we were carrying on business
on some spot of an island in the Carribbees."

This conversation stirred Anthony's interest sharply; he meant to go
into the matter with Mr. Sparhawk, and also into the older and even
more engaging affair of the _Sea Mew_; but before he could do so the
attention of Mr. Sparhawk was claimed elsewhere, and so he was forced
to await a further occasion.

Upon reaching the counting-room on Water Street, Anthony saw Tom Horn
re-nibbing a pen by a window; the spring sunshine flooded him, but,
for all that, the impression Anthony got of him was of a wan coldness,
a luminous, spectral quality such as can be seen in the breaking sea
of a summer night. The man paused in his cutting of the pen as Anthony
approached; and he said:

"Have I ever told you how I was wrecked when I sailed in the _William
and Mary_?"

"I knew you _were_ wrecked," said Anthony. "But I've never had any of
the details."

"She was an India-built ship," said Tom Horn. "The firm had her of an
Englishman. She was of teak, with ribs and beams of English oak. A
stout, beautiful ship, and carrying a great weight of silks and other
costly things. When you walked her deck she seemed as safe and solid as
a continent; her walls were like the walls of a great building. I've
watched the sea churn and leap and break under the wind; but it never
seemed as if it could harm the _William and Mary_."

"But you found it could, in the end?" said Anthony. "Let the wind blow
hard enough and long enough from the right direction, and anything of
man's building seems fragile enough."

"The wind moves in a circle around the world," said Tom Horn. "And the
sea does, too. And, as they go, they catch up other winds and other
seas; and so they band together and gain force, and crush and rend. The
_William and Mary_ was within the circle; nothing under God's heaven
could save her; she was tossed as a chip is tossed by the wind; she
slid down the sides of the great waves as a stone goes down hill. The
masts were out of her; and she was low by the head, on the third day,"
said Tom Horn. "And then we drifted out of the winds' circle. The
sea flattened out and the sun shone; and then the officers and crew
abandoned her."

"And you remained aboard?" asked Anthony.

"I was supercargo," said Tom Horn. "And all the rich goods in the hold
were in my care. Captain Hollister urged me to go, but I would not."

"Captain Hollister," said Anthony. "Was he not once master of the _Sea
Mew_?"

"Yes," said Tom Horn. "Another good ship lost at sea." He looked at
Anthony, silent for a moment, and Anthony looked at him. And the
silence was filled with things that were not said. And then the man
went on: "I saw them sail away in their little boats, and I sat on the
deck and wondered what was in store for me. I was a full year in that
hulk," said Tom Horn, "drinking the stinking water in the casks, and
eating the wretched salt food; and in that time I drifted into still
seas and saw strange sights. Once in the quiet of the night, with the
sea having no motion, and a full moon hanging above, I saw a great
reptile-like thing clamber up over the bow and slip along the deck;
amidships it went over the side, and I heard it splash as it went into
the water. It left a slimy track, as a monstrous snail might do," said
Tom Horn; "and from that time I was afraid. I wanted the sight of land;
I wanted the sight of people; I did not want to feel that on all the
still seas, under that wide, white moon, I was the only creature with a
soul given by God."

"Yes," said Anthony, "I understand."

Just then the door of Charles's room opened, and a long gangling man
came out. He nodded and smiled at sight of Anthony. His teeth were
large, with wide spaces between them; and from these, the outstanding
ears and the pale watchful eyes, Anthony knew he had to do with
Rehoboam Bulfinch.

"Good day," said Rehoboam, to Anthony, eagerly. "Good day, sir. It is
excellent spring weather, is it not?" He nodded and smiled again, and
moved toward the street door. "I have just been having a few words with
your uncle. A splendid man. A really wonderful person. It's a pleasure
to talk with him."

When the man had gone, Anthony stood for a moment, quite still; then he
opened the door of his uncle's room and looked in. Charles sat in the
corner of his sofa. He did not turn as the door opened; his eyes were
fixed and full of fright; his face was white; his whole body seemed
shrunken. Startled, Anthony halted, retreated, closed the door.

"It came unexpectedly," said Tom Horn. "It came out of the quiet sea,
and left a trail of slime across the deck. And after that I was afraid."

"I don't wonder," said Anthony. "I don't wonder, indeed."




                                 XXII


The end of April saw Anthony draw to the end of his long search among
the ledgers. A heap of them lay in his lodgings; and written into the
notes which he carried about in his pockets were many curious facts.
And in those days the frown between his eyes was fixed, and he went
about with lips tightly shut.

"Within a week," he told his uncle, "I shall have done; and then I'll
want a long talk with you."

Charles smiled. It was not the quick, vital smile Anthony had come to
know, and there was not the snap of the eyes, nor the flash of sound,
white teeth.

"Very well," said Charles. "But I'm sure I'll not be able to follow
you; for I've never permitted the books to trouble me greatly. However,
Weir may be your man for that," with a nod toward that gentleman, who
was present. "He has a talent for obscure things."

"If he will contrive to give me his attention when the time comes, I
shall be pleased," said Anthony. Then he cocked his eye at them, for
both had amused looks and neither seemed to hold the matter as very
weighty. "No doubt," said he, "as you see the thing, its promise is a
dull one."

"Old ledgers are not like old wine," said Captain Weir. "And while they
may be, in a manner, useful, still I can't hope that age has given them
any sparkle."

"I'll promise that the items I'll offer will cut into your interest
like a flash." He tapped his breast-pocket. "Give me a few more facts
like these," he said, "and then a talk with you will mortar them
together. After that, who can say what astonishments are in store for
us all?"

Charles had a puzzled look as Anthony went out of the room, and his
hands, grown thin and white, picked at the tapestry that covered the
sofa.

"He's like his grandfather, indeed," said he. "A purpose grows fixed
with him, and nothing can turn him from it." There was a pause, and
then he asked: "What has he come upon in the books, do you think, that
has so taken his attention?"

"It would puzzle me to say," replied Captain Weir. "But, then, a pair
of quick eyes and an insistent, inquiring mind have often turned up a
vital fact in mold deader than Rufus Stevens' Sons' old ledgers."

Charles lay back in his sofa and studied Weir for a moment, his hands
still picking at the tapestry.

"You've never felt much beholden to youth," said Charles to Weir, "and
your expressed thoughts on its aspirations and vagaries and proneness
to make much of little have always worn a cutting edge. But I've never
seen, in your manner or tone, that you've thought Anthony a fool."

"The man who takes him for a fool," said Captain Weir, with a wry
smile, "will quickly learn to alter his opinion." There was a pause;
the captain looked through the window into the sun-lit street, his
brows were thickened and heavy over his cold eyes. "As to the books,"
he added, "if your nephew says he's come at something in them, it's
safe to say he has; and, if he says he means to astonish us, in my
opinion we'd do well to prepare for something unusual."

That night, as Christopher Dent sat in his laboratory, his big
spectacles on his nose, a candle beside him and the usual bulky
black-letter volume in his hands, Anthony came in. The young man sat
down in a chair and lighted his long-stemmed clay; and the little
apothecary talked of the problems that rise up in one's daily path and
make life, if not a vexation, at least an uncertainty.

"It is the time of year for dandelions and other soft, early herbs,"
said Christopher. "The sun has been gentle; the earth is mellow and
seems full of gifts; but the plants are late. It may be the winter
we've gone through has had much to do with it, for the frost was
deep-setting, indeed."

"It was," agreed Anthony.

"Here is a book," said Christopher, "written by a man of sound parts,
and in a day when learning was a thing to arrest the attention." His
fingers traced the lines of deep black, which made their rigorous way
across the yellowed page. "He tells much of the seasons, and of the
mysteries and chemistries of the soil. He sees not a deal of difference
between the vegetable and the animal; they are both produced from
seeds, and are endowed with much the same functions; the element they
take in is changed into forms which give growth and virtue, and the
power to resist enemies."

Anthony drew at his pipe.

"Strength and power are not always given for protection," said he. "As
often as not, they are meant for offense."

"That," said Christopher, "is never so when the regulations of nature
are held to. Offense comes of brutality, and brutality is occasioned
by an excess of life; nature never gives too much life, for she knows
it to be dangerous. The finer aromatic plants, whose proper home is
in dry, sandy soils, if transplanted to a moist, rich one, leap up,
robustly; they attain to a thick bulk, a vigor not known before, and
a rich oiliness of sap. But they lose their fragrance; their active
principle is sacrificed to their increased vitality."

"If that's a saying of your scholar, I think he said truly," said
Anthony.

"What is true of plants is also true of animals, of men, and of
nations," pronounced Christopher. "Your horse, now, is an excellent
servant and a steady friend. But feed him high and work him little and
he's hard to control. Give a man riches, and he begins to fatten, if
not in body, then in wits; and fat about the wits, as any doctor of the
soul can tell you, is a dangerous thing, for it promotes the growth of
self, which is the essence of that brutality of which I just now spoke."

From outside came the sharp _rat-tat-tat_ of a knocker.

"Visitors to my lodgers," said the little apothecary. There was the
sound of feet on the stairs, the opening and closing of a door, and
faint voices beyond the wall. "They have many, for people who mingle so
little in the social life of the town."

"Men, mostly, I should say," said Anthony.

"Why, yes," said Christopher, "I think that's true, though I had not
thought of it before."

"Foreign men, I think you have told me."

"French," said Christopher. "But, then, that is not strange, since they
are French themselves."

"I wonder," said Anthony, "have you ever noticed a man go in and out
who wore a black patch over his eye?"

"I have, more than once. But he is an American. Do you know," asked
Christopher, with some pride, "that the much-spoken-of French minister,
Citizen Genêt, has been here?"

"No," said Anthony, and put aside his pipe.

"It was not many days ago; almost as soon as he reached the city. My
lodgers seem people of consequence."

Anthony was silent for a space; then he said:

"Have you taken note of any of their American visitors?"

"Yes, I've seen Mr. Tarrant a few times; and once, while he was there,
a companion of his, who had not gone in, stepped into my place to be
out of the cold. A strapping young man; and good-humored, too. I never
saw any one so ready to laugh."

Then the little apothecary began talking of mademoiselle. Such a fine
creature--oh, such a really wonderful young woman! There were so many
kindly notes in her voice when she talked to one, and there was so much
gentleness in her eyes.

"And she is beautiful," said Christopher. "I have stood and wondered at
her, with not a word to say. And she is learned in the plants," with
enthusiasm; "she knows the flowers of the roadsides and fields, both
by name and by sight. Not our flowers, of course," regretfully, "but
then in France they must have many that are rich in fine properties.
She was but a child when her interest in nature began," said the little
apothecary. "She'd ramble the fields and wade in the streams with her
uncle, who was a botanist and who lived in very pleasant parts. Her
telling me this made me think of you," said Christopher, "and of how
you'd journey along with me all through the hot day, seeking coralroot
in the woods, about the feet of the trees, and devil's-bit in the
meadows, and spotted alder in the low, thick-grown places. She laughed
a deal at some of your pranks and wished she had been with us."

"You did not tell her my name?" said Anthony.

"I did afterwards," said Christopher, and he fell to rubbing his smooth
crown in a troubled way.

"And what did she say?"

"Nothing," said the little apothecary. "But, indeed, she spoke little
more of anything after that; and then she went away."

Anthony sat in silence for a time, and Christopher watched his face
with much concern. Then the sound of footsteps was once more heard on
the stairs beyond the wall--voices, and a loud thumping that made the
windows shake.

"It is a chest being brought down," said the apothecary, listening.
"Can it be that they are going on a journey? No coaches start until
early morning."

They heard the chest tumbled out through the door, and the crash of
it, as it was thrown into a vehicle; there was much rapid talk and a
woman's sobs.

"The father is going away," said Christopher; "and the daughter is in
tears."

There were hurried good-byes in French, called out amid the rolling of
wheels, the door shut, and footsteps went up the stairs. Anthony and
the little apothecary looked at each other, for the steps were heavy
and stumbling.

"That is the father," said Christopher. "I know his foot. It is the
girl, then, who has gone away."

"It would seem so," said Anthony.

"And the chest and the tears at parting tell of a long journey," said
the apothecary. "And it must be an urgent one, to be undertaken at this
hour."

Anthony said little; it was almost eleven by the clock on the
apothecary's wall, and he arose to go.

"You are in low spirits," said Christopher.

"My star is swinging downward, I fear," said Anthony, with the ghost of
a smile. "But when it is at its lowest, Christopher, it will begin to
curve upward."

"If you knew her better," said Christopher, his hand on Anthony's
sleeve; "or if she knew you better--"

"She has shown plainly enough that she has no desire for that," said
Anthony. "Good night."

"Good night," said Christopher Dent.

Anthony walked through Water to Sassafras Street, and as he turned away
from the river he saw a group of men who stood silently in the shadow
of a building. One of them moved toward him, as he appeared, and said
in French:

"Citizen, pardon. We cannot find our ship. She is _Le Mousquet_; and we
should be on board by now."

Anthony pointed to where three masts shot up above some low buildings
and stood outlined against the copper sky.

"That," said he, "is the _Eclipse_. I have heard _Le Mousquet_ is
anchored in the stream, opposite her."

"We thank you," said the man. "You are kind." There was a stir among
the group. Anthony stepped back to let them pass; as he did so a blow
fell upon his head and he staggered. Then they were upon him like cats;
another blow and he was down; and after that he knew nothing.




                                 XXIII


There was the smell of cookery; also there was the wash of water;
sounds came from overhead--creaking, bustling, familiar sounds;
footsteps pattered to and fro; now and then some one spoke, and the
words they said had to do with the working of a ship.

Then Anthony realized he was lying in a bunk; he sat up, and as he did
so he turned sick, and the little boxed-in place with its dim hanging
lamp began to swirl. He put his hand to his head; there was a crust of
blood upon his forehead, his hair was matted, and trickles, stiff and
thick, ran down his face. He got upon his feet and stood for a moment,
hoping his head would clear. The vessel careened slightly, showing she
was under a good spread of sail. But she had tacked twice since Anthony
opened his eyes, and this attracted his attention. He listened; the
sounds that came from a distance were not of open water. They were
still in the river.

The door stood open; a gush of cool air struck him, rushing in at an
open hatch, and he stood in it, drawing it into his lungs, to fan the
low-burning embers of his life. The smell of cookery was stronger now;
at a little distance from him he saw the broad back of a negro bent
over a caldron in which a mess of meat stewed in the bobbing midst of
leeks and carrots and other things, Anthony held to the doorway, and
as he stood there the black cook turned. The sweating face held only
astonishment for a moment; then it broadened into a wide smile.

"Much blood!" said he in English, and pointed at the young man's head.

Anthony regarded him unsteadily; everything swam and whirled; and he
still felt cold and sick.

"What ship is this?" he asked.

"_Le Mousquet_," said the cook. Anthony held tighter to the door-frame
and leaned his wounded head against his arms. The cook's smile grew
wider; his white teeth gleamed; and he said, now in French: "The last
time you were aboard, you came unwanted. This time you were sent for.
It makes a difference, citizen, does it not?"

Anthony Stevens, as he stood with his head in his arms, drew in a
great breath; sick as he was, though everything sank and rose before
him as he turned toward the man, his chin was thrust out; grotesque as
his face was, with its hardened trickles of blood, there was that in
his eyes that wiped the smile from the negro's face. The man tried to
step past him to the companion-ladder, but Anthony warned him back and
lurched toward it himself. Slowly he climbed it; he felt as though his
heart would burst in his breast. But now he was upon the deck.

To the starboard he saw lights burning in rows and so knew they had
not yet dropped below the city. A jib was drawing, as was the mainsail
and a topsail; they bellied full in the fresh wind, and the river
leaped and gurgled under the vessel's foot. There was a scattering of
men along the deck; they looked and whispered as Anthony went aft,
holding to the rail, to the housing, to anything that came to his hand.
A pilot, muffled in a heavy coat, stood at the wheel; leaning against
the bulwark, examining a chart in the light of a ship's lantern, was
the man with one eye. The heavy, uncertain step of Anthony caught the
officer's attention; he looked up, and as he saw the swaying figure
and blood-daubed face he showed his teeth in his customary smirking
way, and his eyes shot malice at his victim.

"Well, my young friend," said he, "I see you once more, do I? And
aboard my ship, too! I hardly hoped for that."

"Have I been brought here at your orders?" asked Anthony, holding
himself as stiffly upright as his sagging knees would let him.

The master of _Le Mousquet_ sneered at him; his side-drawn lips were as
mean as a surly dog's.

"Let it be enough for you that you are here," he said; "here, among
friends. After your visit to me down the river--you remember that
visit, I think?--I felt that I might see you again. But I had no
thought it would come about like this."

"Just now," said Anthony, "I have not the strength to answer, or do,
as I'd like. And so I ask you put over a boat and have me set ashore
before we drop below the city."

The one-eyed man put the heel of his hand against Anthony's chest and
threw him against the low top of the cabin.

"You still have that demanding tongue, have you?" he said. "You still
think you have but to lift your hand and every one will give way to
you." He struck Anthony viciously in the face. "I have something to pay
you for, and I'll pay it to the last copper before you are out of my
hands."

He was drawing back for another blow when a woman's voice, hurried,
breathless, full of anger, said:

"Citizen Captain! Are you a coward, to strike a man so helpless as
this?"

It was Mademoiselle Lafargue; she thrust herself between the two, her
strong young arm held out to support Anthony, her eyes, full of scorn,
upon the master of the privateer.

"Ah, do not be afraid, _citoyenne_," said he. "He is as strong as a
wild boar; and this time it is but my hands I use."

But the girl ignored him; she called to some of the people of the watch.

"He is hurt," she said. "Take him somewhere where he can be quiet."

The seamen looked at the captain; and he smirked at the girl and said:

"Take him below; and," to an officer, "see that he stays there."

Anthony was taken below and placed in the bunk he had occupied before.
The girl got some warm water from the cook; and she cleaned the gouts
of blood from his head and face.

"This is the second time," said Anthony, "that you've stepped between
that man and me. And yet he is your friend, and I am your enemy."

She said nothing but went on cleansing the wounds in his head with
soft, light touches; her lips were compressed; he could not see her
eyes.

"And yet," he said, "why am I your enemy? How have I become so?"

When he was free of the disfiguring blood, she began to bandage his
head; and she told the black cook to bring some brandy. She poured
some of this into a glass and gave it to Anthony; he drank it readily.
Little by little the feeling of helplessness passed. The potent agents
in the brandy advanced warmly through his system, and the weakness
fell back before them; his wounded head throbbed painfully under the
increased activity of his heart; but it also grew steady; things no
longer whirled before his eyes, and there were some spots of color
warming in his face. He said to her:

"You hold me your enemy, do you not?"

"Your name is Stevens," she answered.

He lay, looking up at her; and then he began to speak. She had once
accepted his help; he had been a stranger, yet she had accepted it
gratefully. Had she not? Even more than that: she had waited for him
that day in Water Street, and she had appealed to him. It had seemed a
time of growing trouble, and she had asked his aid. Was it not so? She
must have felt, then, that he was one who would be a friend. And yet
only a few hours later she had begun to count him as an enemy. Had it
been during those hours that she'd found his name was Stevens?

But she would not talk of this. He must be still. He was ill; he had
been badly hurt. Excitement was bad.

There was nothing in the world so soft as the touch of her hands. They
were white and wonderful; and so quick! They were dazzling! And each
motion was full of meaning; each little turn they made brought him ease.

But in a moment he had frowned these thoughts away; he kept to his
questions. In a few hours--it was no more than that--she had come to
look upon him as an enemy, and, God knew, it must have been as an
enemy bitterly held; as for himself he'd not stab a dog with that same
insolence and disregard. And she had turned against him so because
she'd found his name was Stevens. Who had told her? Some one had. Was
it Tarrant? Was it?

Yes, it was! She said it briefly, coldly! And now he must talk no more.
It was bad for him. His hurts were worse than he thought. Quiet would
help heal them.

But quiet was the last thing in his mind at that moment; and he put her
words aside with an abrupt finality. So it was Tarrant who told her
who he was. Tarrant, of all people! What more had he said? What bitter
twist had he given his words; into what dirty by-path had he led her
mind? The learning of his name alone could not have had the effect he'd
seen.

There was a swift anger in her voice as she answered. Was it possible
that she, her father's daughter, could think of him as different from
his house?

He hung to this doggedly, his eyes upon her face. What did she hold
against the house of Stevens? What thing had been told her, that its
very name should turn her so instantly. The concern had long years of
fair dealing behind it; it was well established in the public regard.
What guilt could she point to? What offense did she carry in her mind?

And with that her reticence broke down; and, with a whip to her words
that cut, she spoke freely. Her father had striven all his life to
do what a man should do and had held himself well in the eyes of his
neighbors. In a business way none had a fairer name than he; among
merchants, bankers, ship-owners, agents, there was no one entitled to
more consideration. For years he had been the French representative
of the house of Stevens, a post, so it was thought, of profit and
honor; and it had been envied him. But it was a connection that finally
earned him suspicion rather than honor; it brought him the distrust of
associates; through it, he stood upon the verge of disaster. Why should
not the name of Stevens turn her bitter? Wouldn't it be strange if it
did not? Shadowy tricks, ruses, subterfuges, veiled rascalities, and
double-dealing! What sort of people make a practice of using an honest
man's name where it had not been given, and who but rascals would lay
claim to insurances on vessels that had never been lost?

Anthony was up at this--up so quickly and sharply that the white of
the bandage began to show spots of red. Ships that had never been
lost! What ships? But, no; she would not answer; she would not say a
word more; he must lie down; see, he was bleeding! He did as he was
bidden; but his questions did not stop. She fought him for a space;
but again her anger arose, and she talked. Her father was a kindly man;
of those who had earned his trust he could believe no wrong, and he had
not heeded those people in Brest who had spoken against the house of
Stevens. At last, however, there came a time when he had to heed; and
then, almost as a part of it, came the letter of Magruder.

Anthony looked up at her with a narrowed, shiny eye. So there had been
a letter from Magruder? Her answer was spoken quietly; but he felt he
had never known what scorn was until that moment.

Yes, there had been a letter. It was this that had caused her father to
venture from France that he might clear his name and recover what was
his own. But Magruder was a coward! He dared not have it known that he
talked to them, and that is why they had visited his place so late at
night. Anthony wrested that from her. And she had gone in and found him
dead. Magruder had warned them: and he had paid the penalty.

"Yes," said Anthony. "And it was the thing he feared." He looked at her
with steady eyes, "And so you went into Magruder's counting-room--you
went alone--and found him dead. And afterwards some one told you you'd
been seen leaving the place; and also that suspicion had begun to
whisper concerning you. Who told you this? Was it Tarrant?"

Yes! Her eyes flashed as she said it. It was Tarrant. He had told her
that; he had told her more than that.

What? Anthony was upon the suggestion like a terrier, eager, worrying.
What was it? And the scorn in her eyes was deeper, as she answered.

"Another was seen to leave Magruder's place," she said. "It was a man.
He left it secretly, quickly. And, as he thought, unnoticed. As no
word has been spoken of this he has felt safe; he has been content to
allow the blight of his guilt to fall upon a woman."

Anthony lay very still; but his eyes held to her. And he told himself
it was worth a great price--even the cold scorn laid upon him--to see
so much spirit in a human face. Then he spoke.

"And Tarrant has told you all this?" She said nothing; but her look was
enough. "Very well. And it was Tarrant, also, who advised, I think,
that you leave the city in this ship to escape some action of the
officers of justice." He searched her face keenly and then said: "Why
is your father not with you?"

"My father must remain where he is, to force his claims against those
who have wronged him."

She turned to go, and this time he did not stop her. She would leave
the brandy, she told him; and she would see that some one was within
call if he needed help. Then she left him. And he lay still for a long
time and thought of the things she had said.

She and her father had come to America for the same reason that had
brought him north. Well, well! Magruder had sent to France for them.
And they had gone to the trader's counting-house, as he had gone the
second time; and they had found him dead.

What a scurrying and scampering there must have been in the burrows
under Rufus Stevens' Sons when the rats scented their danger, thought
Anthony. They had feared the girl's speaking with him, and so had
poisoned her mind against him. They had seen even greater peril in
Lafargue's going straightforwardly to Charles, as he must have done;
and, to prevent this, they had cleverly diverted against the firm
the very tide of suspicion which Magruder had thought to set against
themselves.

"Oh, the rats," said Anthony; "oh, the damned, scampering, crafty rats!"

But why were they sending the girl from the city? He frowned over this
perplexedly. The matter had a meaning he could not see. Then, as he
pondered, there came from the back of his mind several things which
arranged themselves oddly, and yet confidently, before him.

"What now?" said Anthony, looking at them, and frowning more than ever.
"What now?"

The first of the things dealt with was his pause overnight at the Brig
Tavern, off the New Castle road. The girl and her father had been
there; and they had been associated with persons concerned in fostering
piracy, to be carried on under French letters of marque.

"No doubt of that," acknowledged Anthony, and eyed the fact grudgingly;
"they stood very intimately with them, indeed."

The second of the things was equally positive, and had been fathered
by Christopher Dent on that very night. Many people had visited the
Lafargues at their lodgings, French and American; Citizen Genêt, whose
words and acts in behalf of legalized piracy had lately filled the
public ear and eye, had been one of them.

"Yes," said Anthony, endeavoring to stare the fact out of countenance,
"all that is true. But what has it to do with mademoiselle being on
board this ship without her father?"

And just as the two things seemed to be wavering, and not at all
certain of their purpose, a third fact advanced smartly to their help,
and at once set itself to lighting lamps in Anthony's mind. And so,
where he had groped before, he now saw clearly.

"The daughter is young," he said. "The father is old. The girl is
strong of will; the old man is shaken and infirm. She is his right
hand, his prop, the active half of his mind. If she were taken away,
he'd be helpless; if she were not constantly at his side to guide his
judgments he might be imposed upon. The father is a friend of the
French agent, Genêt; and it is Genêt who commissions American-built and
American-manned ships to sail against the English."

The three facts merged victoriously into one shining result, and
Anthony studied it. The girl's fears had been played upon; she was
being sent away, and the old man was being held in the city that he
might be turned to the crafty uses of Tarrant and his friends.

Anthony smiled and ceased to plague his throbbing head. This was the
kernel of the thing! And so he put all thought from him, composed
himself to sleep, and slept soundly.




                                 XXIV


When Anthony awoke he lay still for a space and listened. The
river-water washed under the schooner's foot; he could hear the creak
of the blocks and that flapping of sail that tells of little wind. A
dim gray picked its way through the darkness, for the dawn had entered
at the companionway.

Anthony stood up; the sleep had done him a deal of good; his head was
steady, and the pain had all but gone. He took a draft of the brandy
and stretched himself with wide-flung arms; then he stood frowning and
considering. _Le Mousquet_ was a schooner. He knew schooners; he had
both stowed and sailed them; and he knew what was possible and likely
aboard one. _Le Mousquet_ was private-armed, and manned more than
likely by a reckless, insubordinate company, not to be trusted with
arms, save in the presence of an enemy. The officers would possibly
carry pistols when on duty. At this hour there was hardly more than one
on deck; the others would be snoring in their beds.

Anthony stepped across a man who lay asleep outside the door, and
went quietly on deck. The river looked cold and quiet: the sails were
drawing but little; the watch were muffled in heavy coats to keep out
the chill touch of the mist. Anthony moved the length of the deck
unnoticed, and down at the after hatch. Here on this side was the
captain's room. This, on this hand, would be the room shared by the
lieutenants; and here would be the room where the small arms would
likely be stored. He examined the lock on this door; it was stout, but
the woodwork was worn, and the door loose, and he shoved back the
bolt with the blade of his knife. Muskets were racked against the wall
at one side; the other bristled with pistols and cutlasses, and a low
door opened into the magazine. Methodically, Anthony put three brace of
pistols aside; then, one by one, he slipped the remainder noiselessly
through the low port-hole into the river; and the muskets, to the
number of three dozen, followed them. With powder and ball taken from
the magazine, he loaded the pistols he had kept; then he stowed them
about his person and went out of the room.

From the other side of the lieutenants' door came the grumbling of a
man half asleep, and Anthony went in. The officer was sitting up in his
bed yawning and scratching his unshaven jaws; he stared at Anthony,
surprised; then out of the bed he came with a leap and reached for a
pistol that hung from a hook by the trigger-guard. Anthony also grasped
at it, and as they struggled the weapon roared thunderously in the
narrow space. Desperate at the sound, Anthony tore the pistol from the
man's hand and struck him with it shrewdly, and he fell; then the young
man whirled about to meet the master of the schooner entering at the
door. In trying to avoid the blow that curved toward him, the one-eyed
man fell; and as he did so he set up a roaring.

"On deck! Help! Drive a knife through this devil!"

But Anthony wasted no time; in the captain's cabin he threw open the
cupboard doors and saw a brace of silver-mounted pistols upon a shelf.
One of these, together with the lieutenant's empty one, he threw from
a stern window; then with the other he turned to face the officer of
the watch whose boots were clumping down the short ladder. At sight of
Anthony this man fired; but the young man flattened himself against
the wall and his return shot sent the privateersman writhing to the
deck with a broken shoulder. Snatching up the man's weapon, Anthony ran
up the ladder to the main-deck. The watch was hurrying aft; he could
see the black face of the cook above the edge of the forward hatch.
Pitching the two empty pistols over the rail, he drew out one of those
he had loaded himself.

"Keep your places!" he growled. The blood had started to ooze from his
wounds once more and stained the bandages about his head; and as he
stood with hunched shoulders menacing them with the pistol the sailors
halted. "Close the forward hatch," directed Anthony, "and fasten it
down!" They hesitated; he sent a shot rattling among them, and then
they leaped to obey. Again an empty pistol went over the side, and a
fresh one appeared in his hand. To the man at the wheel he said, "Stand
away!"

The man did as he was bidden; and under Anthony's hand the bow of the
schooner began to creep around toward the shore. While it was still
turning, Mademoiselle Lafargue appeared on deck; her quick glances took
in the sullen group of seamen amidships and the grim figure at the
wheel.

"In five minutes," she said quietly, "the ship will be aground."

"I had reasoned it at a trifle more than that," said Anthony, giving
eye by turns to the schooner's course and the muttering watch. "But a
few minutes more or less makes no odds."

She regarded him coldly.

"The two men below are desperately hurt," she said.

"I note that the captain is in no hurry to make a third," said Anthony,
cocking his eye toward the after hatch. Almost as the words left him
the master of the schooner popped his head above its edge; instantly
the long pistol lifted and exploded; the ball tore away the combing,
within a foot of the head, and it disappeared like magic. There was
silence after this, and with a fresh pistol Anthony casually menaced
the watch. The warm, thick smell of a marshy shore came from the
nearing bank; birds were whistling; beyond the trees a plowman was
heard calling to his horses. The bottom of the schooner scraped, and a
shudder ran through her to the tips of her masts. Then she struck; the
sails flapped uselessly, and the stern swung about to the tide.

"Lower away a boat," directed Anthony, his frowning eyes on the watch.
"And make haste. There are some among you whom I have to thank for the
hurts I got last night; which struck the blows, I don't know, but a few
leaden slugs may pick them out." He handled the pistol with a readiness
that carried fright into their hearts. "Lower a boat."

A small boat was swung over the side and rested upon the water.

"I shall need two men," said Anthony. "You will answer, and you,"
nodding to two of the seamen. "Get in." The men did so readily enough;
and then he turned his eyes upon Mademoiselle Lafargue. "If you
please," said he, and waved his hand toward the boat. She reared her
head, her eyes darting scorn and resentment; but she did not move from
where she stood. "I am going ashore," he said, "and as this ship is no
place for you it is a good chance to leave her."

"I shall not leave her in your company, at all events," she said coldly.

"I expected you to say something like that," said Anthony. "And I would
like to reason the matter out with you. But it is best that there be no
delay. I beg of you to step into the boat."

But she would not; and she defied him with her eyes. He motioned to the
watching seamen.

"Put her into the boat."

"You would not dare!" she said, her coldness flaming into anger.

"Put her into the boat," said Anthony.

In a few minutes she was handed into the waiting boat; she made no
protest, no resistance, but sat in the bow and covered her face with
her hands.

"Now, my bullies," said Anthony, as he stepped to the rail, "stand well
back. If I see a head of one of you until I get ashore, I'll speak to
you with this," and he motioned with the pistol.

The two seamen pushed off and fell to the oars; Anthony sat athwart
the stern, the pistol between his knees, the rudder handle in his
left hand; he watched the schooner, the men pulling the boat, and
also the landing-place which he had selected. Within ten minutes they
had reached a platform built upon spiles, and used by river sloops
in taking in the produce of the farms. Anthony was the first out; he
helped Mademoiselle Lafargue ashore, and then they both stood silent
upon the little wharf and watched the boat pull back to _Le Mousquet_.

[Illustration: "... WATCHED THE BOAT PULL BACK TO LE MOUSQUET."]




                                  XXV


Anthony examined the schooner's position, while the boat pulled toward
her; her nose was wedged into a mud flat, but as her stern had moved
around toward the north he knew the tide was working up the river.

"In an hour," he said, "there will be water enough to float her off."
He turned toward the girl; she had her cloak drawn about her, and her
eyes were still on _Le Mousquet_. She seemed to have no regret at
leaving the vessel; but the manner of her leaving had left her furious.

"The next thing," said Anthony, "is to procure a conveyance and get you
back to your father."

"You need not trouble yourself," she said.

"As I am the cause of your being here," said Anthony, "I owe it to you
to see you safe."

"I cancel all obligations," she said. "You owe me nothing."

Anthony looked at her stubbornly.

"Very well," said he. "Then I owe it to myself. And in debts owing to
myself I always demand payment in full." He looked inshore, over the
fields, green with the freshness of April; on a knoll, about a mile
away, were the white walls of a house amid a screen of trees. "There's
a farmstead," said Anthony; "we can find some means there of getting
back to the city."

"I shall not stir," said Mademoiselle Lafargue.

"It's plain enough," said Anthony, "that you do not greatly favor my
company. There are certain things which you believe of me; you've been
told of plottings, of guilt, of treachery; and the shadow that I stand
in is, no doubt, a dark one to your eyes. But why distrust me while
you have confidences in certain others? For I, at least, have never
tried to shoot a man as he slept, and I have never struck one who was
helpless."

"I shall not stir from where I am," said the girl.

"It's a full mile across the fields to the house," said Anthony, "but I
have no doubt I can carry you."

"You would not dare!" said she, startled.

"I think you used those very words on board the schooner," said he.
There was a pause; and then he added quietly. "Will you go willingly,
or must I do as I've said?"

She looked at him with level gaze; the fire in her eye was quieted,
though her head was as high as ever.

"I will go," she said, "for there is nothing else for me to do. But I
do not go willingly. You are compelling me, and I hate you for it."

He said nothing in reply; and so they set off toward the distant
farmstead. Here they encountered a human enough man and a woman who
stared and listened but who never ventured a word.

"I have need of my horses and men at this season," said the farmer;
"but as you are hurt and the lady must needs have some way of reaching
the city you may have a pair and a wagon."

An oldish sort of man, who diligently chewed a straw, was called; in
a short space he had a span of farm horses harnessed to a two-seated
wagon, with a body swinging on heavy leather bands. Anthony handed
Mademoiselle Lafargue to the rear seat; then he took his place beside
the driver, and they started. Chester was passed in the first half
hour. The girl spoke never a word; now and then Anthony looked back
at her to assure himself that she was as comfortable as the pitching
wagon permitted, and he was also silent. It was afternoon when the
heavy-footed horses crossed the lower ford and began to draw toward the
city; the clock in the tower of the state-house, seen across a huddle
of painted roofs, told four as they crossed Chestnut Street; and in a
little while they drew up before Christopher Dent's door.

Anthony helped the girl out, mounted the white marble steps with her,
and knocked. And while they waited he said:

"In a night or two I shall call upon your father; there are things that
press for discussion between us. And, if you are so disposed, I should
be glad if you were present to listen." She made no reply, standing
with her head averted. And he went on: "If any one, no matter who,
tells you of danger to yourself in remaining in the city, give no heed
to him. Remain with your father; do not be separated from him; for, I
warn you, that any possible danger is not with you but with him."

Here the quadroon maid opened the door, and the girl went in; and
Anthony made his way to Dr. King's in Front Street. The physician
opened the door himself, for he was in the hall, bidding good-bye to
Mr. Sparhawk. In the room where the doctor saw to such things, the
bandages were taken from Anthony's head.

"A care-free blackguard had you in hand here," said Dr. King, as he
looked at the wounds.

Mr. Sparhawk, who had volunteered his services at the sight of
Anthony's condition, held a basin of hot water ready, while he also
inspected the hurts.

"He did not hold his hand at any rate," said he. "A thief, no doubt,"
he added. "There are a deal of them lurking about of a night."

While Dr. King dressed his head, Anthony related the circumstances of
the attack. At mention of the _Le Mousquet_, Mr. Sparhawk exclaimed,
sharply.

"What?" said he. "Will they stop at nothing? Do they dare such things
as this? Is a citizen not safe in the streets of his own city? Must we
be constantly on guard against a parcel of ruffians?"

"Yesterday I heard you speaking with Mr. Stroude concerning the ship
_Eclipse_," said Anthony. "When does she sail?"

"She sailed with the tide, some hours ago," said Mr. Sparhawk. "And so
_Le Mousquet_ dropped down last night!" The little man shook his head.
"There will be devilment enough off the capes to-morrow," he said; "and
more than one honest person's money will be put in jeopardy."

After the young man's wounds had been attended to, Dr. King said:

"You should have a rest for a day or two; I would advise your going
home and to bed."

"I shall do so," said Anthony, "for my legs are not over-strong under
me; and they are telling me of it, more and more plainly every step I
take."

Mr. Sparhawk walked with him up Front Street.

"The cunning of these villains," said the little man; "the cunning
of them is past all belief. They have managed it so that pillage is
becoming a recognized thing; rapine has public approval; loot is so
common we think nothing of it."

Anthony smiled.

"I would not go so far as that," he said; "but I agree that there is a
deal of guile round about us."

"We boast of our open trade and commercial candor," said Mr. Sparhawk.
"We set ourselves up as superior to the Spaniards who hold every port
and river they control under private tribute. But, if the truth were
known, we have our share of mercantile malpractice here. There are
places," said he warmly, "that are regarded as above reproach, but
which are charnel-houses of business honor; there are men who sit in
the full light of public confidence, weaving plots as shameless as any
in the art of the spider."

"Where is the law?" asked Anthony.

"The law is inadequate, and I sometimes think, shrewdly kept so."

Mr. Sparhawk held to this strain until they reached Anthony's lodgings
in Sassafras Street. The walk had done the young man no good, and his
face was white as he said good-by to the little man at the door. Mr.
Sparhawk noted this.

"No," said he, "I will help you to your room. These hurts of yours have
taken a deal more of your vitality than you think."

Anthony was glad enough to put some of his weight upon Mr. Sparhawk
in going up the steep stairs; and the little gentleman also aided him
in getting off his clothes and into bed. And then he brewed him an
excellent drink.

"And now sleep," said he. "It will help you more than anything else."
He lifted the window so that the air might blow in and do its share of
the healing; he nodded in a most friendly and obliging fashion as he
was about to go, and then his eyes chanced upon one of the bulky old
ledgers lying upon a table. "What?" said he, "a ledger? Do you still
use your spare time of an evening, so?"

Said Anthony:

"Open the door there." Mr. Sparhawk did so; he saw in the inner room
piles of books of a similar kind, and his face changed expression; his
eyes met those of Anthony quickly. "They are those which have gone
before, and come after, the one on the table," said the young man.

Mr. Sparhawk stroked his chin.

"It is odd how the history of Rufus Stevens' Sons attracts you," said
he.

"Not all of it," said Anthony. "But those things which I find of sharp
importance I set down in a little book of my own."

The greedy look in Mr. Sparhawk's face increased.

"That, too, is here, I suppose," said he, and he looked about.

Anthony's coat lay upon a chair beside his bed; he reached out and
thrust a hand into the breast pocket; but it came out empty. Mr.
Sparhawk saw his expression change.

"You carried it there?" said he.

"Yes," said Anthony, "and it's gone!"

Mr. Sparhawk smiled, and nodded.

"Are you surprised?" he asked. "What else was there to expect? Have you
not been on board _Le Mousquet_?"

Anthony lay looking at the ceiling; Mr. Sparhawk stood with his hand on
the door-latch.

"However," said the little man consolingly, "your loss is not, as the
insurers of ships say, complete. You still have the ledgers; and what
they've yielded once they'll yield again."

And so, with a nod and a smile and a good-by he was gone. Anthony
lay with the coverlet drawn up under his chin, and propped high with
pillows; his head throbbed and swam; he drowsed between wakefulness and
sleep, and strange pictures lit up his mind. There was a vessel that
crossed his sleep--a slim, swift vessel, her sails filled with mist,
and driving away over a darkened sea. She was fleeing from him, and
he was following, making slow head against winds and storms. Though
the ship was a great way off, he could see into her cabin; there was a
light there, a yellow light with a spot of red at its heart--and beside
this sat a man who wore a patch over one eye, and he smirked over
Anthony's note-book, which he held in his hand.

There were strange things in that book; there were matters that
opposed each other fancifully, and told of ships and men and cargoes,
and places; and there were other things, like shouted lies. Anthony
had studied them and knew them well. And now, as he drowsed, the cabin
was gone, the ship had disappeared, the sea had changed to land; but
his thought still had to do with books. He sat before a great many
of them; they were heavy, sober, and clean; they were the ledgers of
Rufus Stevens' Sons, the solid books of a solid house; surely in them
no wrong could thrive. But there were flaming lightnings in the sky;
the world was full of pain and weariness, and the books held knowledge
which he must have; so he began to open them. They seemed countless;
each was like the other in its dull leather, and their rows stretched
across plains and streams, and through cities, away among vague spaces,
and disappeared in the rising of mists, the booming of waters, and the
dashing of spray.

And now, under his hand, were the books of Lucas, and the books of
Carberry. These he especially desired. They were thick and seemed to
promise pleasant things; but they opened evilly; the mind sprang back
from their pages, repelled. But, for all that, they were well and
carefully written, just as he had been told they would be. Lucas had
set down his statements in a useful hand, clear and with excellent
spacing. Carberry's way was well ordered; he had a confident, clerkly
smoothness, which all but covered astonishments that caught the breath
from one's lips. But Anthony found himself held among the pages of
Lucas much oftener, for Lucas's day, so it seemed, had been one of rare
daring; there had been courage and devilment in his time, and no great
care. The waters had been awash with costly stuffs; ships were sucked
to their doom, and dead men had floated down the byways of the sea.

Now he saw a river sealed with ice, and through the ice countless
bowsprits poked forlornly; many eyes looked through a thickening mist,
eyes with black patches over them; then a ship loomed through it, a
ship with sides as wide as the world; a man in a bo'sun's-chair was
let down; he held a pen and ink-pot and along the water-line of the
ship he wrote unreadable things in a practiced hand. Anthony strove to
understand the words, but could not. He fought with the mists to see
the man's face. Once he fancied it was a clean-cut, handsome one with
cold eyes and a sneer about the lips; but as he pronounced Tarrant's
name the face changed. It was now a bright one, full of inspiration and
eager purpose. Anthony looked to find how the man sat in the chair and
saw he was nursing a lame foot. But it could not be Charles! For the
man was of splendid bulk; as he wrote he laughed, and the mist whirled
at the sound, and the waters leaped and threw it back.

And then the books came again,--the weary, weary books,--greater than
before and bursting with threats. The pages were hard to turn; it took
all the strength he had to come to the smallest thing, and, oddly
enough, between the leaves he found those muskets and pistols which he
had thought at the bottom of the river. And, as he took up each, the
touch of the iron told him he'd best put them carefully by for need in
a future time. And this he did, for the menace in the books made his
heart feel cold.

Here there was a blank: and then he found himself traveling an endless
road, through a waste place, and carrying a burden, a torturing,
breaking burden, the essence of which could be nothing but despair.
When he felt he must sink under it, it suddenly became light and
desirable; he wanted passionately to go on with it. And then he saw it
was a girl, and that she hated him; so he put her down, and talked with
her. All the air about her was filled with words, each with wings like
a bat; they whispered in her ear as they flitted by, and it was the
evil of these words that made her hate him.

He looked along the endless road, through the waste places; a bleak sky
lowered over it, the air that stirred its dust was mournful, and the
soul in him grew fearful that he must travel it alone! Where was her
father? He would speak to him, for her father was wise with years and
must know the venom of false words. And then she was no longer there;
her father stood in her place, an old, old man, with a white, high-held
head; and to him Anthony began eagerly to pour out his thoughts. But
he stopped, for he saw a scar on the old man's face, the puckered red
mark of an ancient sword-stroke; and the old man moved toward him with
the soft sure steps of a great cat. Anthony, in horror, protested; and
he could hear his voice lifting through all space against the cold
derision in the aspect of Monsieur Lafargue. Then, with the damp of
fear on him, he labored heavily through the zone of half-sleep and
burst into wakefulness.

He was still in bed next day. Dr. King came to see him; he had his
breakfast, which the good woman who rented the lodgings brought him,
and then lay back, thinking. The spring day fluttered in at the window;
a man who had early greens to sell chanted their quality and price in
the street; a knife-grinder's bell tinkled steadily along; the voices
of some children arose gleefully from a garden. There was a knock on
the door, and Captain Weir came in. He shook Anthony's hand, and sat
coldly down by the bed.

"Sparhawk visited us at the counting-room this morning," said he, "and
we were astonished by what he had to tell. What does the doctor say?"

"That I shall be fit and out to-morrow," said Anthony.

"That is excellent. The rogues," said Captain Weir, "to attack you in
the open street, and carry you aboard ship!" His green, stone-like eyes
searched Anthony. "She was a Frenchman, I understand."

"She flew the French flag," said Anthony.

Captain Weir shook his head.

"I understand," said he. There was a moment's silence; his eyes
still searched the young man, and then he spoke again. "It was quite
fortunate that Sparhawk walked home with you yesterday. He says you
went quite weak."

"More so than he thought," said the young man.

"You have very pleasant quarters here." Captain Weir looked about,
approvingly. "Quite snug for a bachelor; your pipes and tobacco, your
wine-flask and brandy-bottle near at hand, your books on a rack where
they may be had in a moment." His eyes, like those of Mr. Sparhawk,
rested upon the bulky ledgers; and he smiled oddly. "That is the last
of them, I suppose," said he. And, as Anthony nodded, the captain went
on: "All the others have gone back to your uncle."

"No," said Anthony; "those of interest are inside there."

Captain Weir laughed; but his eyes narrowed as he said:

"If Sparhawk had seen those, he'd have marveled at your industry."

"He saw them," said Anthony. "We had some conversation about them."

"Trust an old gossip like him for that," said the captain, the narrowed
eyes cold and green, and more like stone than ever. "Nevertheless, he's
a useful little man, and with quite a place in the community."

The two talked for some time of Anthony's misadventure; then Captain
Weir arose to go.

"We shall expect you to-morrow, then?" said he.

"I think I can safely say that," answered Anthony.

"Your uncle will be interested to hear your story," said Captain Weir.
"It is not a usual one." He stood looking down at Anthony; the side of
his face was turned toward the window and the sword-cut along his jaw
was red and puckered and angry-looking. "No," he added, and shook his
head, "it is not at all a usual one."

Then he bade Anthony good day, and warned him to rest quietly; then
the door closed behind him, and the young man lay listening to his
footsteps as they sounded on the stairs.




                                 XXVI


However, it was not until the second day had passed that Anthony felt
firm enough on his legs to go to the counting-room. It was about noon
when he set out, and he noted that there seemed an unusual hubbub in
the streets. Knots of people were gathered before taverns; public
places frequented by merchants seemed to bristle with excitement.
Anthony saw no one with whom he was acquainted, and so he had reached
the London Coffee-House before he learned the cause of it all. Here a
placard was pinned to a board; he stopped to read it, and so learned
that the American merchantman _Eclipse_ had been taken on the high seas
by a French letter-of-marque. His brows knitted with interest at this;
and so, instead of turning into High Street as he would have done, he
continued along Front to Walnut Street, and into the City Tavern.

There were many there, and they had the appearance of having sat at the
tables in the public rooms many hours; pipe smoke eddied under the low
ceiling, and glasses were drained and refilled with a steadiness that
was eloquent of the public mind; voices were at high pitch, words were
hot with resentment, and fists banged upon the tables.

Mr. Stroude sat with his friends about him. He talked solemnly. From
the first,--from the very first, so he said he had known he was a
marked man. Vainly the friends sought to break down this conviction;
but he was resolved, and they could not budge him. A deal of his
substance had gone into that ship, much more than even his intimates
realized. The heel of adversity was heavy upon his neck; and God
keep the day when those who heard him should know the weight of it. A
voluble friend strove to cheer him up. There was no knowing what would
happen. The worst had already occurred, and anything more would be for
the best. And, look you! The pirate, now that he had taken Stroude's
ship, must bring her into an American port, as there were no others
open to him. And then we should see! Had not the Government denied the
right of the French to equip or man vessels of war in American waters;
and in the face of this could the _Eclipse_, or her contents, be
condemned or sold? Would the weakest of governments permit an outrage
to be carried so far? To a man, the friends agreed that it would not;
and one of them directed a waiter to bring more brandy.

After Mr. Stroude had drunk of this, he said he was an Englishman, and
that he had always taken pride in the fact. Yes, he sat in the midst of
them, confessedly English; he felt his nationality to the marrow, and
he would take not one jot of it back. These things, he knew, placed his
merchandise in all the greater jeopardy; but that could not alter his
feelings. The cargo of the _Eclipse_ was his and so was not under the
protection of the United States when on the high seas. The ship, being
American owned, he would grant them; but the cargo--no. His personal
case was weak; it was pitifully weak! But what could he do?

Anthony saw Mr. Sparhawk some little distance away; and talking with
him was a lank man in baggy small-clothes and a ratty-looking wig.

"Sympathy," said the lank man, "is of no use when the loss is one of
hard money. And, more than that, it is given to the wrong person when
it is given to Stroude. If the cargo is condemned, does he suffer? He
does not. Who does?" The lank man thumped his lean chest. "I do," said
he.

Mr. Sparhawk held up a quieting hand.

"The rumor is," said he, "that the _Eclipse_ was taken within the
capes. If that be so, there is an end of it. Hostile acts have been
done within jurisdiction of the United States; American property has
been seized by a vessel under a foreign flag."

"I have been ill advised," complained the lank man. "When it was known
that Stroude was an Englishman and a thing like this likely to happen,
I should have been cautioned."

"If you will look back, Mr. Baily," stated the perky little man, "you
will recall that you were not only cautioned, you were warned. But you
did not choose to use the information given you except as a means of
getting a higher premium on the risk."

"But who would have thought it possible that these wretches would go to
such a length?" pleaded Mr. Baily. "In this day, right under the noses
of the authorities; and now they are laughing at us all, and making
ready to divide the spoil."

Mr. Baily refused any such cheering thing as a drink, and went away,
insisting that the worst had happened. Anthony approached Mr. Sparhawk,
who sat with a composed countenance in the midst of the excitement, and
exchanged greetings with him.

"I am pleased to see you so firm upon your feet," said Mr. Sparhawk. "A
little care, now, and you'll do well enough." He fingered the stem of
his glass and smiled easily at the room. "Well," said he, "the further
venturings of your friends in _Le Mousquet_ have made a deal of stir."

Anthony nodded.

"It was an impudent thing to do," said he. "And I'm inclined to think,
it also had in it some elements of stupidity."

Mr. Sparhawk smiled, crossed one leg over the other, and dandled his
foot.

"A little good wine at this hour is a comforting tonic for an ailing
man," said he. And thereupon he spoke to a waiter, who brought them a
liquid that was like pale gold. This Mr. Sparhawk sipped approvingly
and nodded over the glass's edge at Anthony. "There is a deal of
concentrated life in a thing like this," said he; "and it's often found
to hold many a problem ready reasoned." They sat silently for a space,
allowing the flavor of the wine to take possession of them; then Mr.
Sparhawk nodded through the pipe smoke and huddles of debating men.
"Who do you see at yonder table--there, under the portrait of Admiral
Jones?"

There was Tarrant, lolling in a chair, and plainly having drunk too
much; beside him was the big young man, showing his fine teeth in ready
smiles, and keeping the bottle ready to his hand. Rehoboam Bulfinch
sat with them, a meager drink before him, and folded up like a scraggy
vulture.

"Tarrant," said Mr. Sparhawk, "served his country for a short space,
and has done his utmost to discredit it ever since. And Blake is as
infamous a ruffian as ever trod a deck."

"Blake," said Anthony, his attention quickened.

"He of the great body and the engaging laugh," said Mr. Sparhawk.

Anthony valued the rare drops upon his tongue with true appreciation;
he looked toward the big young man and smiled.

"There is a man," pronounced Mr. Sparhawk composedly, "who should have
been gibbeted five years ago. He has done more mischief among shipping
than any other sea-thief since Edward England; and England's day was a
century since."

"I heard a deal of Blake in the gulf and in the Carribbees a few years
back," said Anthony. "The nearest I ever came to meeting him was while
I was in a Spanish brig trading in those waters; two days out of
Martinique we sighted him and ran him topsails under by nightfall. But
once I had a communication from him."

"Ah!" said Mr. Sparhawk.

"He was a part and parcel of the New Orleans Government, and had a
fleet of luggers among the islands and reefs at the mouth of the
Mississippi. He had an agent in the city--a fat old spider whom I
had to speak plainly to on one occasion; and because of this I could
not afterwards get a ship, the owners being afraid to have on board
a man who had affronted the pirate. So I began to give my attention
to matters ashore, and it was then that Blake sent me the piece of
writing. My interference had cost him some choice plunder, and he
expressed regret that my change of occupation put him out of the way of
meeting with me. But he hoped chance would throw us together at some
future time." Under the swathes of bandages, Anthony cocked his eye
in the direction of the freebooter. "Now that I see him," said he, "a
thought troubles me. It may be that he does not know who I am."

"It is possible," said Mr. Sparhawk.

"On that chance," said the young man, "I think I will speak with him."

He made his way through the gesticulating merchants and stood at the
table where the three men sat. Tarrant looked at him with sneering
insolence. Bulfinch pushed back his chair; but Blake's manner was of
cheery tolerance.

"What?" said Blake. "Is it possible? Here you are, active as a cat, and
I thinking you on your back through a bad mishandling."

"Your friends made a shrewd try to bring that state about," said
Anthony. "But I managed to overreach them." His gaze went to Tarrant
and back again to Blake. "Your one-eyed man seemed willing enough; but
he has little talent for desperate work. In a crisis he fumbles like an
old woman."

Blake roared at this.

"Like an old woman!" said he. "By God, I must tell him that!"

Anthony stood looking down at the man, and, what with his pale, drawn
face and his swathed bandages, he made a grim figure enough.

"It was only a moment ago that I learned your name," said he. "And the
sound of it recalled a letter I once had of you at New Orleans."

Blake wrinkled his brows good-humoredly.

"A letter," said he. "Well, now! As I write very seldom, you must be a
person of even more consequence than I thought."

But Anthony paid no heed to this mockery.

"I am the same Anthony Stevens who once spoiled your plundering of
certain ships owned by Señor Montufars. The letter expressed a pious
hope that chance would one day throw me in your way. And, as you see,
it has."

Blake leaned back in his chair, shaking with mirth.

"Now," gasped he, "could anything be more like you? It's just what I'd
have expected you to do--full of gallantry, open and anxious to come to
grips with the immediate occasion." He gestured his appreciation. "Let
me assure you, sir, now that I _have_ chanced upon you, I wouldn't have
missed the meeting for the world."

"In the seas I've sailed," said Anthony, "and the ports I've
frequented, I found your name common talk; they said you were a bully
who feared no one and only studied your own desire." He frowned down at
the freebooter disbelievingly. "But, to say the truth, I haven't found
you so. For all your written wish, I've yet to see you lift a hand."

"Never fear," said Blake cheerily; "my day will come."

"I promised you, that morning at the Brig Tavern, we'd meet again,"
said Anthony. "And if it wasn't for the work of the rats you urged on
me out of the darkness," and he touched his wounded head, "I'd see to
it that you had your chance to-day."

"Time will show," said Blake smilingly. "Don't bother your mind. Time
will show."

"The forehanded spirit never leaves things to time," said Anthony. "A
venturesome man would have been on _Le Mousquet_, knowing I was to be
brought aboard."

"God damn your soul!" said Blake. "I'd give my two thumbs to have been."

But Anthony curled his lip.

"Your captain had little bowels," said he. "And you've given me no
proof that you have any more."

He went back to Mr. Sparhawk and sat down. The little man eyed him
with attention and observed quietly that when the vitality was low the
emotions drew hard upon it; and he forthwith had more of the golden
wine set before them. And while Anthony renewed himself with the drink
Mr. Sparhawk spoke. It was a sound commercial and legal precept, so
he said, to dare nothing unnecessarily; also, a hostile intelligence
should never be given a clear view of one's mind. But, although he
believed these were safe things, still he knew youthful and sanguine
temperaments took much satisfaction in not observing them. He shook
his head in discreet reproof and sipped sparingly at his wine. That
Blake was a pirate, and that this man was Blake, he was quite sure.
There could be no mistake. But the villain was free to come and go as
he pleased; no stay could be put upon him; for, while the Spanish, the
British, the Portuguese, and French had much to charge him with, the
United States had nothing. He had never fired a shot at an American
vessel, or stood on an American deck with hostile intent. Not, indeed,
that Mr. Sparhawk thought him any too good; for he was rogue enough
for any purpose. Perhaps he had kept himself free of blame in the
state ports because one day he might need a haven to run into from the
gunboats of the nations he'd preyed upon.

"But that he is free to come and go is not his reason for being here
now," said Anthony.

Shrewdly said! Mr. Sparhawk agreed with this. There would have been a
hue and cry had Blake been hunted out of his wallows in the gulf and
the Carribbees. No, there was another reason. Hark to this! It might be
that the letters of marque given out by the new French envoy attracted
him, he seeing prospects of a deal of loot in their protection. But Mr.
Sparhawk, so it seemed, put this idea forward only to demolish it; for,
as he said, Blake had arrived in the port some months before Citizen
Genêt stepped from the French republican ship at Charleston.

"It may be that the pirate had word of the Frenchman's coming," said
Anthony.

Again, pointedly said! Mr. Sparhawk nodded in high good humor. It was
really a pleasure to talk with a young man like Anthony; after all,
there was nothing in the world like an active mind. Yes, it was quite
possible that the freebooter knew of Genêt's coming; also, it was quite
possible that others knew of it. Indeed, and Mr. Sparhawk grew quite
confidential and very low of voice, that some others knew of it first
was quite likely--others who were interested in such possibilities, and
gave attention to making the most of them.

"What others?" asked Anthony.

Mr. Sparhawk smiled and shook his head; then he took out his
snuff-box, which was of gold and scrolled very handsomely upon the
lid. He offered it to Anthony; but, no, the young man would not have a
pinch, for there was his hurt head to think of. So Mr. Sparhawk took
some alone and sat tapping the box reflectively.

There were some things of which we are quite sure, he told Anthony, but
of which we can give no very definite account. Very frequently matters
went forward which one's mind could sense but which one's eye could not
see. The days in which they found themselves were trying days. Honest
men were much called upon to protect their rights; and dishonest ones
were quick to take advantage. And these advantages were many. Wars
for the complete unsettling of human society were going forward. The
public mind was seeking new levels. Much was being done in the name
of liberty which was tyranny; much was branded tyranny which, did you
take the husk from it, was bright with freedom. This Citizen Genêt,
now: despite all that the Tories said about him, he was no brawler
from the gutters, who had seized upon liberty as a means of hoisting
himself upon the backs of other men. He had been brought up in the
court of the French King; he was a man of letters, and a diplomat who'd
learned his trade in the capitals of Europe. Was it possible, and the
little man asked this question earnestly of Anthony, that such a man
would have taken the steps he had taken immediately upon setting foot
in the United States unless he had been strongly advised? "Would he
have so flouted and disregarded all the desires and requirements of the
American Government unless there had been an influence at work upon
him, upon which he felt he could thoroughly rely? Some one must have
assured him that the Government's protests were empty things, without
body or meaning, and that, despite them, he could commission ships to
sail against British commerce from our ports. Who, asked Mr. Sparhawk,
could have given these assurances? In whom, in this country, could
Genêt have placed such complete confidence? Was it an American? It was
not likely. Was it a Frenchman? That seemed nearer the fact.

"What Frenchman have you in mind?" asked Anthony keenly.

But this was a question which Mr. Sparhawk seemed in no haste to
answer. And he said so; Anthony was a young man, and young men, he
held, should work out their own opinions and lay the foundations for
their own beliefs. But, for all that, and he tapped the scrolled lid
of the snuff-box as he said this, he was not averse to what might be
called a general suggestion. The adviser of Citizen Genêt was almost
sure to be one who had known the republican minister in Europe--and one
who was possibly concerned in shipping. Mr. Sparhawk nodded his head,
quite convinced of this. But who the man was he could not say, and the
head here was shaken with equal conviction. Of course, every one was
entitled to privately hazard an opinion. No one could find fault with
that. And he would not deny that he had hazarded his own. But he could
say no more than this; if such a person, or persons, were to be found;
if he, or they, could be induced to talk, a deal would be learned, much
public villainy might be prevented, and the routing out of a burrow of
rats that had given grievous private trouble might be begun.

Anthony nodded his bandaged head but said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk talked
with care, blunting the point of each remark after it had entered, and
leaving no salient thing upon which one might hang a definite meaning.
When they had finished their wine, Anthony arose and bade him good day;
and when on the street he turned in the direction of Rufus Stevens'
Sons.




                                 XXVII


At the counting-room Charles greeted Anthony with a tight hand-clasp
and said warmly:

"The villains! The infernal rogues! To strike you down and drag you
aboard their dirty craft! We shall see to them before they have gone
much further."

In his own room, he sat in the corner of his sofa, nursing his lame
foot, and urged Anthony to tell of his escape. As the young man
carried the story forward, Charles's face, which had been white and
worn, flushed, and his eyes shone with their old brightness; at the
episode of the arms-room and that of Anthony's struggle with the
captain and the two lieutenants, he flamed up, rocking to and fro on
the sofa and chuckling rapturously. But when the picture on deck was
thrown before him he got up and began to prowl the floor, his head
back and his laughter filling the room; at the girl's being taken out
of the schooner, his eyes were filled with tears, his arms were about
Anthony's shoulders, he shook with mirth.

"By God!" he pronounced, "it was wonderful! I would have given anything
to have seen it. Congreve, nor Webster, nor Kitt Marlowe himself,
haven't a bit of comedy to equal it. It was perfect."

During the afternoon Anthony was much noticed in the counting-room
because of his bandaged head and the rather wavering account of his
experiences which was going about; and at dusk Whitaker bore him away
to a tavern for supper.

"Eat what you like," was the dandy's reply to Anthony's protests; "and
drink nothing at all if your stomach is not in the way of it. But I
must be seen in your company; the city is all agape at your adventures,
and it will do me more good socially than the services of a dozen
clever tailors."

They ate at the Crooked Billet, and all about there was a murmuring
and nodding and a glancing from the corners of eyes; _Le Mousquet_ was
still hot on the city's tongue, and the man who had striven so with her
company was a person to be seen and commented upon.

"What you did I don't know," said Whitaker. "Some have it that you
boarded the vessel of your own free will and tried to capture her
single-handed; others insist you were kidnapped, and swam ashore with
the blackguards popping at you with small arms from the deck. And I've
heard--though Heaven knows how such a tale got abroad--that a woman
figured in the matter, that she'd eloped with some jolly blade or other
and you'd taken it on yourself to get her back, but whether for her
people's sake or your own the gossip does not state."

Anthony replied briefly to the chatter of his friend, and after a
little Whitaker drifted to another subject. He split a pigeon in two
and helped himself to the good hot bread as he said:

"There's your uncle now. Of late I can't get him out of my mind."

"And why not?" asked Anthony.

"He's changed," said Whitaker. "He's aged and failing in health.
There's not the same stingo to him that there once was. And he
hesitates. For the first time in his life, I verily believe, he
hesitates."

"It's worriment that the new ship will not be launched in time," said
Anthony.

"There's no need to worry about her," said Whitaker, "because she'll go
into the water on the day he has fixed. No, it's something else."

Anthony was silent; Whitaker gave his attention to the food for a
space, and then went on:

"These Bulfinches and their like are the devil's crew. God help the man
who's beholding to them; they'll sit about him until the commercial
life is out of him, like vultures do, and then be on him and pick his
bones."

"Why do you speak of them?" asked Anthony.

"On two occasions, one of those damned twin brothers--I don't know
if it was Rehoboam or Nathaniel--visited your uncle; once I was sent
to their den in Harmony Court, with a message. I have no wish to pry
into any one's affairs," said Whitaker, "much less those of a man who
employs and puts confidence in me; but my flesh crawls at thought of
these people, and I wish I could get rid of the thought of them."

"What message did you carry to Harmony Court?" asked Anthony.

"I don't know," said Whitaker; "but it was one that gave Charles
Stevens little pleasure to send, and the Bulfinches, father and sons,
a deal to receive. It came about in a peculiar way," said the dandy.
"Late one afternoon Tom Horn said to me that perhaps I'd better wait,
as Mr. Stevens thought he'd have need of me. And so I did. The dusk
came on; the light filling up the space under the door of your uncle's
room showed me he'd lighted the candles, and I could hear him limping
up and down the floor as though he couldn't keep still, Tom Horn was
the only other person in the place; he had a candle at his elbow and
was scratching away at some figures, and every once in so often he'd
give me a look and screw up his face and shake his head. So I said to
him, 'What is it?'

"'He said he'd never go to them,' says Tom. 'I've heard him say it many
a time.'

"'Go to whom?' says I.

"'To the money-brokers,' says Tom. 'To Harmony Court. To Bulfinch's. So
he means to send you.'

"But I couldn't believe it," said Whitaker, "for what could any one
want with a messenger to that rats' nest if it wasn't on a matter of
business? And what business could Rufus Stevens' Sons have there?"
Whitaker took up his tankard and whipped the ale about in it with a
circular motion; then he drank deeply of it. "But in a half-hour,
maybe, Charles called me in." Whitaker put the tankard down and held up
a hand as though in affirmation. "I never saw a man so deathly-looking;
the sweat stood on his face and his eyes looked like the eyes of a
very old man. He gave me a sealed paper and told me to take it to Amos
Bulfinch at once. I said it was late, that I thought their place of
business would be closed. But he laughed,--I never thought to hear a
laugh that would chill me," said Whitaker, "but that one did,--and he
told me to have no fear; they'd be waiting."

"And they were?"

"All three of them. The saintly father--whom the devil take!--and the
virtuous sons--may they burn together!--sat and smiled and bade me
welcome. They opened the sealed paper in an inner room; and afterwards
Nathaniel came out with a second paper, also sealed, which he said was
for Mr. Charles Stevens, and to whom it was to be delivered without
delay. I did deliver it to him in his own place on Ninth Street, and I
left him sitting with it unopened, and--shall I say it?--looking like a
man broken and unstrung."

It was after dark when Anthony left Whitaker and walked up Water
Street to Christopher Dent's. There was a light in the rooms above the
apothecary's; and there was a moving shadow thrown on the curtains,
graceful, youthful, appealing, with soft gestures. Anthony sounded
the knocker at the side door, and in a few moments he talked with her
father in the same room in which she had talked with Mr. Sparhawk some
months before.

"You know who I am, so there's no need to go into that," said Anthony.
"And I am here because there are matters between us which should be
spoken of without delay."

Coldly polite, the old Frenchman indicated a chair, but Anthony said:

"Some of what I have to say concerns mademoiselle; would it be asking
too much if I desired her presence?"

A few moments later she came into the room; Anthony met her proud, cold
look with one steady and undisturbed. And he said:

"All day the city has been pulsing with certain news that's come in; no
doubt you've heard, Monsieur Lafargue, how the schooner _Le Mousquet_
has taken the American ship _Eclipse_."

Monsieur nodded, but was silent.

"Seizures have been expected of late," said Anthony; "for numbers of
private armed ships, sanctioned by the French minister, Genêt, and
provided with papers by him, have been operating in the waters round
about." Anthony looked from the old man to the girl. "There are many
who think the citizen is venturing far in these things," he said. "And
there are a few who think rash advice is being given him--advice,
indeed, that will lead to his undoing."

A lean, shaking hand went to Monsieur Lafargue's lips, and he coughed
nervously.

"You have come here to say this?" he asked.

"In part, yes; but only in part." A few hours before, said Anthony, he
had talked with a man, marked for his keenness, and it was this man's
thought that the advice given Citizen Genêt had not originated with the
person who gave it. The things done had been intemperate and unwise.
The old head of Monsieur Lafargue was high held at this; his eagle
face looked cold and proud; but there was a tremor in the thin hands
as they lay upon the arm of his chair. And he desired the young man to
proceed.

Anthony called to mind the night at the Crooked Billet: mademoiselle
remembered that? Monsieur did not forget? Mr. Tarrant had wanted to
arrange a duel. A preposterous thing! And did monsieur know why he so
desired this?

"A blow had been given," said monsieur.

But why? A blow is seldom given except for cause. And there was cause
enough behind this one, as monsieur would learn, if he cared to listen.

"In things that concern you personally, sir--" began Monsieur Lafargue,
in his cold voice, but Anthony stopped him.

Let there be no misunderstanding of the matter, the young man
requested, with the sharp, biting note that sometimes came into his
voice; this was a concern of monsieur's. It had more to do with
monsieur than any one else in the world. And now would he hear it?

Monsieur signed, with a shaking hand, that he would.

Very well. In the telling, said Anthony, he must go back; he must start
at Brest, and with the letter which monsieur had received from Magruder.

"Accursed letter!" said monsieur. "Accursed letter!"

It was Magruder's communication which brought monsieur and mademoiselle
across the ocean. Mademoiselle had said so. And, in light of this,
monsieur might be interested to know that at the time he had received
this writing at Brest Anthony had received another, much like it, at
New Orleans; and from the same person. The call that had brought them
from France had brought him north on the first ship he could get.

At this mademoiselle stirred in her chair; her eyes were eager; but
Anthony spoke to her father.

The letter that summoned him, he said, was a furtive one; it was plain
that it came from a person of little courage. But, for all, there was
that in it which compelled attention. No doubt monsieur had received
much the same impression.

"When I first saw Magruder in his counting-room," said Anthony, "his
vitals were knotted in dread. He feared for his money; he feared for
it shamelessly. And he choked with the thought it'd be found out he'd
given me warning. As I watched him," said Anthony, "I grew sick at him;
never before had I seen such a frantic, tight-hearted, cowering wretch."

And then the New York packet. Monsieur, no doubt, recalled how he and
mademoiselle had come ashore from her? And the circumstances? And the
boisterous young man who made so free with their conveyance? Very good.
Anthony had not expected to see the boisterous young man again. But he
did see him. That night! And so monsieur and mademoiselle listened to
the tale of the two men in the moonlight; of how one strode, laughing,
away toward the river; and how the other had come into his room with
much confident hectoring.

"This, monsieur," said Anthony, "was Tarrant. And while I do not
care for him, overmuch, I'll say this for him: he is none of your
mealy-mouthed ones. He directed me to leave the city--and at once; his
talk was full of gibes and sneers. That is why I struck him."

"You have not yet said in what way all this concerns me," said Monsieur
Lafargue.

Patience! A moment more. Anthony was now coming to that. Did monsieur
mark what night this happened? The clock had just struck one. As far
as it was possible to judge, Magruder had been done to death in his
counting-room on the river front at about that hour. Note that the
laughing man had gone in that direction at that time.

Monsieur Lafargue spoke in a voice that shook. He had no doubt, he
said, that more than one man had gone in that direction, at that hour,
and on that same night, and innocently enough.

Anthony agreed. It might very readily be so. But which of them had the
finger pointing at him this man had? Would monsieur join together the
facts? Would he note that the desperate taking off of Magruder was of a
piece with the orders Tarrant had given Anthony at the Half Moon? Did
he not see that both grew from the same dark stem?

"I had received a warning," said Anthony. "And upon the heels of it
came Tarrant with his threats. It was Magruder who gave me the warning;
and, for it, Blake gave him his death."

Mademoiselle gasped. She had sat still, with her face averted; she now
turned it, and Anthony saw that it was white, and her eyes wide with
fear.

"Having seen to Magruder and done what they could with me, these
ruffians then gave their attention to you, monsieur," said the young
man. "You had not spoken to Magruder; nevertheless you were dangerous,
for at any moment, upon the return of my uncle, you might go to him and
frankly state your case. To them this might be very perilous, indeed.
So they, in what manner I don't know, gained your attention. All the
crimes of which they were guilty they placed at the door of Rufus
Stevens' Sons. And the death of Magruder was one of these; for you,
mademoiselle," turning to the girl, "had appealed to me; they feared
what might come of this, and, to destroy any ground that might be
between us, they charged that my hand had struck the blow."

They were a cunning and close-thinking crew! And, like all finished
liars, they were careful to use a part of the truth. They had told her
Anthony was seen coming from Magruder's at a quiet hour. This was
true, mademoiselle. But had they given the hour a name? They had not
said it was six o'clock in the morning, had they? They had not told
her it was some five hours after she had found the man dead in his
chair! And after this they did the thing that rendered monsieur and
mademoiselle harmless. It was softly spread about that a woman was
concerned in Magruder's death. Suspicion was lifting its head, so they
had been told; mademoiselle's name was being whispered; there were
grave fears for her safety. Both monsieur and mademoiselle must be very
quiet. Were they not told that? They must be little seen; they must
consult no one. Perhaps, in this way, the thing would spend itself, and
die down. And so fear shut monsieur's mouth; and it placed mademoiselle
in her enemies' hands.

Monsieur Lafargue said:

"If our presence in the city was a peril to these men, why was not this
fear used to drive us away?"

"Was it not used to drive mademoiselle away?" asked Anthony. "Did I not
find her on board _Le Mousquet_, flying from the phantom they raised in
her mind?"

Again the shaking hand went to the lips of Monsieur Lafargue. And he
said:

"But they did not desire _me_ to be gone. And I wanted to. I longed to
go back to France. But they begged me to remain."

"And why?" said Anthony. "I think, from what I've seen to-night in
monsieur's manner, he has had some thoughts as to that."

Here the girl's arms went about her father as though to protect him.

"They had use for you, I think," said Anthony. "They had plans, had
they not? And these plans mademoiselle did not altogether favor. Am I
right? They wanted her influence away. They desired you to be alone
and unadvised." Monsieur Lafargue got up. His face was gray and drawn;
his legs shook under him.

"At my years," said he, "the mind does not think directly. I may have
been wrong in acting against your wish," to the girl; "but it was
for France; it was for the republic, one and indivisible. Do not our
enemies crowd the sea? Only a word was asked of me. It was a word that
would launch a blow against the enemy. Could I withhold it?"

"Please, please!" said the girl, and the gentleness in her voice made
Anthony marvel. "There is no one to blame you." Her arms were tightly
about him. "No one _can_ blame you!"

"Is it wrong to do a deed for one's country?" said monsieur. "If the
fat bustards flock in the air, shall I not loose the hawks against
them? If a man puts a weapon in my hand to use against the foes of
France, am I to think that man a--"

He sagged here, and for an instant the girl held his weight; then
Anthony carried him to a sofa and laid him carefully down.

"He is old," said the girl; "he is very old. And he is not strong." In
a few moments, under her ministrations, he began to revive. She looked
at Anthony. "He has been uneasy," she said, "and this was too much for
him."

Anthony took up his hat, but at the head of the stairs he paused.

"I hope," said he, "that I have made certain things plain. And I urge
you to close your mind to these people, for they are your enemies as
they are mine."

And so he followed the quadroon maid down the stairs and went out of
the house. For an hour or more he paced the streets, his mind full
of the girl; and then he went home. The door of his room he found
unlocked, which was not usual. Inside there was the smell of burnt
paper, the fireplace was choked with a blackened mass of ash; upon the
floor lay the covers of some half-dozen of Rufus Stevens' Sons' old
ledgers. The dates on the backs of them told Anthony they were of the
period of Lucas and Carberry; and he sat down and stared dully at the
ruin of that upon which he had counted so much.




                                XXVIII


Charles Stevens stared when Anthony told him of the burning of the
old ledgers. Then he smiled. "What matter?" said he. "It's a curious
happening, to be sure; but let them go, and think no more of them."

Anthony put his hand on his uncle's arm.

"Through those books," said he, "I hoped to come at certain things that
have been troubling this house."

"What things?" asked Charles. He wore a smiling lightness; but there
was a sick look in his eyes.

"I don't know," said Anthony. "I can only hazard a guess." He regarded
his uncle a moment, his hand still on his arm. "Up to this time I have
never spoken to you directly," said he, "and I had not meant to until I
had all the facts that it were possible to collect. But I ask you, now:
has it never come into your mind that things here have not been well?"

"Nothing could come out of those old books but ghosts," said Charles.
"Ghosts of old transactions, of old merchants, of old voyages. Shall we
give time to such things now,--shadows, matters past and done,--when
there is so much present substance to engage one's attentions? Let us
fill our minds with the future, for the future has gifts to give, and
all its days are unused. The past is dust. Let us close our eyes to
it; let us put its sad corpses back into their graves." Charles patted
Anthony on the back. "Come, now! You've spoken of this once; let that
once be enough." He went to a cabinet, took out a decanter, and poured
out two brimming goblets of wine. "To the days ahead!" said Charles.
"To the good days ahead: a sharp lookout, swift voyages, and rich
cargoes!"

In the immediate days that followed this, Charles was more active than
any one had ever seen him before. A fever of energy seemed to consume
him; he tracked up and down the floor of his private room, his lame
foot dragging, his brain glowing and planning; the letters he wrote
went to the ends of the world. May passed. June came and spent its
sunny days. And on one of these the _Rufus Stevens_ slipped down the
ways and into the water--a mighty ship, her hull dipping and bowing
before hundreds. And how the workmen swarmed in her; how her masts
reared when set in place; how wide and smooth and clean her deck was!
What wondrous spaces were in the hold! What excellent quarters for'ard!
What enormous yards and sails. And the goods that were stored in her!
There seemed no end to it! And then she sailed away for the Far East,
sail over sail, her bow cutting the water and piling it whitely about
her. Charles and Anthony and Captain Weir left her outside the capes,
and, from the deck of a sloop, saw her wing away into the depths beyond
the ocean's curve.

"With wind and weather," said Charles, "she'll dock in Calcutta in
ninety days. And next spring, when the ice is well out, she'll show
her topsails in the river once again. And then," he slapped Anthony
gleefully on the back, "I'll engage to surprise you. Such a cargo as
she'll carry you'll never have seen before. I'll make their eyes pop,"
said Charles extravagantly, his own snapping with expectation. "There
has never been any merchandizing in this port that could properly
be called such. Small ships make narrow markets; trade has been
undernourished. But with vessels like the _Rufus Stevens_ we'll mark a
change; we'll come to our due now, swiftly enough."

In the days that followed this, Charles fitted back into his old habits
and ways. He was cheerful and easy; he ceased walking the floor; he
sat in the corner of his sofa and dreamed; he talked with confidence
of the great gull of a ship, pushing eastward around the world. He
loved the idea of her return. That day was to be one of amazements;
strange lights were to be in the sky; the ship, as though manned by
genii and sailing out of enchanted seas, was to appear suddenly,
magnificently laden. What was to result was like the providence of a
young and generous god; wharves and warehouses were to be showered with
extraordinary stuffs.

Charles touched this picture with a new color each day; and every touch
seemed to fit him more snugly into his old groove. Each sad corpse,
of which he had spoken to Anthony, had been buried deep, and its dull
woe had been buried with it. He took his old, careless hold upon the
business; he gave unusual orders in a casual way; he chuckled over
the pages of "Tom Jones"; he voyaged with his robust old mariners; he
laughed with the dramatists of the Restoration. Fear fell from him.

July, hot, wearing, lowering, drew its length through the port; and out
of the steam and stink of it a terror grew and took shape. Among the
islands, the Barbados distemper lifted its head. But it had done this
in every hot season in the memory of living men, and so no attention
was paid to it. A ship brought its poisonous essence into the port;
several persons died of it along the waterfront; but still no heed was
given. Many people whom it touched had died at various times; it was a
thing to be expected. And so, ghostly and furtive and purposeful, the
thing crept on its million feet, and took hold with its million hands.
August came in, even hotter than July. Dock Creek, ill favored, filled
with market sloops, threw up a steam; at low tide the accumulated
filth in the city docks poured poison into the air; carcasses of
animals rotted in the streets.

"Nine dead this week," said Christopher Dent. "Inflamed eyes, rough
tongues, aching heads, hot skins, at first; then the whites of the eyes
turned yellow, free bleeding at the nose, black vomit, and death in
eight days with the body turned purple. 'Tis the Barbados monster come
freshly among us."

A stout old man in a wig, and with a walking-staff and varnished boots,
who stood at the counter in the apothecary's shop, smiled at this.

"Let him grimace as he will," said he. "He'll frighten none but the old
women. We know him, and have measured the lengths he can go."

"Nine dead in a week," said Christopher Dent. "That's a deal, Dr. Blue."

"It is nothing," said the physician. "You have your mind fixed on it,
and so it seems important. As many will die in the same time of the
bloody-flux, and you'll never say a word." Having transacted his
business, Dr. Blue grasped his staff firmly and prepared to go. "But if
it advance," said he, with stout assurance, "we know how to meet it.
The letting of a little blood takes the venom out of these disorders
fast enough; and where the lancet will not do a purge will act in its
stead. After all," said the doctor, "the pill of aloes and white soap
is the final defense of mankind."

After he had gone Christopher turned to Tom Horn.

"I have noticed," said he, "that fat men always talk like that. Little
can disturb their confidence. Nevertheless," and he shook his head, "I
look to see much trouble from this visitation."

"Of a night," said Tom Horn, "there is a thickness in the air--a warm,
slippery thickness such as I've noticed in hot countries in time of
pestilence. And the dawn breaks yellow across the Jerseys. I've seen
it many a morning of late from my window; people are going about with
dread in their faces, and every man looks oddly at his neighbor."

The next week seven only died; and those who were disposed to take the
threat lightly, smiled and wore tolerant looks.

"Seven dead," said Christopher, as he looked up from a mortar in which
he was grinding some bark; "but do you take heed to those who are ill?
There are more poor people tossing on hot beds to-night with yellow
death sitting beside them than have ever done so in this region before."

Anthony spoke to Dr. King across the physician's table.

"From time to time this distemper takes a great toll of lives in New
Orleans," said he. "And there's little done to fight it back, except
bitter drafts and things that are a deal like witchcraft."

Dr. King looked serious.

"We practise equal follies here," said he. "Blood has always run to
propitiate the demons in time of pestilence; and we are still calling
for it. Only to-day I heard of a man who had been bled five times
between dawn and sundown, to drain the venom of the complaint from his
system. But, I suppose, if the disease mounts, these things must go
their course; after they've failed we can have the filth of the town
buried or burned, and bring some degree of sanity into practise."

So each day the city's surgeons proudly flashed their lancets; blood
ran into basins in every household; the sick were given slimy, bitter
drinks; not a stir of air was permitted in their chambers. Outdoors
the heat poured down on the rotting masses in docks and byways; street
by street the beleaguering pestilence took the town. The church-bells
began to toll early of a morning; at first there were little spaces
between their ringing; then the spaces closed up--filled in; the
tolling grew constant--never ceasing. It was death sounding in the
citizen's ear; and death met his eye in the funeral cortèges that
darkened the streets.

The roads leading from the town were filled with vehicles and people
on foot, carrying bundles of belongings, all in flight before the
pestilence. Those who kept in the city lighted fires in the streets, as
the smoke and flame were said to have a killing effect on the plague.
The burning of gunpowder was universally recommended; fowling-pieces,
muskets, small ordnance, holster pistols, barked and roared and
stuttered through the storm of bells, and the smoke of the fires.
Tobacco was cherished as a foe to the disease by many, and was smoked
and snuffed in quantities; garlic was considered unfriendly to the
thing and was chewed and kept in the pockets and placed in the shoes;
pitch was set alight in fire-shovels and carried smoking through
dwellings to drive out the possible presence.

[Illustration: "THE ROADS LEADING FROM THE TOWN WERE FILLED WITH
VEHICLES AND PEOPLE ON FOOT."]

"I cling to it," said Christopher Dent, as he labored in his
laboratory, distilling and compounding the cures and preventatives most
in demand, "that camphor is the most efficient and harmless agent in
treatment of this disorder; unctuous, pellucid, bitterly aromatic, if
inhaled it overcomes the poisons of the fever, and has a cooling effect
upon the brain and blood."

"Many keep to a remedy discovered by four French thieves," said Tom
Horn. "These villains went about among the sick and dead while the
plague ravaged Marseilles some years ago, never catching the disorder.
When taken in their plundering they said the medicine had kept it from
them, and bartered the secret for their liberty."

"Rogues who would rob the dead would lie with little remorse," said
Christopher. "And the thing is but a vinegar sprinkled upon the
clothes. It may have a certain virtue, but I doubt the method of its
use; to do good a medicine must be drunken, or inhaled directly, or
taken up through the pores of the body. However, if a man comes to my
shop who has faith in _vinaigre des quatre voleurs_, make it for him
quickly, and of good materials."

The number of people who left the city as the pestilence advanced was
large; among them were government officials and doctors of medicine,
whose fear was greater than their sense of duty. So thick was the
flying horde along the roads that the outlying villages and towns were
stirred with fright; sentinels were posted, weapons in their hands, to
stem the advance. New York, in a panic, refused to allow the stricken
port's shipping to come up to the city, forbade coaches to run between
the two places, and appointed a day of fasting and prayer. The highways
were abandoned by commerce; the mails were discontinued; armed guards
were stationed at all the ferries, and patrolled the waterfronts.

What physicians were left in the city were worked to desperation:
nurses of character could not be had; and the friendless sick fell
into the hands of the reckless, drunken, and depraved. The hospital at
Bush Hill was gorged with the stricken; loathsome wretches made sport
of burying the dead. And, as the gates of doom seemed folding back,
fanatics made haste in coming forward, lifting their doleful voices
as they came. Woe! woe! unto the wicked! As the cities of the plain
had withered under the anger of the Almighty, so would this city on
the river. Its sins had been many; it had given itself to lechery, to
strong drink, and to following after idols; it had lusted after women,
after gold; evil desires had burned shameful letters into its forehead;
it had been strong in its wickedness, and had looked at righteousness
with a face of brass. And now it was stricken; evil had come upon
it. Woe! Sorrow to the sinner caught in the day of his sin, and the
strength of his passion. Heavy was the hand of the Almighty: dreadful
was the day when an answer was asked, and none could be given!

As the infection grew and the customary remedies failed, one by one,
the protests of Dr. King, of Charles Stevens, and other forward-looking
men began to be heeded. The streets and open gutters were cleaned and
flushed, pestilential pits were filled in, rotting accumulations were
burned. The ceaseless tolling of bells, keeping death ever before the
eyes of the sick, was stopped; the solemn-pacing funeral processions,
which frightened the public mind, were forbidden; the burning of
street-fires, the exploding of muskets were put an end to, for the
mental states they brought about could not but feed fresh lives to the
plague. The dead were now buried in the still of the night, and no
bells marked their going to their graves; the glare of the fires and
rattling of shots no longer frightened the timid.

The hospital established for the poor was an old mansion on the
outskirts of the city; here, so the thought was, beds were to be
had, also food and nurses, and physicians were to be frequently in
attendance. Anthony had heard of it during the days and nights which he
spent striving to ease the suffering of the desperately circumstanced;
but he had had no time to pause for facts. The young man's experience
with the same malady at New Orleans had taught him many shrewd ways of
meeting it; and his money went in medicines and in food the sick could
eat. But after a month of this he felt his strength going; and his
nerves were shaken. The number of his charges had grown enormously; he
could not take care of them all; so he spoke of Bush Hill.

But they cried out in fright! Any suffering, but not that place! Any
death, uncared for, unthought of, but not Bush Hill! So, frowning,
surprised, Anthony went to the place to look and see.

It was night; few people were abroad; the death-carts, lighted by
torches in the hands of men walking ahead, trundled through the
streets; at each door marked with the dreaded sign a sad, wrapped form
was thrust out and thrown into the vehicle with its fellows in death.
Torches glimmered in the potter's-field, as the young man passed; dim
figures were digging, digging; the place was scarred as by a plow.

Anthony approached Bush Hill across the fields; a veil of insects
hummed in the glare from its open windows; a stench seemed to drip from
it; now and then the roar of drunken carnival came from its recesses.
He went in. The sick were huddled on dirty straw, filthy, abandoned,
terrible in the smoky lamplight; they moaned and called for water; they
raved and babbled and cursed in their utter wretchedness. The awful
dead, stark and neglected, were on every side.

"In God's name!" said Anthony.

At his feet a woman was gasping: she was a Spanish woman; she held
tightly to a brass crucifix, and called upon angels and saints, upon
glorious martyrs and confessors to see her die. O immaculate heart of
God! Most holy and exalted Virgin! Cherubim! Pillars of high heaven!
Shining archangels! A naïve paradise was strewn about her in the filth;
the way of death was ranked with the holy, gathered to watch her pass.

"Water!" A man lifted himself out of the dirty straw. "If there's a
human heart in this place, and a hand that's able to give it--water!"

A woman moved forward with a cup; after the man had drunk she eased him
back, and, as she turned, Anthony saw it was Mademoiselle Lafargue.

"Here!" said he, startled.

"Some one must do it," she said.

"Are there no nurses?"

The roar of drunken carnival lifted from the recesses of the buildings;
shrieks of laughter and screamed curses rose with it.

"Those are the nurses," she said. "None would risk death but them; and
they are here not to care for the sick but to eat and drink what has
been given for the comfort of the sick."

"How long have you been here?"'

"I come for a time each day, but I am able to do very little."

Anthony looked about at the piteous horror of the place.

"I wonder," he said, "that you have been able to do anything. It seems
beyond human help."

During the last few weeks, while he was working himself deeper and
deeper into the rotting heart of the plague, he caught the flitting of
another, on ahead of him, who was giving of strength and spirit, and
who was followed by blessings. Then the name came to him, back along
the way she had gone, and a comfort had soothed him, an exaltation had
stirred his heart. Then one night they met in a place of death, and he
had marveled at the courage in her face, the readiness of her hands. A
second time he met her, again in the night, and heard her plead with
the brutal drivers of the death-carts for reverence for the dead;
once in the potter's-field he had taken the spade from her hands, and
finished the shallow grave she had been digging for a dead child.

And now, as he stood talking with her in the pest-house, there arose a
voice.

"In the garret, my dear sons," it said. "I must lie in the garret; that
is the place I like best."

A bent, withered old woman, whom Anthony had noted prowling among the
sick, muttering and chuckling, paused beside the man's bed; her long,
discolored teeth showed in a kind of horrid glee as she looked down at
him.

"So you'd like the garret, would you, my gentleman?" she said. "The
garret of that little place which you have kept so close all these
years? So would I. I'd like to lie there, too. God's truth, I would.
It'd be a rare place to ransack; I'd love, sir, to go about in it."

The man tried to arise; but he could not.

"Where is Rehoboam? Where is Nathaniel?" he asked. "Where are my sons?"

The old woman cackled.

"Now, there are the shrewd ones for you," she said. "There is the
careful pair. Down at the door, outside, they put you; and away with
them, as hard as they could pelt!"

The old man closed his eyes and began to mutter.

"It is nothing, my sons. Nothing at all. Have I not had pains in the
head before? The plague will not enter my house. No, no! There is no
gorging and stuffing and high living here. And so there is nothing to
attract it."

"Gorging and stuffing," said the hag, her yellow teeth showing all the
more. "Not enough food has gone into that house in a year to keep a
pigeon fat a fortnight."

"The garret is high," said the old man. "It's well out of reach, and
airy, and cool. From there I can watch the wind blow the smoke from the
chimneys, and see the weather-vanes turn, and the flags fly from the
mast tops. So put me in the garret, Nathaniel. And draw the cupboard
near to my bed."

"Ha, ha!" said the old woman. "The cupboard!"

"And the chest, Rehoboam; place the chest where I can reach it. Beside
my bed. And then I will sleep; and to-morrow I will be well."

"To-morrow," said the old woman, "you'll be with the worms. And you'll
give them no joy, either; for there'll be spare picking, indeed, on the
like of you."

"Who is this?" asked Anthony, as he moved toward the bed.

"This, sir," said the hag, "is old Bulfinch. He's a usurer by trade,
and now lies here rotting of the fever."

"Is he badly off?" asked the young man.

"I would not care to be as badly," said the crone. "I've seen men
better off than he die like that," and she puffed out her breath. "But
_he'll_ not die readily. Oh, no; he's one of the kind whose claws are
sunk into life. He has cupboards and chests to anchor him to the world,
has this gentleman; and, if all the tales you hear are true, they'll
be rare, heavy bits of furniture, indeed." She chuckled and wagged
her ancient head. "They'd be a fine sight for famished eyes, those
two things," she said. "And I wish it were given to me to open them.
Gold," she said. "And silver. Bags of it. Spanish and Dutch and British
pieces, as broad as your hand. He was a sharp-nosed one for minted bits
of metal, was old Bulfinch. Chests and cupboards stuffed with them. God
save us! And, for all, here we have him, with yellow-jack pinched tight
in his bowels."

"And his sons brought him here, you say?"

"They did; in a cart; and in the night. And they pitched him down by
the door, and stayed hardly long enough for a word."

"I'll lie in the garret, Nathaniel," persisted the old man. "I'll lie
in the garret, where it's airy and cool. I'll be quiet, there, and the
pain in my head will leave me."

The hag chuckled gleefully.

"What, my gentleman," she said, "would you be where you'd stop the
brisk snapping of locks, the opening of drawers, the throwing back of
chest-lids? Out on you for a spoil-sport! Some one else counts your
money to-night," she said. "Your noble sons have the handling of your
broad, fine, bright pieces. I can see them settling to it now like a
pair of weasels."

The clouded mind of the sick man sensed only a little of what she said.

"Plenty of room in the chest," he muttered. "Oh, yes, plenty of room
for more. The years and years it takes to gain a very little. The weary
years."

The old woman held a candle so that the light could fall on his face.

"There will be no more years for you," she said. "Hours will tell your
tale." She nodded toward Anthony. "And short hours, too."

"It's a deep chest," said old Bulfinch. "As deep as a ship."
Gradually a look of glee came into his face; his hands opened and
shut covetously. "A fine ship," he said. "A tall ship; and with the
old man's name painted on her. Such spaces she has for storing goods.
Such wide, wonderful spaces! There is the room of a town in her. She
went away grandly," he said. "Like a bride, all in white. And when she
returns, what a dowry she'll bring! There will be magnificence! There
will be splendor! Her cargo will be a jewel, and her oaken hull the
casket." He gloated over this for a space; and then a trouble began to
show. "If it were not Gorman, now," he said. "If it were not Gorman
that is to step aboard her at Calcutta. We could trust Hollister. He is
sound and tried. But he's done too much. Oh, yes, far too much to be
safe; for there are sharp eyes watching; there are minds, too, that are
like knife-blades, and they are thinking, always thinking."

Anthony's eyes met those of Mademoiselle Lafargue; but before either
could speak there came the choking shriek:

"Water! One drop to cool my throat! Water, for God's love!"

"Hold your tongue!" said the old woman, lowering evilly at the
sufferer. "It's always something with you. There's not enough water in
the river to fill your gullet; so ease yourself back, and be still."

The French girl gave the sick man a cup of water; and while she was
doing so old Bulfinch stirred uneasily.

"Nathaniel," he said, "are you there? Rehoboam, my son, where are you?
I am not sick. The doctor is a fool. I am well and strong. It is true
I have a pain in my head, and the hot sun has got into my blood. But
I am not sick. The doctors are all frightened. Do not listen to them.
They know nothing. By and by," and he laughed with a ghastly assumption
of lightness, "this one will say I have the plague. It would be like
him. Turn him away, Nathaniel; do not listen to him. And do not pay
him money for his folly; it is waste, my sons, and money is hard to
get. Take me to the garret; it will be quiet there, and I'll be up and
strong in another day. Be careful, Nathaniel; lift me gently, and see
to the stairs, Rehoboam; they are crooked and treacherous." There was a
pause, and sudden panic seemed to seize him. His eyes stared, and his
jaws fell open; he clawed about in the straw, and then, with sudden
power, rose up. "No, no!" he raved. "Not here! Not this place of death!
My curse on you, Nathaniel, if you leave me; my blood and death on you,
Rehoboam, if you give me into the hands of these wretches!"

Shriek after shriek came from him; then he fell back with a foam about
his lips and his eyes full of fear and loathing.

With the blood pounding in his head, Anthony took mademoiselle by the
arm.

"Come, let us go," said he.

And he led her out, and across the hot, moon-bathed fields, toward the
city.




                                 XXIX


Weeks went by; the plague drew its horrible length along the river,
through the town's byways, through the unsunned huddled places,
through creeks and docks and open gutters, through wells and cisterns
and cesspools; and all its attendant horrors followed in ghastly
procession. Death no longer stooped, hawk-like; it settled heavily down
beside its victim as a vulture settles, filthy, evil, cold.

From the night of their meeting at Bush Hill, Anthony and Mademoiselle
Lafargue saw a deal of each other; there were no words said, no compact
made; but the fights which both were pressing were paired, and the good
they had been able to accomplish was greatly multiplied. Seeing this,
others added their help; Bush Hill was cleansed of its villainies;
aid was carried into neglected quarters. The group became compact and
strong; others, like it, sprang up; a wall of resolution began to rear
itself in the path of the pestilence--a wall behind which fear and
superstition died.

Those who had fled weeks before watched and waited from the heights
beyond the city. Over the point of land between the two rivers, upon
which the city had been built, they saw a bank of vapor hanging; and
gradually the belief spread that in this was contained the essence of
the plague. Frightened eyes watched it. If a wind stirred the trees
on the hillsides, the refugees were up, thrilling with dread. In what
direction did it blow? Was it from the city? What if it got under the
poisonous mist and lifted it toward them? After all, were they quite
safe? Would it not be better if they traveled north toward the higher
hills?

At Rufus Stevens' Sons, as at other mercantile houses, things were at
a stop. Charles was seldom there; at times he might be found in a deep
sleep on a sofa at his house on Ninth Street; but his waking hours were
spent among the sick. What little business stirred was taken care of
by Captain Weir, who came punctually to the counting-house each day;
Whitaker was gone, having been one of the first to leave the city;
Griggs and Twitchell, men of family both, kept themselves close to
their homes and ventured nowhere. But Tom Horn came. As regularly as
day dawned, he was up and cooked himself a meager breakfast at his
lodgings in Pump Court, and then off to Rufus Stevens' Sons in Water
Street, and the ledgers, and the day's doings. The river was full of
craft which had been forbidden to sail; hand-barrows and horse-drawn
vehicles had disappeared from the streets during the day; the people
met with were few; they passed furtively, and at as great a distance as
possible for fear of contagion. Tom would take down the shutters, for
the porters, too, were gone; then he'd take the books from the chest in
which they were kept and put them upon the tall desk, and look at the
clock.

"Five in the morning," he'd say, "and it might as well be the dead of
night for all the movement there is. Indeed, the night has more stir,
what with the death-carts and the calling of the ghouls that manage
them."

At seven o'clock Captain Weir would come in, and nod to Tom.

"All's still well with you?" he'd ask.

"Still well," Tom would reply. "And you?"

"So far--brisk enough."

"Pump Court is a healthy place," said Tom. "There have been but twelve
carried from it so far. But it may be that I'm too spare of body for
the pestilence to bother with."

"It may be," said Captain Weir. "But take care."

"Just over the way from me," said Tom, "there was a fat man lodging, a
great, strong fellow with thews like a bull, and a red face as broad as
a bucket. He was a most excellent feeder; I've seen him cutting into
joints of beef in eating-places in a most astonishing way."

"One can't keep away the yellow-boy by gorging," said Captain Weir.

"Of a morning," said Tom Horn, "he'd shave himself at an open window,
and bellow songs out into the court. And he'd thump himself on the
chest and defy the plague to harm him. 'The cart is not made,' said
he, 'that'll carry me away in the night. When the scourge gets me, the
city might well sit back on its haunches and take fear. For when I go
what chance have the others? Here's solidness for you,' he says, and
he thumps away at himself; 'here's guts and brawn! I'd like to see
the plague that'll set itself to choking up _my_ vitals. I'll have a
surprise waiting for it."

"Ah," said Captain Weir. "A surprise."

"The surprise came," said Tom Horn. "But it was for the fat man. The
plague worked very quietly; but it made an end of him in two days. And
when the cart came for him, it was quite an old one; it had been made
many years. And I marked, as it rolled with him out of the court in
the light of the torches, that the city was very quiet. For all his
fatness, his brawn, and his blood, there was nothing unusual. He was
but a man, the same as others; if the grave-makers were forced to make
the pit a little wider to let him in, that was the only difference."

It was the day they talked about the fat man in Pump Court that
visitors came to the counting-room, the first in many a day; and the
visitors were Rehoboam and Nathaniel Bulfinch. They entered together,
and stepped toward Tom together; their gaunt, gangling frames were
alike, as were their outstanding ears and the large spaces between
their teeth, and the same eager, covetous look was in both their faces.

"It is refreshing to see a place of business open in times like these,"
said Nathaniel. "But I knew Rufus Stevens' Sons would be. Your pushing
merchant does not permit an unfortunate state of public mind to step
into his path."

"As we were coming down the street," said Rehoboam, "I said to
Nathaniel, 'Brother, I am sure Rufus Stevens' Sons will be open and
thriving as usual.' It is not for nothing," and Rehoboam showed all
the spaces between his teeth in a wide smile, "that this business has
earned such approval in the community."

Tom Horn did not speak; he sat on his long-legged stool, and looked
at them, as a man might look at a pair of corbies that had thrust
themselves upon his attention.

"You are Mr. Horn," said Nathaniel, grinning engagingly; "Mr. Horn,
who has been with the house so long. Faithful service, sir, will be
rewarded. Oh, yes, sooner or later, it will be rewarded. That is a
rule that has never failed." He looked about and asked, "Where is Mr.
Charles?"

"I don't know," said Tom Horn.

"He has not gone away!" said Nathaniel hastily. "Oh, no. _He_ would not
be afraid of the plague."

"He is still in the city," affirmed Rehoboam. "He has been seen more
than once of late, in the street, and working with the grave-makers in
the potter's-field."

"I have not said he had gone away," answered Tom Horn. "I have said, I
do not know where he is; and no more do I."

"Very well," said Nathaniel. "It does not matter. We may see Captain
Weir, I suppose?"

"You may," said Tom Horn, "if he is willing."

It proved that the captain was, and the twins, gangling, grinning,
vulture-like, went into the room where he sat.

"We were quite sure we'd find you at your post," said Rehoboam. "No
matter what the day, or who be absent, we knew you'd be at hand."

"Sit down," said Weir, and he said it coldly. And when they had done
so, he added, "What is your errand?"

"A trifle," said Nathaniel. "Only a trifle." He coughed behind his hand
and looked at Rehoboam. It was Rehoboam who spoke.

"It may, or may not, have come to your attention," said he, "but in
the past half-year Mr. Charles Stevens has had some dealings with our
house. A number of times--how often was it, brother?" appealing to
Nathaniel.

"Four times," said Nathaniel. "Exactly four."

"Just four," Rehoboam told Captain Weir. "I like to be quite correct.
Four times in the past half-year, Mr. Charles Stevens requested us to
come here; we did so, and each time a transaction was entered in our
books."

"He borrowed money of your father," said Captain Weir; "I know that."

"The bills," said Rehoboam, "were dated some few months or so apart.
Of course," and he grinned at Captain Weir most calculatingly, "our
calling here to-day is the merest form--"

"It means nothing at all," said Nathaniel.

"But, now that we are here," said Rehoboam, "it will do no harm, I
think, to say that the first of the bills will be due in three days'
time."

"No difficulty is expected," said Nathaniel. "Such a thing has not
entered our minds. But clerks will sometimes make mistakes; they will
sometimes forget--"

Captain Weir stopped them.

"All the firm's transactions have been had with your father," said he.
"When you return to your counting-house, have the goodness to mention
that I'd like a word with him, in confidence."

The twins grinned, first at Weir and then at each other. Then Rehoboam
said:

"These are times, Captain Weir, when we can speak with little assurance
of any one. Those who are here to-day are gone to-morrow. And those
who--"

Weir frowned at him.

"Speak plainly," he said.

"The pestilence spares none," said Rehoboam. "When once it marks them
out, it does its work quickly. Our father is dead."

"Dead," said Nathaniel, "and his property--" then, hastily, "what
little he left--has come to us."

"Also," said Rehoboam, "his business, and his bills. Rufus Stevens'
Sons, Captain, now deals with his heirs and assignees. And in three
days, as I've said, the first bill comes due. Of course there will be
no delay here," he grinned. "We have expected none."

"Of course," said Nathaniel, his jaws agape, mirthfully. "To be sure."

"We are at Harmony Court until six each day," said Rehoboam. "And we
shall await a communication. In the meantime," and he got up, "good
day to you. And be careful of your health," as he and his brother were
about to go. "Do not venture where there is no necessity."

"Upon no account do so," said Nathaniel earnestly. "One never knows
what may come of a rashness. Spend nothing needlessly, neither health
nor money. That is the course of wisdom, sir."

Captain Weir walked the floor when they had gone; his eyes shone as
hard as agates and his mouth set wickedly. The old man dead! Well,
that was an unexpected turn. And now here were these two harpies with
bills in their hands, about the doors, promising ruin to the fairest of
prospects for profit.

"I'll take them by the throats first," said the captain. "I'll squeeze
the breath from them."

He took up his hat and went out; there was a coach-house in Mulberry
Street, and to this he made his way straight, and was greeted by a
mournful-looking man, in boots with yellow tops.

"Duff," said Captain Weir, "I want a man to carry a message to the Brig
Tavern, below Chester."

The mournful man shook his head.

"Riders are scarce. They can't be had for love nor money; even the
mails are left uncarried. The sentries are very watchful on the roads;
and more than one person has been fired upon trying to win by."

Captain Weir chinked some gold coins in his pocket; and a sandy, foxy
youth, stretched out upon a feed-box, lifted his head.

"I never saw anything that wouldn't be ventured if the pay was heavy
enough," said the captain. "Here you, sir, what's your price?"

The sandy youth grinned wisely, and puckered his narrow forehead.

"What'll you say to twenty gold dollars?" said he.

"I'll say it's a deal of money," said Captain Weir. "But, nevertheless,
I'll pay it. Can you start at once?"

"In a half-hour," promised the sandy one, now briskly on his feet.

Captain Weir went into the coach-house and wrote his letter; when he
came out with it in his hand he found a likely-looking horse ready
saddled, and the man standing beside it.

"To be delivered to either of the two persons whose name is written
here," said Weir. "And, now, all haste; your money will be waiting you
when you return."

As the captain went back to the counting-house, the sky was becoming
overcast; a trace of chilliness was in the air. Weir was not the only
one to mark the change; for scores of lips muttered prayers that it
might be the end of the summer's heat, that the chill in the air might
lower the death-rate, that a frost might come whose touch would end the
course of the plague. Toward nightfall the wind rose; rain began to
fall. It was still falling and the wind was still blowing when Captain
Weir started for his house in Shackamaxon; when he reached there a gale
had set in; he could see the river creaming under its whip, and heard
the hissing and complaining among chimney-pots and ships' rigging;
the rain drove smartly before the wind in steadily increasing volume.
Captain Weir threw off his cloak and boots; a servant had lighted a
small fire in his sitting-room, and here a glass of brandy, hot and
spiced, was given him; and he sat down and sipped it slowly.

His house was one of the period of George I, and excellently conceived;
it stood on a knoll overlooking the river while behind it and to the
south and north were green, level fields and clumps of spreading trees.
Captain Weir's sitting-room was a comfortable place, high-ceilinged,
with polished floor and broad, deep chairs; upon the walls were some
prints that told of a taste in such things; a few pieces of Eastern
bronze stood on a shelf between two windows.

In the sudden turn of the weather the fire was most desirable, and
Captain Weir sat beside it and sipped at the glass of spiced brandy
with appreciation. But all the time there was a frown upon his brow,
the same that had come upon it at the visit of the two Bulfinches, and
it was plain to see that his mind still remained fixed to the things
the two had said and the things these sayings promised.

After a long time spent thinking, and sipping at his drink, the
captain's supper was served in another room; this he ate in silence and
slowly. Afterward a bottle of port was placed upon a small table at his
elbow as he resumed his seat at the fire; he smoked a Spanish cheroot,
and between-times let the fine, thick flavor of the wine rest upon his
tongue. He smoked and drank and thought; then he arose, took a key from
his pocket, and unlocked a cupboard. Inside was a chest, small, bound
with copper, and riveted strongly; this was also unlocked, and from it
he took a quantity of papers and a parchment-bound book. Drawing up a
table to the fire he sat down to the papers and the book, an ink-pot
and pen at hand; and after a long study of the papers, and a vast
scribbling of figures upon the backs of old letters, he made a single
entry in the book, which he at once closed and sat tapping while he
looked, smiling quietly, into the fire. He remained this way for a long
time; the clock, which had been ticking sturdily in one corner, now
struck ten; he arose, put away the papers and the book, locked both the
chest and the cupboard, and then fell to pacing the floor. The storm
had increased in violence; the wind whistled keenly about the ends
of the house; now and then it came plunging down the chimney, making
the fire leap and roar; the rain, driven in sheets, streamed down the
window-panes and fell from the eaves like a cascade. Suddenly through
the sounds of the storm came a rhythmic beat; Captain Weir halted in
his pacing and listened. The beat grew nearer; there was a sudden rush
of iron-shod hoofs upon the stone pavement at his door, the voices
of men, and then a loud and incessant _rat-tat-ing_ at the knocker.
Weir smiled quietly and seemed well pleased; the front door opened and
closed; and then his servant appeared.

"Two gentlemen, sir," said the man.

"Ask them to come in," said Weir.

In a moment Tarrant and Blake came into the room: their hats and cloaks
streamed with water; their boots were splashed with mud. Motioning to
the servant to take the dripping things from his visitors and draw
chairs up to the fire, Captain Weir said:

"A blustering night to be out, gentlemen."

Tarrant regarded him with hostile eyes.

"We were snug enough at the Brig," said he, "and were content enough to
stay there."

"I am sorry," said Weir quietly.

"The roads ran water enough to float a long-boat," said Blake.

"If I am unfortunate enough to call you out in a storm," said the
captain, "I can, at least, give you a fire, and some food and drink.
They may keep its rigors from fastening upon your bodies."

The two men sat down; brandy was brought, and some plates of hot bread,
and potted hare, and cold meats. They ate and drank, and this, together
with the fire, quieted them. At their third glass, Captain Weir said:

"Of course, I'd a deal rather have chosen a more comfortable time; but,
as matters have shown themselves, I had no choice and was forced to ask
your presence at once."

Tarrant, glass in hand, looked at the speaker; and there was still a
glint of his first mood in his eye.

"There have been a few occasions," said he, "when you all but had us
here without your asking."

Captain Weir raised his brows; Blake laughed and said to him:

"A half-dozen times in the past year he has been for putting a pistol
to your ribs. It was all I could do to persuade him."

Weir said nothing, but looked at Tarrant, his brows still up.

"Was there a lack of cause for the desire?" said Tarrant. "I could name
you five reasons," giving Weir's look back steadily, "for each separate
impulse. But we'll speak of the last one only."

"It will save time," said Weir composedly.

"Why," demanded Tarrant, "when the whole city was up and bleating in
the matter of the French letters of marque, must you put yourself
forward in it? We were your friends, yet you spoke to our discredit
early and late. Mortal foes couldn't have suffered worse because of
you."

"I had warned you all in that matter," said Weir coldly. "I pointed
out the state of the public mind. I showed you as plainly as any ready
men need be shown that no good could come of the venture in the long
run. If it had concerned yourselves only, you could have pressed it to
any conclusion you saw fit; but, as I knew, I, too, would be involved
in any mischance, and, as it was plain that you meant to give no
heed to my sayings, I moved in the matter myself. It was I who made
it impossible for you to carry it any further. Wait!" as Tarrant was
working into a bitter speech; "one word more, so that I may be sure you
understand what the situation was. If your plan had carried, we three,
instead of sitting here at our ease, would be at this minute swinging
from gibbets on Windmill Island."

Tarrant caught his breath and sank back in his chair. Blake crossed his
legs, lifted a new-filled glass, and said:

"All gibbets behind us, Captain! And to the devil with the hangman!"

"I did not believe in this adventure from the first, and so told you,"
said Weir. "However, there are those of another sort," with a nod of
his head, "which a man of my growing years can approve of--a surer
profit and a lesser hazard."

Tarrant, attracted by the tone and manner of Weir, valued him with a
steady look. Then he looked at Blake; the freebooter shifted to a more
comfortable position in his chair. But neither spoke.

"Have more of the brandy," said Captain Weir. "It's thought to be
excellent. One of our captains brought it with him on his last visit to
France. It was taken from the cellar of a nobleman's house, while its
unfortunate owner was being taken from his library."

The liquor shone, a fine amber, in the glasses; but Tarrant did not
touch it.

"So," said he, "there is another matter going forward?"

Captain Weir admired the color of the brandy, holding it against the
candle-light.

"Yes," said he.

"And, as seems usual of late, it has been kept from me."

Again Weir nodded.

"I have been very careful to do so," he said coldly. "For it is a
matter that needs patience; and you long ago convinced me that you have
little of that."

Tarrant arose; his look was threatening and bitter.

"By God," he said. "Am I a chuckle-head? Am I to be put aside whenever
you feel so disposed? Am I to be used as though I had no brains in my
skull?"

He stood over Weir, his face white with passion. But Weir did not move;
the cold green eyes glinted like agate, and when he spoke his voice was
level.

"Some day," he said, "when you insist on interfering with my way of
dealing with matters, I'll crack your skull with a bullet; then we
shall see if it holds the brains you boast of."

Tarrant seemed on the point of leaping upon him; but Blake leaned
forward and shook a warning finger.

"Sit down," he said unemotionally. "Are we not friends and co-laborers?
Sit down."

But Tarrant's lips curled back from his teeth like a dog's.

"Do you think," he said to Weir, "I don't know it was I who stood out
in all the dirty weather, while you rode safe in shelter? I've struck
the blows you've planned; and I've taken the hard, open word from all
who cared to give it, so that no eye would turn in your direction. And
now you all but tell me you are done with me."

Blake arose and pushed him back into his chair.

"He has told you nothing as yet," said the freebooter. "Keep still for
a bit, and maybe he will."

Weir, now that there was silence, showed no haste to speak but sat
enjoying the sips he took of the brandy and watching the blaze on the
hearth fluttering under the sudden downward gusts of wind. But finally
he spoke, and it was in a way that was cold and measured.

"A year ago, if you remember," said he, "we were called together
somewhat hurriedly to advise in a dangerous matter."

"The affair of Magruder?" said Blake.

"Yes. How much the man had ferreted out we'll never know; but his panic
for his money drew two sharp perils upon us. I placed the managing of
the matter in your hands," and he looked at Tarrant. "I recall that my
instructions were that you be cautious but final. And you blundered
from the first. It would not have been so bad had you never heard of
Anthony Stevens and so had no knowledge of his character. But Blake's
tales, sent to us from the South, had told you of the manner of a man
he was; you approached him with your eyes wide open, and yet you tried
to browbeat him, to bundle him out of your way, like snapping your
fingers."

"Well," said Tarrant with his ready sneer. "You have had a deal of time
to use your own methods upon him. And I note that he is still in the
city, waiting to do us what mischief he can."

"He is here," said the captain quietly, "but the mischief he has done
is little. My methods have wasted his efforts; and in time," with a
gesture, "I hope to do more."

"If I had been given a free hand that night at the Crooked Billet,"
said Tarrant, "this young spark would have troubled none of us
afterwards."

"I doubt if you'd have been able to do anything," said Weir. "Like as
not he would have killed you. I saw it in his eye."

"An active lad," admitted Blake, "and a clever one." But Tarrant sat
frowning into the fire, and said nothing; and Blake went on, speaking
to Weir, "Well, you've brought us from Chester in the devil's own
downpour; and, as I think it was not to talk of bygones, suppose we
come to the point of the matter at once and so settle our minds."

"It can be made plain to you in a moment," said Weir. "The usurer,
Bulfinch, is dead, and his sons hold certain bills of his against Rufus
Stevens' Sons, which are about to mature."

"Well?" said Blake.

"Their father and I had a private understanding--one completely between
ourselves. If he had lived, the time of these bills would have been
extended. He would have understood the necessity of this, but his heirs
do not. You," to Tarrant, "have had dealings of one sort or another
with this pair, and have influence with them. That is why I have called
you to-night. You must speak to them; it is most important that
nothing be done that might cloud the credit of Rufus Stevens' Sons at
this time."

"At this time?" repeated Tarrant, his eyes narrowing. "Why not just at
this time?"

"Rumors spread," said Captain Weir. "They seem to be carried by the
wind. Ship's gossips take them across the seas; letters carry them. I
would not for a great deal have even a hint of trouble for the firm
now; for in the space of a few months the ship _Rufus Stevens_ begins
taking in her cargo at Calcutta, and who knows what damage a slighting
rumor might do?"

"I see," said Tarrant, and he turned fully about in his chair.

"The vessel is to stow as rich a cargo as ever came out of the East;
and even the smallest evil report may prevent its being put aboard."

"I understand," said Tarrant. There was a silence; then he asked: "And
am I to further understand that old arrangements between us, in matters
of this kind, still stand?"

"They do. And your share of the labor is to see to it that the
Bulfinches hold both their hands and their tongues."

Tarrant now laughed gleefully. All the anger had gone out of his face;
he was vastly excited; words poured from him.

"They'll do it," he said. "To be sure, they'll do it! The richest cargo
that ever came out of the East! Well, well! That's saying a deal, for
some fine ones have come from that part of the world. Oh, yes, have no
fear of the twins. They will give what time is needed. So the old rat
is dead! Well, well! But what matter? I can manage the sons. They'll
do what I ask. They'll hold their hands until the _Rufus Stevens_ is
stowed, and weighs for home, if it takes till doomsday, or the day
after!"




                                  XXX


The storm of wind and rain lasted through the night; straight out of
the north it washed and blew sturdily, and with the deep voice of fall.
By dawn the rain had abated; but the wind continued to blow shrewdly,
and there was a cut to it, a keenness that hadn't been felt since the
early spring.

It was six o'clock when Anthony arose; he looked from his window into
Sassafras Street; the way was drenched clean; the gutters were full of
running rainwater; and the tang in the air caught his attention.

"A little more!" said he. "Let the wind hold in the north another day,
and we'll have frost."

And hold to the north it did; not only for another day, but for two
days; and under its cold, clear breath of a night a thin ice began
to form in the hollows. It got under the sickly miasma of the city
and scattered it across the world. The death-rate dropped like magic;
people took heart and regarded life with a new eye; even those who had
clung to the heights in fear began in thought to venture back; and
those who had held to the town, facing death and fighting the advance
of the pestilence, allowed their nerves to go slack, and rested from
their labors, white and worn and all but beaten.

It was the second day after the change that Anthony was summoned to the
counting-house; immediately upon his entering, Tom Horn said:

"Your uncle is in his room."

Anthony knocked and went in. Charles sat at a table with Captain Weir;
he looked haggard, as well he might, for in the last weeks of the
plague his efforts had been tireless, and he had slept little. But, for
all, there was a smile in his eyes, and his manner was as light as of
old.

"Why, now," said he, "you're prompt."

"There is something for me to do?"

"Something which _I_ should do," admitted Charles, "only I have a
distaste for such things. But if you are so minded, you can attend to
it very well."

"I am quite ready," said Anthony.

Weir looked at Charles, who drummed upon the edge of the table with his
finger-tips and seemed at a loss for words with which to frame what was
in his mind. But, with an effort, he finally said:

"Things do not always go as smoothly as one could wish; not even with
Rufus Stevens' Sons, as," with a look at Anthony, "you've had occasion
to see. Some time since, for one reason or another, it was needful that
ready money in some quantity be on hand, and I was forced to go to
old Bulfinch for it. The bills," said Charles, "are coming due, and,
Bulfinch being dead, I'd like an arrangement of some sort with his sons
that would carry the matter over to a more convenient time."

"And is it your thought that I should speak to them?"

"If, as I've said, you have the mind to."

"It may be as well to go at once," said Anthony.

"Now, there's an excellent, ready-handed fellow," beamed Charles. "I
would to God I had a talent for such things; but I have none--not a
bit. And it plagues me to see matters needing doing, and I with no way
of arranging them. So go to these rascals," said Charles, as he stood
up, and patted Anthony smilingly on the shoulder, "and bargain with
them to as good effect as you can. If they demand a large increase in
their usance, pay it, with a prayer that one day the devil may take
them both."

"I'll do what I can," said Anthony.

"In some months more," said Charles lightly, "we'll laugh at all their
kind, for the _Rufus Stevens_ will have rounded the bend by then, and
we'll have dazzled the market as it's never been dazzled before." As
Anthony was about to go, Charles continued, "Weir has business in your
direction, I think." Weir nodded to Anthony. "Suppose you take him as
far as the entrance to the fox's den," smiled Charles, to the captain.
"You may have a word of advice for him."

The two set out; and Captain Weir talked of the money-lender as a
species, and of those of the Algerian coast in particular. They turned
off Third Street and into Harmony Court with its shabby, leering
buildings, its dusty windows and dirty passages. There was a trimly
dressed quadroon maid standing in a shabby doorway, and Captain Weir
eyed her keenly. Seeing the name of Bulfinch upon the shutter of the
place, Anthony paused. But, before he could speak, Weir, still with his
eye upon the quadroon maid, said:

"Now that I'm here, I'll step up with you. I may be of service, and my
other business can wait."

Though surprised at this, Anthony said nothing. So they climbed the
crooked, narrow stairs together and groped in the dark passage for the
handle of Bulfinch's door. Within, their long legs stuck under a meager
table, and grinning like a pair of gargoyles, sat the twins, Nathaniel
and Rehoboam; and before them stood Mademoiselle Lafargue.

"We are sorry," Nathaniel was saying. "We are very sorry. But we no
longer have this matter in charge."

"The money was had of you, I believe," said the girl.

"Of my father; but the bill was sold some time since," said Rehoboam.
"Nevens, a broker on the floor below, was the purchaser. It was he who
sent you the message, no doubt; and it's with him you'll have to deal."

The girl was moving toward the door; Anthony opened it for her, and
went with her out into the passage.

"It is some distance to your lodging-place," he said. "Must you return
alone?"

"My maid is awaiting me below," she said.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," she said in a troubled voice. "It's a matter of my
father's--money borrowed at a time when it was much needed. They have
begun to press him for it; he's greatly distressed, for he had been
given to understand that he had his own time to pay it in."

Anthony frowned.

"That has not the sound of a usurer's articles," said he.

He watched her down-stairs, then reëntered Bulfinch's counting-room.
Nathaniel was speaking, addressing Weir, and his voice was pitched high
in complaint.

"The sum she speaks of was gotten from our father, a man so old that he
was in his dotage, and who must needs pay out moneys on undated paper.
And a round sum, too, in Dutch pieces, and the bill with never a name
of any substance on it."

Anthony came at once to the matter at hand: Weir stood by the table and
listened composedly.

"More time!" said Nathaniel, in almost a shriek. "Rufus Stevens' Sons
asking more time! You are joking!"

"Three months' extension is desired on the note due to-morrow," said
Anthony bluntly, a transcript of the bill in his hand.

"A man who asks for time these days asks for hard money," said
Rehoboam. "He is demanding minted gold. And money of any kind was never
scarcer."

"We should like to oblige you--" began Nathaniel, but Anthony stopped
him.

"What terms will you make for another three months? You've done your
worst here, it seems to me," glancing at the paper; "no man with bowels
could ask for more."

"Consider!" said Nathaniel. "Think of what _we_ must pay for money."

"Think," said Rehoboam, "of the charges, interests, bonuses, asked of
us in each transaction."

"To save your words and my patience," said Anthony, "let us restate the
present terms in the new bill."

"With an added twenty-five per cent. to fit the altered times, said
Nathaniel eagerly. "And that will cover but half of what it will cost
us."

"Twenty-five!" Rehoboam looked horrified. "Twenty-five? Brother, you
are going mad! How can you talk such a sum as twenty-five per cent.
when--"

"I'll give ten," said Anthony, interrupting him. "So make out the
paper, and let's have an end to the matter."

With many lamentations, but with sly glances of glee, the twins set
about drawing up a new bill for Charles' signature; this they gave to
Anthony, protesting that they were undone and that ruin itself would
not surprise them. But the young man buttoned it up in his breast
pocket with plain unbelief; then he gave them a curt nod and left the
room, with Captain Weir behind him. At the next landing Weir paused.

"Mademoiselle Lafargue," said he. "Has she left this place?"

"No," said Anthony. "She has gone to speak to the other leech of whom
they told her."

"Nevens was the name, I think," said Weir. He made it out, painted
upon a door in the darkest corner of an obscure passage. "If you
don't mind," said he, "we shall go in for a moment. We may be of some
assistance."

Anthony readily followed him into a low-ceilinged room, where
daylight crept through the dirty glass of a single window. Huddles of
time-stained and dusty papers were upon shelves, and in cubbyholes, and
impaled upon hooks. A crazy old desk was all but buried under them; a
corner cupboard was so gorged that papers bulged from doors and drawers
that could not have been closed for years.

A little man with a short nose, a snuffy neck-cloth, and red-rimmed
eyes was talking with Mademoiselle Lafargue. She turned a look upon
Anthony that was surprised and grateful.

"Good day to you, gentlemen," said the little man in a squeaky voice.
"I will give you my best attention in a moment." To the girl he said:
"Pay heed to what I tell you. Women are not fitted for the carrying of
important words. Say to your father that he is the person I desire to
see. And I must see him immediately."

Weir stepped toward the usurer.

"Might I ask why, Mr. Nevens?" said he.

The man put his hand behind his ear, forming a sort of cup; he screwed
his face into an expression of great interest and squeaked:

"Hey? I am hard of hearing."

"It happens," said Weir to the girl, "that I know something of the
operations of this man, and I thought that Mr. Stevens and myself might
be of some help to you."

"The matter that brings Mademoiselle Lafargue here," said Anthony,
"seems to be a paper of her father's."

"I know its nature," said Weir. "After you had stepped out into the
passage up-stairs, the Bulfinches talked quite openly of it."

While they were speaking the broker kept his hand cupped behind his
ear, while his eyes searched their faces like those of some sly little
animal.

"Eh?" said he. "What do you say? Speak up. My hearing is not of the
best."

"If you'll permit me," said Weir to the girl, "I can probably save your
father a journey here and the exasperation he'd be sure to feel in
dealing with a man like this." Without waiting for a reply he turned to
Nevens. "Now, sir," he said, "a word with you."

Nevens seemed to get Weir's purpose,--perhaps it was from his
attitude,--and he began to gesticulate excitedly.

"My business is with her father," he said. "It is a private matter,
a transaction between us two, and has to do with a bit of commercial
paper."

"Quite so," said Weir. "Have the goodness to permit me to see that
paper."

"Eh?" Nevens seemed straining to hear. "What do you say?"

"Show me the bill."

"You must speak louder," said Nevens. "My hearing is not good. Once
it was excellent; I heard everything; but it has grown quite bad. In
dealing with me you must speak plainly; even then, sometimes," and he
shook his head, "I scarce hear a word."

"And this, I take it, is one of the times," said Weir dryly.
"Nevertheless," and he looked fixedly into the little ferret's face and
spoke slowly, "I think you'll understand what I'm going to say. First,
it's very well known that you are a mere instrument of the Bulfinches;
the bills they place in your hands under the pretense that you have
bought them they know to be desperate ones and not easily realized."

"I will speak with her father," said Nevens, hopping about. "I cannot
hear you. And I do not know you. It's her father who must pay, and it's
he who must present himself."

"Second," said Weir composedly, "this bill names no definite time for
payment; it states no rate of interest; it bears no indorser's name."

"Must I be robbed!" cried Nevens. "Am I to be dragooned and my money
mishandled because it was loaned generously."

"It may have been generosity," said Weir, "but it was old Amos Bulfinch
who loaned it, and, having known him, I'm tempted to believe it was
something else."

"My money!" chattered Nevens, on tiptoe with excitement. "I'll have it.
Is there no law to touch such cases? Is there no honesty in the world?"

But Weir motioned Anthony to open the door for Mademoiselle Lafargue;
and they went out, leaving the little broker still hopping and
shrilling his protests. On the sidewalk Weir gravely lifted his tall
beaver hat.

"Pay no attention to any further communication from this man," he said
to the girl. "The note, from Nathaniel Bulfinch's own word, is as I've
stated. It need be paid only when your father feels perfectly able to
pay it, and it bears no interest whatsoever."

He bowed to her and, with a nod to Anthony, went on his way toward
Fourth Street. And as Anthony and the girl walked in the opposite
direction there was a silence between them. Then the girl said:

"That was thoughtful and kind."

"Weir is both," said Anthony. "He is a reticent man, with little warmth
in his look; but more than once he has shown himself to me as a friend
worth having."

"I have been holding him wrongly in my mind," said the girl. "I had
thought him my enemy."

"You once thought I was your enemy," said Anthony, and he smiled.

"I've been very foolish," she said. "I've misjudged you all. I thought
you selfish, and I thought Captain Weir cold and cruel. Some time
since," and she lifted her fine eyes to him with an honesty that
thrilled him, "I saw I was wrong in my thoughts of you; and now I see
that I have also been unjust to Captain Weir. For that man must be very
kindly, indeed, who will go out of his way to serve one who he knows
detests him."

And Weir's lips, as he went his way down the street, were twisted into
a wry smile; and his eyes were also smiling the cunning, purposeful
smile of the cat.




                                 XXXI


The autumn came in ruggedly--an autumn of storms, of flurries of snow,
of bleak winds and driving rains. Under its breath the last trace of
the plague vanished; the fugitives returned; normal life and trade were
resumed; and in the hurry and bustle the terrors of the late summer
were forgotten. The winter followed--a raging, boisterous, blowing
winter, with deep snow in the wagon-ways, and ice in the river, the
chimneys smoking, and the carts piled high with cord-wood.

At Rufus Stevens' Sons there had been no great briskness after the
season of pestilence. There was a movement of trade through its
warehouses and counting-rooms; but it was a dull movement, without
rush or volume, with no ring of money in it, and no whetting of ideas.
Anthony had a feeling that things were crumbling under him; the stout
old walls were buckling. A ship of the firm's owning was held at
Rio by the Portuguese because of the house's failure to pay certain
moneys long due; another, lately repaired and cleaned at Barbados, was
not permitted to sail until all debts were cleared; each ship that
entered port from the East and South carried letters to the house from
merchants and traders, shippers and agents, asking that settlements
be made; and local merchants grew insistent that their accounts be
dealt with forthwith. There was a steady crowding in, a pressing, a
squeezing, and the wide-lunged old concern had no room to breathe; its
slow methods, its calm reliance upon its own integrity, its ponderous
insistence upon its own power had much the look of impotence. People
who had inherited their belief in the house now observed it keenly;
and what they saw made them shake their heads.

Charles came and went and planned for the future; of the succession of
days that broke and waxed and waned he said nothing, except in that
they served as things upon which to base calculations of what the ship
_Rufus Stevens_ was likely to be doing on the other side of the world.

"She must have made her port in three months," said Charles. "With that
hull and spread of sail, and mastered as she is, she couldn't help it,
unless the winds blew contrary every day. She'll surprise them in the
East, I think. The Yankees have sent nothing like her, and the British
are out-hulled and out-stowed, two to one."

He'd sit for hours, silent, still, a smile upon his face, his look many
and many a league away in the track of the trades, across the warm,
long waves of the Indian Ocean, past far lands and strange ships. There
the very stars were new and had alien names; the horned moon swung
downward like a yellow sword-blade; the sea and air were filled with
grotesque life. What ports he came to! how they shrieked and strove and
teemed and smelled! the stones were worn by generations of bare feet;
the narrow ways roared with traffic, set toward the rivers; the deep
warehouses were like rich mines; the merchants were grave of face and
wore silken robes.

The _Rufus Stevens_, as he'd see her, was anchored in mid-stream, empty
and standing high out of the water; she was a giant among ships, and
she was waiting for her cargo. Her sails were furled neatly, as only
skilful hands could furl them; her deck was as ordered as a parlor;
the masts reared straight, like slim towers; after a three months'
battering by the sea, her paint looked clean. And as she waited her
merchandise was gathering! Charles would sit tighter in the corner of
his sofa as he'd think of this; and he'd nurse his lame foot and smile;
and his eyes would glow.

Busy brown hands were gathering that cargo; others were setting the
items down in strange-seeming characters upon leaves of yellow paper;
trains of asses were filing through mountain passes with packs of
rich goods, with fabrics and shawls which would bear down the balance
against red minted gold; camels plodded sullenly across hot, wind-swept
plains, bearing rich carpets and soft rugs of rare design; flooding
rivers bore craft moved by tides and poles and sweeps, or by the
pressing wind in their worn brown sails. Silks were in these vessels,
as delicate as though spider-spun, and as softly hued as a young
morning.

And, then, there were the craftsmen of the cities; they were not
without words in the matter. They offered things fashioned of gold
and silver and ivory, richly and cunningly fashioned, of fine grace
and beauty, the like of which was seldom seen out of the East. And,
then, there were certain Jews, dark men, and said to have a strain of
Moorish blood; they had gems in a strong room, guarded by men with
hard, unbelieving eyes. But the mind of Charles barely touched these
traffickers and their treasure; for when one thinks one talks, and it
was not good to have it known that such items were in the ship's cargo;
for there was no part of the world's waters where pirates were thicker
than in the Indian Ocean.

"The kites," Charles would say. "The robbers! I wish I had mounted a
few guns in her, and given her a few cases of muskets. These great,
rich ships are as helpless as bustards."

His mind was seldom off the vessel. Item by item, the cargo would pile
up before him: casks, bales, chests, rich silks, rare dyes, spices,
fabrics of amazing texture, drugs, soft leather, gold vessels. There
were days when he'd talk of nothing else; he would be drunk with the
prospect of it. But Anthony frowned and doggedly worked with the
affairs of the house; for they, at least, were things one could put
one's hand on; a ship away at the other side of the world, as any
man who knew the ways of ships would tell, was a chance, only. There
were delays to be considered, and falling markets; there were gales
and sinister currents and coasts dreaded of mariners; there were the
springing of timbers, mutiny, and the Moorish corsairs; a drunken third
mate had ruined the hopes of many a merchant; a helmsman whose mind was
not on his work had smashed the ribs of hundreds of sound ships on easy
headlands.

But the work of the counting-room was never-ending; the young man would
no sooner, and sometimes with deadening labor, surmount a difficulty or
avoid a peril than another of a greater growth would show itself at the
door. He met them steadily and fought them as was his nature; but they
came swiftly, one upon another, like the waves of the sea; they came so
unexpectedly and with such crushing viciousness that he was gradually
being borne down by them; the horizons of the house were clouded by
mists and spray, and breakers seemed roaring all around it.

"It's no use," said Weir; "you cannot fight these things back; they lie
too deep; they must take their course."

"And then?" asked Anthony, pale, harassed, but still stubborn.

Weir shrugged his shoulders.

"I have seen unexpected strokes," said he. "Fortune is peculiar." There
was a cold smile in his eyes. "It may be your uncle's thoughts will
come true."

Of a night, after the work of the day, Anthony would sometimes spend
an hour with Christopher Dent; and he'd sit and smoke while the little
apothecary watched him with troubled eyes.

"You are breaking down," said Christopher. "Your mind is killing your
body. The vital elements have gone out of your blood. What does it
serve to work as you are doing? When the house of Stevens falls, as
seems likely now, I'm told, will there be any purpose in finding your
body in the ruins?"

"I shall, at least, have striven to prevent the fall," said Anthony.

Christopher made no answer to this, for there was no answer for such
a saying. It was a man's nature speaking, and a man's nature does not
change, as the little apothecary well knew, except by fierce rendings
and great drifts of emotion.

One day news came, by an English ship out of the East, and carrying a
great freight of woven cotton goods: the _Rufus Stevens_ had reached
her port after a swift and uneventful voyage, and, when the letter was
written, was discharging her cargo. Charles was vastly excited; he
limped to and fro and his face shone.

"She sails like a hawk, and is as safe as a city," said he. "She'll
make a high mark, as I've told you; she'll outrun and out-stow them
all."

Three weeks later, more news; this time from the ship's supercargo;
Winslow, the master, was sick of an injury and was being taken care
of. The ship was now discharged and ready for the merchandise she was
to bring back. Charles's face clouded when he read of his captain's
disability; but it cleared up at once.

"Winslow is a hale man," said he, "and he'll throw off a hurt quickly
enough. Never fear for Winslow."

There was a long wait--well into February, when the next word came.
Winslow was completely disabled; the ship had taken her cargo aboard
and waited at anchor in the river; but his condition showed no sign
of a turn. Also, and the supercargo was gravely concerned about this,
those who were accustomed to issue insurances at Calcutta had refused
to do so in the case of the _Rufus Stevens_. Pressed for a reason,
they were vague; there had been strange mishaps; the house of Stevens
had been oddly unfortunate. Others had been appealed to; but the result
was the same.

At this spot in the letter, Charles suddenly lost control of himself;
with the veins of his neck swollen and purple, he began swearing
futilely and bitterly. Weir finished reading the message. Because there
was not like to be storms, because the ship was sound and new, because
the American States were at peace with the world, it had been agreed,
despite the failure of the insurance, that the _Rufus Stevens_ sail for
home with her store of goods. The vessel had waited three weeks for
Winslow; but he was still in the hospital, and so another master was
procured and they were making ready to put to sea.

Charles stopped cursing and listened; and Anthony, his eyes narrowing,
asked:

"What is the new master's name?"

"He is Captain Gorman," read Weir, "out of New York, and, by good
fortune, in Calcutta without employment."

"A good man," said Charles. "A very good man. Not the sort I would
choose if there were many to select from; but an excellent man for all
that." He turned to Anthony. "Eh?"

But Anthony's brows were heavy, and his eyes were burning under them.

"I've only heard of Captain Gorman once," said he, his mind going
back to the ravings of old Bulfinch that night at Bush Hill; "and my
impression then was not good."

"There is evil to be said of every man who has sailed the seas," said
Charles. "Gorman has a heavy hand; crews are not apt to like him, and
he cares more for the brandy bottle than is good for either him or his
employers. But he is a good sailor, an excellent navigator, and brings
his ships home, and quickly. These are the qualities, after all, that
make the shipmaster. Gorman will do very well; I'm glad of him in the
emergency."

Anthony looked at his uncle; it was in his mind to tell him what old
Bulfinch had said. But he frowned, listened, and held his tongue; for
what purpose would the telling serve? The vessel was thousands of miles
away, and her prow would be turned homeward months before any word
could reach Calcutta. Also, he knew Charles's bounding, sanguine spirit
would at once cry the thing down. What? give credit to the maunderings
of an old wretch like Bulfinch? If one had given ear, and he could
fancy Charles saying this, to the ravings of every one stricken with
the plague, God knows what would have become of matters! For they
had been made mad by it; and the words of people in that condition
should not be listened to, much less remembered! So Anthony held his
peace--and waited.

And now the ship was on the sea; the wonderous freight she carried was
blowing nearer and nearer each day. The mind of Charles mounted into
thin air; his spirits sang; his sayings were like things printed in old
books. He laughed at the dull routine of the counting-room, and the
bent shoulders and moody brows he saw there; and he put a good-humored
curse on their doings and bade Anthony take his mind from worrying.

"But," said the young man, "the claims made against us must be
understood and met. They are real; they are heaping up; I can only hope
they'll not fall in on us."

"They are nothing. When the _Rufus Stevens_ comes into the river we'll
be able to pay every claim made upon us, three times over."

"But," said Anthony, "suppose she does not come?"

Charles laughed at this.

"Take your mind from provoking things," he insisted. "The world is full
of such, but they were never made to think about. To-day is shabby and
has nothing to give you; keep your thoughts on to-morrow."

But the gaunt present had its spell on Anthony; and he could not take
his mind from its grim approach. Later he spoke bitterly to Captain
Weir.

"There is enough come to us already to give us our deaths, once
the weight of it falls together; and what _is_ to come, in his
expectations, rests upon no better foundation than a tale told to
children. But, nevertheless, the stroke of fortune you spoke of some
time since seems the only thing that promises. If the house is to go on
at all,--and I see the thing plainer each day,--my uncle's dream must
come true."

"His visionings of the past had a way of doing so," said Weir. "And,
who knows? fortune may repeat itself. This I know: let the ship once
come to port, and there will be enough money to enrich a prince."

Two days later the sky, in the morning, was leaden; a bitter wind
blew out of the northeast; the river was sealed, but there was a
broad channel through the bay from New Castle to the sea, and ships
attempting to beat out, so the news came up to the city, were driven
back. For a week the wind continued, and the sky lowered like a dismal
casque upon the world. The news of what was happening trickled in
slowly, from down the river, from across the Jerseys, from New York.
The gale was the heaviest known in years; the hardiest mariners, the
stoutest ships had ridden in the bays, content to tug at their anchors
and with no thought to face it. It had torn and yelled along the coast;
the ocean had risen until spent waves were sweeping between the huts in
some of the fishing hamlets.

Charles and Anthony had gone out early of an afternoon to get a bite at
the City Tavern, and had paused to read a bulletin posted at the door;
as they were turning from it they met old Martin Dacy, mate of many a
deep-water ship and master of more than one coastwise brig.

"Eh?" said old Dacy. "Wild winds! And no fresh news? Leave it alone,
Mr. Stevens; leave it alone. The news'll come fast enough. What the
winds have done inside the capes and along the coast is all you've
heard of yet. You'll hear more than that as the days go on; and when
the thing's blown itself out you'll hear the worst. This has been none
of your gusty blows, none of your mad things that don't know their own
minds. There's been a devil behind this one, a bitter, wicked devil,
and he's pressed steadily for days and days in the one direction, and
he's piled seas before him so that out there it must look as though the
whole world were a-churning. The news'll come later; and that merchant
is lucky, sir, who has no ships at sea; and that sailor is lucky that
has a fire to sit at, ashore, and a chimney for the wind to roar in."

Charles and Anthony went into the tavern.

"Old seamen are fond of mumbling such prophecies," smiled Charles,
as they sat down at a table in the public room. "As they grow weaker
themselves, the danger and power of the ocean magnifies in their minds.
What would have been the day's work in their youth or their prime comes
to be looked upon as vast peril in their old age. God help them," said
Charles, "it may be a sort of compensation; they, like enough, think
themselves fortunate in having grown well away from such dangerous
days."

But, though there was a smile in Charles's eyes as he said this,
Anthony saw a look of strained wistfulness; and, for all the laugh,
there was something fixed and frightened in his face.

"What are ships for," said Charles, "if it is not to weather storms?
With honest planks and plenty of deep water, a good sailor can outlive
the roughest wind that ever came out of the north. And the _Rufus
Stevens_ is an honest ship, I'll take oath to that; and what deeper
water do you want, than the Atlantic? And, again, while a storm may
blow here or there, there may be calm weather enough in another place.
I doubt if our ship has come far enough to feel even the edge of this."

With each day while the storm lasted Charles grew more and more buoyant
in his talk. Before it broke, his calculations had been how very near
the _Rufus Stevens_ must be to port, how quickly she must have taken in
her merchandise, how she had run out and set herself before the trades,
and how she had blown with them across the leagues of water. But now
he conjured up all sorts of things that must have held her back; she
could not, he found, have left Calcutta for days after the time his
first figures had given him; and then at this season of the year the
trade-winds were not as brisk as might be; then, too, Gorman was no
fellow for pushing matters. He had that reputation. He was one of the
sort who was willing to take things fair and easy. And, this being so,
taking all likely things together, the vessel must still be far away;
she must be in a region of the seas where the weather was very calm,
indeed.

But when the storm ceased, when the sun shone out brightly and the wind
fell away to only a joyous romping, Charles was still. He went about
quietly; his face was white; and in his eyes was the look one sees in
the eyes of a boy who is afraid. And the time for news was at hand,
news of deep water, and barren stretches of coast; ships came creeping
in, broken in hull and rigging, with crews whose eyes stared and whose
minds were stunned. Fearful tales were told of the deadly wind and the
hill-like seas; vessels had gone down in the whirl of waters; the coast
was piled with oaken bones; a thousand lives could be reckoned as lost
even then; millions of money was scattered and sunk.

Then one of Girard's ships worked her way into the river; only one
of her masts was standing; half her company had been swept away. Her
master was a Chester man of the name of Frisbee, a plain sailor who
said little but whose sparse sentences meant much. In Lat. 35° 30' N.,
Lon. 63° 10' W., before the storm was at its worst they had sighted a
ship with her masts gone, pitching before the gale. He had stood by to
see if he could give aid; and once venturing close to her he saw the
name upon her bow. There was no mistake. She was the _Rufus Stevens_.
Her decks were deserted; her crew had abandoned her during a lull, or
had been washed away. Captain Frisbee had held his ship in position
to help any who might still be on board, if the chance came, but was
finally forced by the growing strength of the wind to give up the
effort and look to himself.

Charles Stevens was told this by Frisbee himself, in the London
Coffee-House. Anthony and Weir stood by--Anthony close to his uncle's
elbow, for he feared the result. But Charles took it quietly.

"How unfriendly the sea can be," he said. "It takes men's lives, and it
takes their goods. Merchants and shipmen have suffered much from it."

Frisbee stared, for the mild face was not that of a man who had lost a
fortune; and Charles, his odd, impersonal look going about the public
room, finally looked at Anthony, and he smiled as though gratified and
surprised.

"Ah, you're there, are you, Anthony?" said he. "I knew you would be."
He put his arm across his nephew's shoulders. "You are a fine fellow."
Anthony, a sudden shock at his heart, studied him with fearful eyes.
"You see it, do you, Anthony?" said Charles, forlornly. "I knew you
would at last. I should have told you when it first came. But I knew
it would hurt you, and so I did not. It's a strange thing, is it not?"
and he spoke very quietly, seemingly unaware of the ring of wondering
faces about him. "It's a very strange thing. I've always thought it
would be the dark I'd be afraid of. But it's the light."

"Well," said Frisbee, startled. "A good day to you." And off he went;
but Charles did not see him go.

"Yes, it's the light," said he, nodding his head; "the long nights when
I'd sit by the fire alone taught me that. I knew the darkness would
come in the end, and I dreaded it. But I do not fear it now; one can
sit undisturbed in the darkness; one can be quiet and peaceful. It's
the light that brings unrest; it's the light that's always seeking
to force its way through--a pale, bitter thing, and it always brings
despair."

"Come home," said Anthony; and to Weir he added, "See if Dr. King can
be found; and, if so, fetch him at once."




                                 XXXII


Ships had gone down a-plenty, and merchants had lost their goods, and
drowned sailormen were numbered in hundreds. New tidings came in with
each up-river sloop, and with each coach that crossed Jersey. But there
was no news that traveled so fast as that of the sinking of the _Rufus
Stevens_; for with her had gone down the house of that name, and there
had perished the fine mind of its master.

The exchanges roared with the intelligence; merchants wagged their
heads and said they were sorry; agents said there had never been such
a house and never would again; brokers regretfully put the concern out
of their reckoning; bankers looked closely to their accounts and their
securities.

"A new ship," said a portly trader, from his favorite vantage-place
behind a measure of ale. "A new ship, and gone down. It's a pity; it's
a great pity. I looked to see that vessel do rare things in the trade."

"And why?" asked a blunt-nosed man, who was drinking Cuban rum with hot
water and brown sugar. "Because she was built like a whale's belly, and
had masts that raked the sky? For me," and he stirred his drink with
much positiveness, "I like a ship with reasonable stowage, and a spread
of sail that's within the activities of human men. Give more than
that and you court peril; your great vessels will always be floating
coffins; they will be beyond management in any sort of stiff weather."

"Well," said the trader, "she's gone down, whatever the reason for it;
and I'm told a fine cargo has gone with her."

"Stevens set much store by that cargo," said Mr. Stroude, who was
one of the group. "He counted upon it to set matters aright with his
creditors."

The snub-nosed man tossed off an equal half of his rum and hot water
and regarded the remainder with appreciative eyes.

"Stevens was always the sort to build upon things to come. He never
gave his mind to the day at hand," said he. "For me, I like a man that
stands with his feet on the ground and with his eyes on things within
common view. I can understand a merchant like that. And with one I
can't understand," and the snub-nosed man shook his head, "I'll have no
dealings whatever."

"Ah, well," said Mr. Stroude sadly, "you'll have no need to worry about
Charles Stevens hereafter, if you've ever done so before."

"What's the news of him now?" asked the portly trader. "What do the
doctors say?"

Mr. Stroude inhaled the fumes of his apple-toddy; then he tasted it;
finding it to his satisfaction, he set it down.

"King is his physician," he said. "A very able, learned, and ready man.
They tell me he has made a study of men's brains and what they are
like to do in times when they are much bothered. I've heard it said
by those who should know that he had expected what's come about, that
he'd been awaiting it these months past. Ah!" shaking his head in vast
admiration, "science is a wonderful thing. The rest of us could go our
ways days without end and never expect the half of that."

The snub-nosed man seemed not convinced.

"I've heard men say years ago that they thought Charles Stevens mad,"
he said. "And, for my part, I never gain-said them; for his ways of
looking at things, or doing them, were not customary."

The portly trader cleared his throat, and the sound was plainly one of
dissent.

"You may say what you like," spoke he, "but you'll never get public
sanction for clapping a man into a madhouse because he's different from
his neighbors. For," and he shook a thick forefinger, "if the world
were filled with only people who thought in the customary way, and went
their ways as others do, how should we go forward, I'd like to know?"

"I have heard it reasoned that way before," said the snub-nosed man
stubbornly. "Nevertheless, I am for ways that I understand. There's the
nephew, now; he's the kind of man for my liking, a straight-forward,
open-dealing young chap. A body can make something of him."

"Well," said the trader, "I'll say nothing against him, for I've seen
no doings of his that I'd protest. An upstanding, candid dealer, and
I'm sorry things have gone as they have, if only for his sake."

"Have you heard the news of him?" asked Stroude, who had been sipping
his apple-toddy. He shook his head forebodingly. "He's taken to his
bed."

"No," said the trader.

"He'd seen what was coming to the firm before the ship was lost, and
worked day and night to waste the blow," said Mr. Stroude. "No one, so
I'm told, will know how hard he worked."

"I wouldn't have thought a little extra labor would do hurt to a
tough-built one like him," said the snub-nosed man.

"Nor I," agreed Stroude. "But 'tis the strain on the feelings and the
nerves that does it. Thews are not much help against such things.
Also, he had a hurt, a year ago, a knock on the head; and then he
didn't spare himself during the plague. These things come home to us
when we are not expecting them."

The trader finished his ale.

"There never was a time," said he, "when he'd be of more service if
he were up and about. The rats from Harmony Court and other holes and
corners are gathered to loot what's left of the house; and, given their
ways, they'll not leave a pick on its bones."

Anthony would have stood upon his feet if this dark thing had not come
to Charles; he would have stood toughly on his feet despite everything
else and would have dourly demanded the right of every man who sought
to put hand on what remained of the business. But this unlooked-for
turn of matters had sapped his reserve; he tottered; there was no
ground to fight upon. And Dr. King sternly told him to go to bed and to
stay there.

Captain Weir, calm, set of face, stood beside the young man, in his
lodgings in Sassafras Street and told him of some of the things that
were going forward.

"The Bulfinch bills fall due directly," he said, "and no doubt our
misfortunes will double the clamoring from the others."

"You will do what can be done, I know," said Anthony gratefully, as
Weir was leaving. "For the honor of the house, for its credit, and for
its survival, do your utmost."

"You may depend upon me," said Weir. "You may depend upon me in every
way. The temper of the creditors is yet to be seen; much may be
possible, or little. But I will do all that may be done, so compose
yourself to that."

Mr. Sparhawk visited Anthony later in the same day to ask how he did.
The perky little man talked pleasantly and rightly; the good spring
weather was all out on them; it would be a time of freshening and
renewing.

"You will mend," said he, to Anthony, "and begin to flourish with it."

Mr. Sparhawk was full of hope and cheer; but when the young man spoke
of the affairs of Rufus Stevens' Sons he said as little as possible in
answer.

"Take your mind from it," he advised. "What you could do you have done.
Nothing more is possible. Banish it straight, and set yourself to
getting well. The affairs of the house will be seen to."

"Of course," said Anthony. "Weir is still able. He will look to
matters."

Mr. Sparhawk cocked his head sidewise and regarded Anthony with a mild
look, curiously mixed with unbelief.

"Yes, of course," said he. "Weir. An excellent man of business; he has
a keen mind and an adaptable way."

Mr. Sparhawk went to Dr. King's, but the physician was not in; and then
he dropped in at Christopher Dent's and found the little apothecary
very pleased to see him, indeed. Was Anthony progressing? Yes! Well,
that was excellent news, indeed. But, of course, he would be. He needed
rest, that was all,--a rest of both body and mind,--and then he'd be
in wonderful health. And wasn't it quite amazing the way things turned
out? Matters might not be so bad, after all, with Rufus Stevens' Sons.
There was a chance for the house to recover. A good chance. He had
been present during a conversation between Monsieur and Mademoiselle
Lafargue. There were papers, it seems,--a deal of papers,--with which
much might be done. And mademoiselle was going to take them to Captain
Weir that very day.

"To Captain Weir!" said Mr. Sparhawk, and he compressed his lips and
raised his brows.

"Ah!" said Christopher, "you knew, then, that she had not regarded the
captain favorably?" He smiled and rubbed his bald crown. "But she has
safely recovered from that state of mind. Oh, yes, some time since.
Indeed, there's more than one of late concerning whom she's altered her
mind. It must be she was confused at first; she could not have looked
at things clearly. When we are in a strange place and feel friendless,
we are apt to be like that. But things are better with her now," with
great satisfaction. "And she has a deal more confidence."

Of course that would be so! Time and usage, said Mr. Sparhawk, work
many things out for us. The perky little man exchanged nods with
Christopher over this, and smiled and took snuff. But that he was
astonished he carefully put by; gently, then, he shaped the talk and
delicately he pressed his questions. No, to be sure, she had not
favored the captain. Quite the reverse, indeed. She had--could one go
so far?--detested him. Christopher was of the opinion that it was not
going too far. For some reason she _had_ detested him; more than that,
she had feared him. He had come to know that from her father, poor man,
who'd occasionally step in for a chat of an afternoon.

"In coming across the sea, her father must have had an unrequited
journey," said Mr. Sparhawk; "there have been little returns, I should
say, in profits or ease." He shook his head sadly; and then he said:
"It is fortunate that he had you for an occasional gossip. He came in
often, I have no doubt?"

Oh, yes; quite often. And it seemed to ease his mind. He regarded
Christopher, so it seemed, as a scholar and a scientist, which pleased
the herbalist much; and they discussed many problems which had long
vexed the world. Christopher was on the point of enumerating these
questions; but Mr. Sparhawk gently diverted him to a more immediate
thing. It was odd how the daughter had so suddenly reversed her
opinion of Captain Weir. Of course there were no reasons for it, and
Mr. Sparhawk smiled as he said this. When women changed their minds,
there seldom were.

Mademoiselle was not like that! Christopher was up at once in her
defense. No, no! She always had reasons, and good ones, too. You
could be assured of that. And it happened that he knew of what had
changed her toward Captain Weir. Her father had spoken of it. And
then the little apothecary told the tale of the visit to Nevens, the
money-broker, as it had filtered through Monsieur Lafargue's mind to
his own. Mr. Sparhawk listened appreciatively.

"Very good," said he. "Very good. That was like Captain Weir; it's
quite like him. Each time I hear one of these little things told of him
I am more convinced than ever that he is a clever man. An able man."

"And kind-hearted," said Christopher.

"Oh, no doubt," said Mr. Sparhawk; "there's no doubt of that in the
world."

When Mr. Sparhawk left the apothecary shop he did not go home directly.
First he paused at the side door, knocked circumspectly, and then
inquired of the maid if mademoiselle was at home; she was, so it
chanced, and he went up and in a few minutes was engaged in talk with
her.

"I trust," said he, "that your father is quite well."

"Not altogether so," replied Mademoiselle Lafargue. "There have been
so many disquieting things of late; he is cast down, and so his health
suffers."

Mr. Sparhawk clicked his tongue pityingly. It was too bad, indeed. So
many were incapacitated just then. Let the mind become fatigued by
over-anxiety and harm was sure to result. Of course the Rufus Stevens'
Sons affair must have added a deal to her father's disquiet. A most
regrettable state of affairs, it was, too; to have a fine commercial
house in such a state was deplorable.

"But," said mademoiselle, "all hope for it is not lost."

No, he felt that, too. He agreed with her; all hope was not lost. The
house was in a bad way, to be sure, but actual practice showed it was
most difficult to destroy a concern built up as solidly as this one had
been.

"Only the most barbarous mercantile methods will do it," said Mr.
Sparhawk; "for, you see, the place it has made for itself is so well
settled and so customary that all usual processes favor it. Even
now, confused as this house is," said Mr. Sparhawk, nodding with
much vehemence, "there is fixed in my mind a sense of its potential
strength. With considerate usage it will lift its head; it will resume
and flourish."

The fine eyes of Mademoiselle Lafargue glowed. She went to a cabinet
and, opening a drawer, took out some papers.

"But," said Mr. Sparhawk, "what chance is there for decent usage?
Consider the cormorants gathered to stuff themselves; how can their
greed be controlled?"

"I had thought of a way," said the girl. She sat down on the sofa
beside Mr. Sparhawk, the papers in her hand. The perky little manner of
that gentleman became much magnified; he put his finger-tips together,
cocked his head sidewise, and pursed up his mouth. "My father," she
said, "is a creditor of Rufus Stevens' Sons,--in a large way, I'm
afraid,--representing his own name and those of other people in Brest.
There are also certain bankers and citizens of that city who also
possess credits."

"Am I to understand," asked Mr. Sparhawk carefully, "that these are the
instruments of their claims?" and he nodded toward the documents.

"Yes," she said, and gave the papers into his hand. He examined each
of them minutely, and when he had finished there was a sparkle of
excitement in his eyes. But he merely said:

"Well?"

"Is it not a commercial usage in this country, when one has credits
with a firm that has fallen into disorder, to strive to bring
regularity into its affairs?"

Mr. Sparhawk nodded.

"If one hopes to save any fair share of one's due, yes," said he. "It
is the method of honest and sensible men. But, in this matter, I'm
sorry to say, you have to deal with many who are neither; there are
some who always hope to come by greater gain if permitted to pillage."

"But not all are of that kind," said the girl.

"No," Mr. Sparhawk agreed to this, but cautiously. "Not all."

"Some honest men, also, hold claims against the house," she said;
"could not these," and she pointed to the papers, "be joined with them?
And would not such a combining be able to hold much ground against
dishonesty? Could it not," and her eyes flashed, "make the looting of
this old house such a thing of open shame that even the hardiest of
them would not dare attempt it?"

Mr. Sparhawk was regarding her steadfastly.

"How," he asked, "would you lay your plans to procure such a result?"

"I had thought," said she, "to put the matter in the hands of Captain
Weir."

"An excellent man," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Respected by all in the port; a
person of known principle, proven integrity, and marked ability."

"I am glad you agree with me," she said, and there was relief in her
face. "I have had no one with whom to consult but my father."

"You could not have selected a better man than Weir," said Mr.
Sparhawk. "A fine choice, indeed." The little gentleman's finger-tips
were most carefully joined, his silk-stockinged legs were crossed, and
he dandled one foot before him. "For most matters, that is. But, for
the one you have in mind, I'm afraid he would not do at all."

Her eyes opened wide; distress came plainly into them.

"A little reflection along the line of commercial usage will make my
meaning plain to you," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Weir has been with Rufus
Stevens' Sons for many years; he is deeply imbedded in the firm's
affairs; and that is against him here. For those who have claims upon
the firm should be approached by one who is a creditor himself. Or,
failing that," said Mr. Sparhawk, "by one who is quite disinterested."

"What, then, shall I do?" said Mademoiselle Lafargue. "To whom shall I
apply?"

"Do not distress yourself," said Mr. Sparhawk. "There is no need to do
so. Your plan," and he nodded encouragingly, "is a very serviceable
one. Indeed, to speak the truth, some such thing came to my own
thoughts in the last few days. But, I had no claim upon the house, and
so it was not for me to come forward. With these, however," and he
rustled the papers which she had given him, "any person with the proper
authority could make a beginning which might lead to a creditable
ending."

She looked at him, and there was a new hope in her face.

"I have heard it said," and her voice had a slight quaver in it, "that
you have a feeling of friendliness toward Mr. Anthony Stevens."

Mr. Sparhawk bent forward a little.

"There is no young man in the city," said he, "indeed, there is no man
of any age anywhere, for whom I have a larger respect, or whom I would
strive more to please."

"I, too, have a--a great respect for him," said the French girl. "It
is because of that, and because I once did him an injustice in my
thoughts, that I want so to help him now. He is ill; he is unable to
face the things he _would_ face so well; are you strong enough in your
friendship for him to take these papers and make all the good use you
can of them?"

"Mademoiselle," and the little gentleman regarded her, his head to one
side, and a thing like victory in his eye, "my friendship is strong
enough for that, and for more than that."

He talked with her earnestly for some time; then, at his bidding, she
made herself ready for the street. He took his hat when she returned,
and they went out together, he with the papers buttoned up in his
pocket and stepping briskly along at her side.




                                XXXIII


Christopher Dent spoke to Anthony at his lodgings in Sassafras Street
a few days later; the young man was hollow-faced and his eyes were hot
and tired. But he listened to the little apothecary gratefully.

"So," said Christopher, "from what I hear, away he went with her, and
with the papers in his pocket."

"Where did he take her?" asked Anthony.

"Where but Crousillat's? There they had a long conversation with the
old gentleman himself; and then they went to Girard's."

Anthony stirred on his bed.

"With what result?" he asked.

"Both the Frenchmen listened carefully. Was not mademoiselle a
countrywoman of theirs? Ah, but this Sparhawk is a crafty little whip.
He knows what to do. And after he had their favor,--and the favor of
two such as they is of a deal of value when one means to approach
others,--he went to Wilcock's, at the India Stores, and afterwards to
some others. In the space of one day's going about he had the matter
well in hand; he had spoken to banks and legal people, and a conference
was had with such creditors as were within call. Matters were arranged,
it seems, as easily as you'd turn your hand; everything was made
comfortable and snug, and with nothing unpleasant in the whole of it."

"Good news, Christopher," said Anthony. "Fine news, indeed."

"I felt you'd think so, though I was in a fright at fetching it,"
said Christopher. He sat regarding Anthony for a space and then said:
"There have been many hulks broken up in Harmony Court, but the house
of Stevens is not to be one of them--at least, not yet. For Mr.
Sparhawk, together with Mr. Crousillat--a most excellent pair for such
a task,--have been agreed upon to receive what is left of the business
and to conduct it until such times as matters begin to clear up."

"Good news again," said Anthony. "I feel as though I had a heart in
my body once again, and there's a stir in my blood. And who but you,
Christopher, would have thought to bring me such good word?"

But the apothecary shook his head.

"The truth is that is was not I who thought of it," said he. "It was
mademoiselle."

"Ah!" said Anthony.

"'There he lies, ill,' she said. 'There he lies in his bed with never
a one to carry a word to him of what's being done.' With that," said
Christopher, "I spoke of the doctor's directions, and how you must be
kept from care. But she would not hear to it. 'News like this,' she
says, 'will do good; certain worries have leagued to trouble his mind;
and this will put an end to them. He'll get ease by it.'"

"She is kind," said Anthony. "Please carry her my thanks. She is very
kind."

"Did I not say you'd hold her in a deal of esteem when you came to know
her better?" said Christopher, gratified. "She has a fine spirit and is
well instructed; and things like those make excellent women. The matter
that rose up between you had no real place in either of your minds; I
always felt that. And, now that you see each other in a proper light,
I'm much pleased."

The news brought by Christopher Dent so heartened Anthony that in
less than a week he was out of his bed; and in a day or two more he
was taking slow-paced walks in the street, trying his strength and
steadiness. On one of these he stopped at Dr. King's; and in the hall
he met Mademoiselle Lafargue, just on the point of leaving. She held
out her hand to him and smiled; and, as he took the hand and held it
closely, she said:

"It is so good to see you out once more. From what I'd been told, I had
not expected it so soon."

"God knows how long I'd have been upon my back, grieving for strength,"
said Anthony. "But your good offices saved me a deal of it."

"Your thanks should go to Mr. Sparhawk more than to me," said the girl.
"Without his shrewd wit and ready realization, I'm afraid little would
have been done."

They talked for a space; their voices were level, their manners still;
but there was a something about each of them which glowed like an aura;
the edges of these sought to meet and lap but the dregs of a bitter
wind still blew between them, and it was not yet to be. Then Dr. King
appeared and took Anthony away into his study.

"There is a space yet to bridge before his health is fully recovered,"
said Mrs. King to mademoiselle. "He is not yet strong."

"His eyes are tired," said mademoiselle. "His spirit looks through them
and tells of the sufferings of the past months."

"The doctor is concerned about him," said Mrs. King, as the girl was
going. "He recommends a simple, natural life, in a place where he can
rebuild his body while his mind rests. He is of an outdoor breed, and
you cannot keep such housed up when their vitality is lowered without
grave risk."

Mademoiselle carried this away with her, and that night, as Christopher
Dent and Tom Horn sat in the room back of the shop, the little
apothecary grinding some healing agent into a proper fineness, and Tom
sitting silent, his eyes fixed upon the wall before him, the girl came
in. At once Christopher brought forward a chair, dusted it carefully,
and offered it to her. She sat down and looked at them both.

"You are always so comfortable here, and so contented," she said. "You
have your work and your books and your thoughts. I can envy one who has
such quiet interests."

The little apothecary looked gratified and rubbed his bald crown.

"But," he said, "your own affairs will quiet down before long. Oh, yes,
you may be sure of that. You have gone through a deal; but a calm comes
finally, and then we are less stirred by those affairs of which others
have control. We grow content within ourselves; and that, Mademoiselle,
is as it should be."

He turned once more to the mortar and began grinding at the substance
in it, nodding in the wise way he had; and she sat smiling at a fancy
that came into her mind, that he was really an ancient nature sprite
who had gathered great stores of peace in the woodlands and fields,
along with the barks and roots and flowers of his trade. And then the
thought of woodlands and fields caused her mind to go to Anthony and to
what Mrs. King had said earlier in the day. So she repeated the saying
to Christopher, and he listened with concern.

"The doctor spoke of that, here, only a few days ago, when I urged
certain curative things as being desirable in our young friend's case.
'There is no remedy like air and quiet and work with one's hands,' he
said. And who knows but he spoke truth?"

"It may be," she said, "that in your going about in unfrequented places
in search of simples you have come upon a place with the qualities Dr.
King has in mind."

Christopher ceased bruising the bark and put the pestle carefully down.

"Dr. King spoke of the sea," said he. "He believes greatly in the winds
that blow from it, and the salts and other substances that are in it.
But the spot I have in mind on the coast of the Jerseys is lonely and
desolate."

Tom Horn stirred.

"It is a lonely place that is needed," said he; "a place of sun and
open spaces, where a man can live close to the eternal facts."

The girl looked at him with sudden attention.

"Why," she said, "that sounds like the truth."

"There is one strip of coast that I know well," said the apothecary;
"but it is too wild and too far from help for a man as lowered in
health as Anthony Stevens."

"He needs no help," said Tom Horn. "His body is tough and strong. It's
his spirit that's been trampled down; and there is healing for that in
the stillness of the sea and the vast sky. I have felt the touch of
these things, and I know. Each is a potent good, and has been to the
advantage of many a man."

"I'll not gainsay you," said Christopher hopefully. "And there is a
hut," to the girl, "tight against the weather when I slept there last;
this would serve him if he'd care to venture to those parts, which I
doubt."

Tom Horn looked at Christopher, his pale, luminous face wistful and
oddly intent. But he spoke to mademoiselle.

"He comes here sometimes of a night," said he, "to smoke and to talk
for an hour before bed. It might be well," to the apothecary, "if you
spoke to him of this, should he chance in to-night."

Anthony did chance in; but it was after mademoiselle had gone; and
while he kindled the tobacco in his long-stemmed clay, and made himself
comfortable, the little apothecary pounded and ground away at the bark
in the mortar and took on a look of enormous guile.

"Do you mark how thick the city's air is, in spite of the bright days?"
he asked.

Anthony looked surprised.

"Why," said he, "I've thought it quick and pleasant enough."

But Christopher shook his head forebodingly.

"It will be many a long day before the lees of the plague are driven
entirely away," he said. "It clings to those things and places it has
touched for a long time after. There is no health here," and he shook
his head again; "it's a sickly place just now. And, in your weakened
state, you'd do well if you'd leave it for a space."

"Sea air is driven clean," said Tom Horn. "Sea air would enrich you."

"I've thought of that once or twice," said Anthony. "A short voyage
might go well with me."

"To be sure," said Christopher readily. "Of course. Why hadn't that
occurred to me? A steady ship might be best after all. Let us say, a
coastwise brig, with a sober master, and carrying cargo that's in no
haste."

"A ship is no place for you," said Tom Horn to Anthony. "You need a
quiet mind; and aboard ship there will be bellowing mates, and foremast
hands who swear sour oaths. And at sea you'd be beyond call if needed
in any matter of business."

"Why, yes," said Christopher. "That is true. Perhaps the hut I spoke
of on the shore is best for you, after all." And then, as the young
man looked at him inquiringly, he told of what had passed between
mademoiselle and Tom Horn and himself. And Anthony listened with favor.

"There you'd be quite alone," said Tom Horn. "It cleanses the soul to
be alone after a time of great stress; and things resolve themselves
as they would not otherwise."

Anthony asked many questions of Christopher, and the answers seemed
greatly to his liking. There were fish to snare and wild fowl to shoot;
the hut was snug and faced the sea; the wind swept the beach and
the dunes and the bay. The young man drew the air into his lungs in
anticipation.

"In such a place," said he, "a man might grow as well as he had a mind
to."

"You'll go, then," said the little apothecary, pleased.

"I will," said Anthony. "It's a good thought, and I thank you for it."

Tom Horn said nothing but sat and watched Anthony in the same odd way
he had formerly done when the young man first came to Rufus Stevens'
Sons. And when, at last, Anthony arose to go Tom went with him.

"I'll take you a step or two on your way," he said.

They paced along, side by side; Anthony was silent; now and again Tom
Horn would look at him; more than once the odd clerk seemed about to
speak, but paused on the verge of it. At last he said, his head nodding:

"There is a shoal there, and the white ghosts move through the night
when the winds blow."

"Eh?" Anthony looked at him.

"They reach miles out to sea, and shipmen avoid them as they would
death," said Tom Horn.

"Oh!" said Anthony, understanding, "you mean at the place Christopher
spoke of? Yes, I've heard the coast in that region is counted
dangerous."

They fell silent and walked on; as they passed under the dim
street-lamps, Tom Horn would again look at Anthony with some of the
old, strange speculation in his eyes. Once, when the young man caught
his glance, he said:

"You are not strong; your life's circle is too narrow. But," and he
nodded assuringly, "it will grow wider; and then we shall see."

Anthony made his preparations quietly; none knew he was leaving the
city except those already acquainted with his purpose. He would have
told Captain Weir, but when he asked for him at the counting-house Tom
Horn shook his head.

"He has been gone these four days," said the clerk. "And he left no
word."

"Ah, well, it's no matter." Anthony stood, cutting at his boot-leg with
a riding-whip, and gazing about the silent counting-room. He thought
of what this house once had been, and of what it now had come to; he
thought of Charles as he had seen him that morning, smiling, childlike,
engaged in meaningless pastimes. His breath grew tight in his chest,
and he turned, about to go.

"The wagon, I suppose," said Tom Horn, "is already beyond the river,
laden with your goods?"

"Yes," said Anthony, "and will start across the Jerseys as soon as I
reach it. Good-by."

"Good-by," said Tom Horn. He reached into his high desk and produced a
long pistol, carefully oiled and polished. "Take this and keep it by
you," said he. "The place you are going to is an unfrequented one; and
in such places unexpected things are sometimes met."

Anthony took the weapon and stood regarding the man for a moment.

"Thank you," said he. And again, "Good-by."

He went out, mounted his waiting horse, and rode away toward the ferry
at the foot of High Street; and Tom Horn stood in the counting-house
door, gazing after him until he had disappeared.




                                 XXXIV


To one who did not know Tom Horn very well, his manner and his
occupations, after Anthony left the city, did not change. He still
arose and was abroad while the dawn was touching the river and took his
breakfast standing at the bar of the Boatswain-and-Call. Then through
Water Street, freshly awakened; with a great copper key he'd open the
counting-room door at Rufus Stevens' Sons; it was dusty and silent, for
but a trickle of trade ran through it now; but Tom would gravely take
off his coat and hang it away; then he'd put on a worn jacket, mount
his high stool, and the day had begun.

But what was this scrawling of figures on bits of paper? What was
this endless computing and calculating and balancing of facts? As the
day wore on he would be surrounded by these fragments, each bearing
a mysterious statement; and his mind seemed laboring with some dimly
seen thing. He descended into vast pits of speculation and emerged
with fresh figures to be worked into new results. But that was not
all; in the midst of these calculations he'd be seized with fits of
bodily activity; he'd get down from his stool, put on his coat and his
tall, shabby hat, and hurry out, locking the door behind him. And these
errands always had to do with wind and weather; ships and shipmen also
took their places in his interests, as did tides and changes of the
moon, and wrecks and loss, and bitter news. Steeped in these he'd hurry
back to the silent counting-room; then more figures, more descents
into the pit, more reveries, more striving toward the thing sensed so
clearly but so dimly seen.

Of a night, after he had taken his supper and read the "Gazette" at the
tavern, he'd make his way to Christopher Dent's; the two would sit with
the window open and the evening air stirring in the room, and they'd
talk.

"There is no thing so natural as a circle," said Tom Horn. "The world
is shaped like one; it moves in one. Every finished movement is a
circle. The tides of the sea move in a vast one."

"To the eye, at least, the sun and moon are round," agreed Christopher.
"Though the stars, indeed, seem to depart from the rule, and have
points."

"There are as many tides in the sea," said Tom Horn, "as there are
winds. And the winds are countless." He drew his chair nearer the
little apothecary, and his voice lowered. "There are waters," said he,
with the strange, luminous look in his face, "that crawl through the
sea like great serpents; they bend themselves across the world, and
ring in hopeless things."

"I have beard tales of such," said Christopher, "but I have not been
able to credit them. For how can one body of water move through another
and keep its integrity?"

"They are like great serpents," maintained Tom Horn, "miles broad,
and with the movements of the earth and moon behind them. Storms blow
across these currents, but a storm's authority is only for a moment,
and the current goes on; meeting others like it, they join, and so the
sea is encircled. And in the center of this circle," said Tom Horn,
"is a dead spot, like an ulcer, where all helpless things drift and
stay--broken ships and broken men; there they lie, bleaching in the
strange lights, and with silent death coming toward them out of the
mist and darkness."

"That," said the little apothecary, "would be the Grassy Sea--the
Sargasso, as the Spanish shipmen called it. I've heard it spoken of
more than once. A strange place," and Christopher shook his head; "a
queer, still place, I have no doubt; and they say few men who have seen
it have lived to tell of it."

"The currents drag all things about with them which have not the
service of the winds," said Tom Horn. "Around they go in the circle,
around and around, all the time getting nearer and nearer to its inner
edge; and then they drift into the dead spot, and the Sargasso has them
for evermore."

"An unhappy fate," said Christopher. "A most unhappy one."

There was a silence; then Tom Horn put out his hand and touched the
little apothecary on the knee.

"In mid-Atlantic," said he, "there are no reefs or bars; if a ship is
stout and honest she does not readily sink in deep water."

"No," said Christopher, "she should not. There is reason in that."

"If a ship, known to be the work of steady, good artificers, is seen in
great distress in mid-ocean," said Tom Horn, "in great distress, but
most likely whole of hull, what warrant have we in afterwards thinking
her at the bottom of the sea?"

"Why," said the apothecary, his eyes growing round, "I do not know. I
have given such possibilities but little thought."

"As there were no rocks to dash her on, and no sands to trap her,
reason says she might still be afloat," said Tom Horn. He seemed
suddenly excited and got to his feet.

"An honest, good ship, mind you--and in mid-ocean! Who can be sure
she'd foundered? With her timbers tight and her hatches down, who
can be sure her cargo has been injured?" He took up his hat, and
Christopher saw that his hand trembled as he did so. "I will be going,"
said Tom Horn; "it is past my bedtime, and there is a deal for me to
do to-morrow. I have many figures to set down and much study to give
them. Good night."

"Good night," said Christopher, rounder-eyed than ever. He followed Tom
to the door, and watched him down Water Street. "Good night."

Christopher, after he'd seen the odd clerk out of sight, shut the
door, and sat down. But he did not sit long; in a few moments he was
up and pacing the floor in much agitation; then he busied himself with
some formulas, ground many powders and weighed them in a tiny scale.
But he could not take his mind from the surprising thought Tom Horn
had planted there; and afterward, when he had gone to bed, he lay and
counted the hours each time the clock struck them; at three he fell
asleep, and dreamed of wondrous events, and happenings that made him
marvel.

It was the middle of the morning when he left off his work, brushed his
coat, went to the side door, and asked to see mademoiselle. And while
he sat upon the edge of a chair, she upon a sofa before him, he told
her, word for word, as well as he could remember, of what Tom Horn had
said the night before.

"Too much heed can be given to such things," said Christopher; "for we
all have our desires, and so may be led astray by speculations which
have no substance. And, again, poor Tom, while a person of many rare
qualities is--so it's thought--odd in his manner and in his thinking.
So this may be a mad thing only. But it's kept with me all night long
and has been at the elbow of my mind so far in the morning; and I
thought it as well to speak to some one who I knew had interest in the
matter."

There was a spot of color in each of the cheeks of mademoiselle;
her eyes sparkled with eager excitement. She asked Christopher many
questions; he answered as fully as he could; all the things the clerk
had said, he repeated, but further than that he could not go.

"It may be his fancy, as I've said," he told mademoiselle. "I'd pin no
faith to it that it carried any value."

"And why not?" asked the girl. "Why should you not? For me, I'd credit
him with a deal of knowledge, a deal deeper than most. His mind is
quite clear, for all his manner is odd, as the matters I've heard he's
said to Anthony Stevens and the things he's pointed out have shown. He
is the one among them all in the counting-room who had the keenness to
see and the purpose to remember."

"It is so," said the little apothecary. "It is so, indeed. I had
something of that in my mind, and it troubled me."

"I should like to speak with him," said mademoiselle. "It may be that
with questioning he would say more."

"That's a thing that's easily put to the test," said Christopher. "He
lives in Pump Court, but a step or so from this; and we shall go see
him any time you wish."

"Thank you," said the girl. "If he returns to your shop in a night or
two, send me word; if not, we shall go see him, as you say."

And so Christopher Dent went at once back to his apothecary shop, and
in a much more peaceful state of mind.




                                 XXXV


Anthony Stevens' journey across New Jersey was slow; the track he
followed was through the pine barrens, dismal even in the flush of
spring. The wheels of the wagon sank in the sand, and the span of stout
horses sweated in their collars. Of an evening--the fourth since his
start--he arrived at a small white town, standing sparsely upon the
banks of a creek which let out into the bay. This was Barnegat; and
here the young man bargained for transportation to his journey's end.

His goods were transferred to a flat-boat, and with the first peep of
morning they were out of the creek; the patched sail filled, and the
boat stood away for the long, low shore that faced them. The morning
was still wet with mist when they grounded in a cove; across the
meadows Anthony saw the blue-white of the dunes, and beyond them was
the shine of the moving sea; thousands of migrating birds filled the
sky, coming from the south, and hovered in twittering hordes over the
wax-myrtle thickets; here and there a pair of black-ducks, delayed in
their journey north, paddled about, feeding on the edge of the cove.

"There's the house you mean," said the boatman to Anthony.

It stood upon a dune and overlooked both the bay and the sea; it was
low and strong and had small windows much like ships' dead-lights;
the timbers plainly were parts of vessels, broken by the sea and cast
ashore.

"'Twas built years ago by a man who lived by what he took out of the
bay and what he found on the beach," the boatman told Anthony. "But
it's seldom used now by any one; this beach is not much frequented;
you'd go many a mile along it and never see a soul."

The man helped Anthony carry his provisions along what remained of
a track across the meadows; then his bedding and blankets and other
equipment followed. The door was fast only by a wooden latch; inside,
the place resembled a ship's cabin; and after the boatman had gone
Anthony opened the small, round windows and permitted the fresh sea air
to blow through it; then he sat down upon a keg and looked around.

The timbers of the hut were massive, and had been hewn to fit; the
crevices were overlapped outside by scantling; there were shelves
over the windows and the door; in one corner was a rough cupboard, in
another a bunk; and there were chairs and a table made up of materials
cast up on the shore. A battered brass ship's lamp hung from the center
of the ceiling by a chain. Through the open door he saw the dunes and
the sea and the sky, like a picture set in a frame--the dunes with
their sparse, strong grass, and mist-like blue that blurred the glare
of the sun; the sea heaved, green and endless, breaking white upon the
bars; the sky carried soft, floating draperies over its deep bosom,
and, far out, stooped suddenly to meet the lifting waters.

Anthony cut some soft branches from a small cedar-tree which grew
near the hut and fashioned himself a broom; with this he swept the
walls and floor; then he unrolled his bedding and made up the bunk,
sailor-fashion, stowed his salt beef and dried fish and fruit, his
flour and beans and peas, and meal and tea; a well sunken from the top
of a neighboring dune was cleaned and made sweet, the roof was seen to,
to guard against possible rains. Then Anthony cleared the fireplace of
the ash of an ancient fire, and laid some sticks for the building of a
new one; he placed a thin array of books upon a shelf over a window,
hung a fowling-piece and the pistol which Tom Horn had given him upon
the wall; he saw to it that his powder was protected from the damp, and
began to feel at home.

Toward evening he set out for a tramp on the beach; it was broad and
steep; the broken waves would rush up the incline frothing, and then go
swirling dangerously back. High on the horizon-line he saw some filled
topsails; and to the northeast he saw a shoal which ran as far as his
vision carried, and the hurrying waves broke over its bars in a cloud
of mist.

"That," said Anthony, "must be the point Tom Horn spoke of. And I can
see well how the 'white ghosts would move through the night when the
winds blew.'"

It was dark when he returned to the hut; he lighted two candles, and,
when he had a good bed of coals in the fireplace, cooked his supper,
which he ate with great comfort. The sea air was thin and chill after
the sun had gone; so with the fire built up, the candles drawn close,
and a blanket thrown over the biggest of the arm-chairs, he sat with a
book until almost midnight; after that he rolled himself up in his bunk
and slept soundly.

Next morning he bent a sail on a boat he'd brought from the mainland
and prowled about among the coves of the bay; in the afternoon he
explored the island to the north, and found it abruptly cut by a swift
and dangerous-looking inlet, at the mouth of which began the range of
shoals and bars he'd noticed the evening before.

To the south all was beach and dunes and sky; the gulls winged above
the water; fish-hawks flopped drearily up and down the line of surf;
sandpipers followed one receding wave in search of beach insects, to
scamper alertly back before the rolling advance of the next. The air
was bracing; the smell of the sea was grateful. As the charm of the
place settled upon him, Anthony would stand at midday upon elevations,
with the free wind blowing about him, the sun warm upon his body, and
feel the life mounting in him. Days and then weeks went by; he took
fish out of the bay for food; he brought turtles from the high bar; he
cut green, edible plants for his table; now and then he had a duck,
though they were none too plump at that season; at rare times he had a
rabbit for the pot with a dried leek from the cluster hanging to a hook
in the rafters.

The sun burned him brown; the rowing, hauling, and tramping toughened
his thews and gave stiffness to his bones. His eyes grew bright and
ready; and, as those grinding, punishing last days at Rufus Stevens'
Sons became fainter in his memory, the old tilt came back to his chin
and the steadfast quality returned once more to his gaze. He'd plunge
into the surf of a morning; tingling with the water, air, and sun, he'd
cut wood for his fire, and cook his porridge, and bake his corn-bread
upon the coals. Then he'd sit by the open window, eating, and sipping
his wine and water, and he said to himself that he had begun no days
like them since those he'd spent breasting the wilderness, or stepping
the deck of a Spanish ship, voyaging among the southern seas.

After breakfast he'd scour the beach to see what the tide had brought
in; planks, cordage, spars, broken ship's furniture, all added to his
ease of life; and tinkering it into useful things passed many of his
hours with profit. In mid-morning he'd hoist the sail of his boat and
point away to his fishing-places; in the afternoon he'd lie on the top
of a dune in the still of the sun; the sea washed in monotonously,
a fishing bird complained in his passage, the wind rustled in the
thickets on the meadow edge; but the sense of isolation would be on him
completely; his eye and body were keen and eager, but his mind drowsed,
resting after its wearing fight.

In all this time Anthony had seen no one on the island, and there
was no sign of another habitation anywhere. Toward the mainland he'd
frequently see a small sail, but they kept to their side of the bay;
to seaward many vessels passed. Ships, schooners, brigs, and sloops,
when the wind was in the west, ventured into the flat, near-shore
waters, though none ever paused on their way. But one day while a
tower of storm-clouds was building in the northwest he saw a small
brig, standing on and off, and seeming in no haste. She was, as far
as Anthony could see, a craft of no outstanding character; her hull
had the unkempt look of a carelessly kept fishing-vessel; her dress
of sails was patched, and discolored by long use, except one topsail,
and that was white and new and shining. Though the wind freshened and
blew levelly out of the windows of the storm-tower, the brig still kept
pondering in and out; once a boat was lowered; but a shrill note crept
into the wind, and the sea began to leap a little under its urging, and
the boat was hoisted aboard directly; and the vessel pointed her nose
toward the southeast and ran for deep water.

While at his supper that night Anthony listened to the rain washing
against the cabin windows and roaring on the roof. The wind carried the
sand and spray before it; the thunder rattled, and the lightning drove
sharply across the sky. But the fine fish Anthony had hooked smoked
deliciously on the table; there was rice cooked white and dry; there
were stewed leeks and good corn-bread; and a brandy-flask seemed to
expand its stout mid-section and smile rosily at the candle-light. And,
later, snug and safe in the stout cabin, Anthony put more wood upon
the fire; for all of early June the east wind chilled the air with its
wet touch; the candles were cheery, the billets flamed up, and, with a
book and pipe and a comfortable chair, he saw the storm through to its
peak; then he blew out the light and went to bed, while it still jeered
and strove, but with a tiring voice; and he slept soundly.

He found the beach cut and lashed desperately next day; and the seas
were still roaring and boiling in, making the cuts deeper and changing
the whole aspect of the shore. But the wind had gone down, and late
in the day the sea sullenly did likewise. Then, far down the line of
shore, as Anthony trudged along to view the havoc of the gale, he saw
the stern of a long-boat sticking out of the sand. His eye told him, as
he approached it, that some previous storm had driven it in and buried
it; and now this one had uncovered it once more. The stern was badly
stove; he saw that as he drew nearer; and another thing he saw was
that the boat, for all her mishandling, was a new one. And then, as he
stepped around the broken stern, he found painted upon it the name of
_Rufus Stevens_!

Anthony stood quite still for a long time; his eyes never moved from
the painted name; his mind carried a picture of the vessel to which the
boat had belonged. The _Rufus Stevens_! A stout, good ship! The hopes
that had been put in her!--hopes as precious as the stuffs she stowed!
And now she was a broken ruin somewhere in the sea's depths, and the
hopes were broken, too, in the ruined mind of her owner. A plunging,
bold ship! And she would have come safe home if the dirty hand of
villainy had not been put upon her. A broad-sailed ship. Christ! it was
a shame to think of her, used like that; and no mind or voice to save
her.

"I'd give my arm to have stood on her deck when her peril came upon
her," said Anthony, all his muscles tight. "The rats! They sank her in
the sea, and brought living death to as kindly a man as ever God made!"

That night Anthony did not sleep well, for the thought of the lost
ship troubled him gravely; so he arose and dressed and stepped
out into the quiet of the summer night. His eyes went seaward, for
something there caught his attention; it was a light at no great
distance--intermittent, winking, sometimes with long pauses between,
sometimes rapid, considered, carrying an undoubted meaning. Then the
night grew dark and blank; and, though he watched a long time, Anthony
saw the light no more. He tramped about until weariness urged him back
to bed, and this time he slept with no disturbing thoughts breaking in
upon him.

Next morning he was early upon the beach and looking sharply about
for any sign that might give a reason for the light that had come
winking offshore. He saw nothing until he reached the spot where the
stove long-boat of the _Rufus Stevens_ protruded from the sands. All
about her were the imprints of men's feet, which the making tide had
already begun to wash away. Anthony studied them, his eyes intent under
frowning brows; and then, as he lifted his head, he saw a vessel riding
upon the horizon-line. She was a brig; and one of her topsails glinted
white in the morning sun.




                                 XXXVI


It so chanced that Tom Horn did not appear at Christopher Dent's for
some nights; and so Mademoiselle Lafargue, with brisk little shoes
clicking upon the floor, and silken gloves upon her hands, and a lace
shawl about her head, came into the apothecary's shop in the twilight
before he had kindled his lamps. She forthwith demanded that he keep
his promise and go with her to Tom Horn's lodgings, that she might
speak with the odd clerk in the matter he had dwelt so earnestly upon
some nights before.

Christopher eagerly put on his hat and tailed coat, and wrote a legend
announcing that because of unavoidable matters his shop would be closed
for a few hours, which he stuck upon the door; then he turned the key
in the lock with care and, with mademoiselle at his side, proceeded
in the direction of Pump Court. This was a wide court, of no great
depth, with three broad-fronted houses on each side of it, and a cool
flagged space between; and in the center stood the pump, with a tub
under its spout, from which the court took its name. There was a little
fringe of grass about the edge of each of the houses, and vines climbed
the walls; the shutters were green and stood wide; the door- and
window-frames were white. Christopher pointed to the sloping roof of
one of the houses, where a dormer-window leaned outward.

"That," said the little apothecary, "is Tom Horn's lodgings."

They climbed the wide, solid steps, and at the top of the house knocked
upon a door. Tom Horn opened it; he did not seem at all surprised, but
only opened it a great deal wider when he saw who it was.

"Come in," he said. "I am glad to see you."

The room was a very large one and sparely furnished; on a broad table,
with lighted candles set about it, was a great clutter of papers.

"Figures," said Christopher, as he looked down at the papers. "All
figures." He looked at Tom Horn and rubbed his own shining crown. "They
must be like a spoken language to you."

"Figures are truer and more dependable than a language made of words,"
said Tom Horn. "The circles come at through them are perfect ones.
There is no bending them to other shapes. Words, now, can be wrought to
fit both prejudice and unreason."

"That is true," said the little apothecary, and he turned a look upon
mademoiselle which told of his admiration for the saying. "That is very
true, indeed."

There were bare spaces upon the walls of Tom Horn's lodgings, and
pinned there were what looked like maps, but maps such as neither
mademoiselle nor Christopher had ever seen before. For about the
islands and along the headlands and through the bulk of the sea
itself were drawn long lines which curled slowly toward an inevitable
roundness. Figures were set down in red ink along these lines, and
arrows of blue pointed out their circular, grasping sweep. Upon the
mantel was a slim array of books, and mademoiselle, as she looked
at their worn sheep bindings and their inked-in titles, saw that
astronomy, navigation, and geometry were the matters there dealt with.

The place had a clean, bare look; the single twinkling light in the
court could be seen from the high window; a thrush on an open perch
stirred now and then and chirped sleepily; and a wooden-wheeled clock
ticked and grumbled in its high case. Mademoiselle listened to the two
men for a space after they had settled down, and then, in a silence
between them, she spoke to Tom Horn.

"Mr. Dent has told me of the interest he feels in your theory of tides
and currents, and especially in how they might have affected the ship
_Rufus Stevens_. And we have come to-night to hear more of it, if you
are of the mind to tell it."

"We have a curiosity concerning your idea," said Christopher
cautiously. "And so, if there is any more to tell, we beg of you to
tell it plainly, for it may be a thought with a deal of value, and
which could be put to a practical use."

Never had Tom Horn looked so worn and fragile as he did at that
moment, sitting with the mass of calculations before him and with the
candle-light upon him; never before had the strange, luminous quality
that he threw off been so pronounced, never had the odd, hopeful look
in his eyes shown so fully through their fixed despair.

"I will say what I can," he said, "and that is not much; for no man can
speak with authority on things urged by powers whose weight he can only
surmise. But this I know: In the south region of the world, the edge of
Africa and that of South America make the two sides of a vast throat,
and through this the waters warmed by the tropics force themselves
northward. The current clings to the American side and, when opposite
the mouth of the Amazon, begins to thicken. It sweeps between Trinidad
and the Barbados into the Carribbean; it rounds the West Indies to the
south and curves into the gulf, and then, out and away, along the North
American coast."

"And holds all its parts to itself on the way," marveled Christopher.
"That is wonderful, indeed. It is as though it were a vast living
thing."

"From the north," said Tom Horn, and he pointed a long finger at one
of the maps on the wall, "comes a second current, cold, holding to
the coast and meeting the warm current where the ocean's bed rises so
abruptly off Newfoundland. Here the two merge and swing off toward
the east. But the land turns them south; holding to the African rim
they flow back through the great throat, completing the circle. And
somewhere inside that circle," said Tom Horn, "is the Sargasso; it lies
to the south of the Azores, to the west of the Canaries, and northwest
of the Cape Verdes Islands, a vast pool of slack water; and into it is
drawn all those things which the currents have ravished from the world."

"It is your thought, then," said mademoiselle, "that the ship _Rufus
Stevens_, if still afloat, may have fallen into the grip of this great
circle. But might it not be that the storm blew her out of reach of the
currents? Who can say what happened in a great wind like that?"

Tom Horn took one of the sheets from the table.

"It was Captain Frisbee who saw the ship. And the spot where he saw
her, made by dead reckoning, is set down here. It was three in the
afternoon, and the wind was blowing from the southwest. Captain Frisbee
told me these things himself," said Tom Horn. "I went to him and asked.
And he judged that the gale was blowing at seventy miles an hour, and
held so until nightfall on the following day, when it had blown itself
out. That gives twenty-seven hours of wicked weather, the wind blowing
into the east by north all the time.

"With that body of wind," the clerk went on, "and that number of hours,
a ship without masts or sails can be figured to have been driven so
many leagues. And my calculations show me that when the storm fell
the _Rufus Stevens_ lay at or near this spot on the ocean's water,"
and he picked the place out on the paper with his finger, "at or near
this spot, which is south of the Azores, and on the inner rim of the
great circle. And being so situated, and without help," said Tom Horn,
"nothing can prevent her from drifting into the Grassy Sea."

"Could it not be," said Christopher Dent, "that she might have settled
into some other current after the wind fell, and so floated away in
another direction?"

"One whole year I drifted in the _William and Mary_," said Tom Horn.
"Each day of that year I marked down in a book, and underneath I wrote
what I saw in the sea and in the sky. The _William and Mary_ was a good
ship, but misfortune touched her. Time has told me that it was not the
misfortune of chance; men had to do with it; there was a purpose in it;
but what, or how, I could never contrive. The ship was down by the head
when they left her; they desired me to get into a boat with the second
mate, Ezra Hardy, who was a plain, honest man. But I said I would stay
with the ship. And that boat, with all who were in her, was never heard
of again."

"And the others?" asked Christopher Dent.

"The boat of the captain was a strong one," said Tom Horn. "And so was
the first mate's. They lived: oh, yes, that was seen to. They lived
buoyantly through the storm."

"Do you say," and mademoiselle's voice shook, "that you refused to
leave the ship because you believed the second mate's boat was meant to
go down?"

"First," said Tom Horn, "I desired to remain with the cargo while there
was a chance of saving it. Second," and he whispered this, "it was as
you say."

"Now, God save us!" said Christopher Dent in horror. "God in His Heaven
save us!"

"I watched the sea all that day," said the clerk, "and I listened
through the night; for it was heavy in my mind that the captain
and first mate would return. For I knew the men who were in their
boats,--hardy, desperate, unsparing men,--and I feared for my life."

"They did not return!" said the little apothecary. "Oh, no, I trust
not! I dread to think otherwise."

"The drifting water took the hulk, weighted as it was," said Tom Horn;
"with her forecastle down and her forward hatch almost under, the great
circle took her and carried her away; and so the villains lost all
track of her, and I drifted into the lonely sea. The sun shone through
a haze," said the clerk; "its color was russet and streaked with white;
so still was the air I saw spirals of mist, like ropes, lowered from
the sky. On every side the sea was like a grassy field; I saw planks
and spars lying on what seemed solid ground; great birds sat and
watched me as though waiting for the time when I should die. There was
a ghastly kind of vegetation: pallid, slimy plants,--bloodless,--like
things that had grown in the dark; they were horrible to see and more
horrible to touch. And," said Tom Horn, "a monstrous life stirred
beneath the green scum of the sea. Since time began, God's hand has
been turned to many dreadful tasks; but He has hidden them from most
men's eyes."

"We will grant," said the girl, "that a ship, circumstanced as you
believe the _Rufus Stevens_ was at the end of the storm, must have
fallen into the grasp of the great current and so came, or will come,
to the Grassy Sea. But before going so far we must assure ourselves she
remained afloat."

"Any one who watched her building," said Tom Horn, "must have seen she
was a strong vessel. Siddons is an honest man; he never slights a task;
he does honest, sound work. Live-oak is tough; hammered iron does not
give readily; the ship was new, and, though the masts were out of her
when Frisbee saw her, the decks were sound and the hatches fast down. I
questioned him about that, and he was quite sure. The ship was like a
cask," said Tom Horn. "The sea could not harm her, there being nothing
to dash her against. Mark me! she is adrift at this moment in the
slimy grass of that silent place; and her cargo is as dry and safe as
it would be if it were in a merchant's storehouse."

Mademoiselle's hands trembled, but her voice was steady as she said:

"Would it be possible to find this strange ocean backwater? Could
you--could any one--take a ship into it?"

"South of the Azores," said Tom Horn, "northwest of the Cape Verdes,
and west of the Canaries." He nodded his head. "I could find my way
back to it," said he. "Through all the vast spaces of the sea I could
find my way back there, for it is so fixed in my mind that the very sky
above it would be known to me if I once lifted it to the horizon-line."

"Anthony Stevens!" said mademoiselle to Christopher. "He must be told!"

"But his health!" protested the little apothecary.

"This will be health to him," said the girl. "This news would put life
in him if he stood on the verge of the grave."

"Very well. He shall be told," said Christopher. "He shall be told, and
at once."




                                XXXVII


The movements of the brig which hung so close to shore, and which
prowled up and down so mysteriously, greatly interested Anthony
Stevens. Late in the day, after the episode of the wrecked long-boat,
he saw the vessel at anchor a few miles out and just to the south of
the shoals; a small boat had put out from her and was weaving in and
out slowly apparently searching for a channel to the inlet.

She was still there next morning, riding at anchor, and before noon
two boats had put away from her and engaged in the same weaving in and
out. At evening Anthony baked his bread on the coals and roasted a
fish; he ate his supper at the window and then tidily washed and put
away his gear. He read for an hour or two by candle-light; and about
ten o'clock, when he'd made up his mind for bed, he stepped out for a
breath of cool air. The night was quiet; the sky carried thousands of
stars; through a space between two dunes he could see the surf, thick
with phosphorus, breaking brilliantly on the sand. The moon was lifting
out of the sea--a great, yellow moon; he moved toward the beach;
for a time the light was hidden by a high dune; then the moon's rim
began to rise above it, enormous, like a wide eye searching the quiet
world. Higher and higher it lifted, the light bathing the sand-hills
mysteriously; half of it was now above the line of the dune, and
suddenly, against its shining face, Anthony saw a movement. There were
two figures,--men,--and they stood upon the top of the hill with the
half-moon behind them; their heads were together as though they were
conversing, and one of them lifted a hand and pointed out to sea.

At once Anthony was in motion; softly he stepped through the sand, and
climbed the side of the hill. The two men stood with their backs to
him, their eyes fixed upon the sea. There lay the brig in the track of
the moon; and it was at this they were pointing. When Anthony spoke
they turned; and he was amazed to see Tom Horn and Christopher Dent.

"We reached the town beyond at nightfall and crossed the bay in a
skiff," said Christopher. "We came to see you; we have a message."

Tom Horn was studying the brig once more.

"I know her well," he said. "She belongs to the Simpsons and has the
look of having been rigged by a landsman."

"She's been haunting the coast," said Anthony.

Tom Horn laughed, and he pointed away to the northeast.

"There are the shoals," he said. "There are the white ghosts. That's
why the brig's people are here. They know every set of teeth on the
coast." He looked at Anthony. "Have they been searching?"

"They have had boats out," said the young man.

Tom Horn nodded.

"Such as they take nothing for granted. No ship is to be seen broken on
the bars but they know what a great storm can do; they know how it can
rend its victim, and then cover it with the smothering sand."

Anthony frowned out at the brig, lying so peacefully in the white track
of the moon.

"They set out to find a wreck, then?" he said.

"A month ago," said Tom Horn. "They manned yonder vessel for no other
purpose than to pick and search along the coast. This shoal was one
they had well in the front of their minds. And the hulk they hope to
sight is that of the _Rufus Stevens_."

All three stood looking out at the vessel across the flattened line of
surf.

"What men are aboard her?" asked Anthony.

"Those whom you have in your mind," said the clerk. "They could be no
other."

Anthony continued to hold the brig with his eye; his mind was dark and
active, and anger was lifting in it.

"Mademoiselle desired that word be brought you," said Christopher to
the young man.

"Of this?" said Anthony, and he pointed to the vessel.

"Oh, no. She knows nothing of either the brig or her business," said
the little apothecary. "Her message is more urgent than that. It will
open your eyes," prophesied Christopher, confidently. He took a letter
from his pocket and gave it to Anthony. "But let us go where you can
read it quietly," said he. "And afterwards we can talk; for you'll
have many questions to ask, I know, and Tom Horn will have a deal of
answering to do to satisfy you."

So they descended the dune; a brace of candles were lighted in the
cabin, and the three sat down at the table. Anthony read mademoiselle's
letter; his muscles grew tight and his blood began to race; he read it
once more, then quietly placed it upon the table and, looking at Tom
Horn, said:

"Tell me what you have told her."

The clerk once more stated his beliefs, and his reasons for holding to
them; Christopher added those details which escaped the other; Anthony
listened, and his eyes glowed; a slow smile crept to the corners of his
mouth, but got no farther.

"Safe!" said he, when the man had done. "Safe, with the cargo unharmed;
lying quiet and waiting."

"Yes," said Tom Horn.

"And you can point the nose of a vessel toward this strange sea?"

"I would engage to put you alongside the ship itself," said Tom Horn.

Anthony's eyes narrowed. These were high words, and he was one to be
moved little by sounds, no matter how brave. But Tom Horn was peculiar.
Inside that odd exterior, a wisdom worked which was not common. Tom
Horn, alone, of all who felt the burrowing under Rufus Stevens' Sons,
had pointed out the runways of the rats. He had said strange things;
and facts had sprung up to bear him out. There was a long silence; and
then Anthony said:

"A vessel to make the search! How is one to be had?"

Thrilled, Christopher leaned across the table.

"Mademoiselle bade me say," said he, "that she'll be waiting and will
have a ship at her call."

Anthony looked at the little apothecary; then the smile crept forward
from the corners of his mouth, and his lips parted in a laugh.

"Mademoiselle grows better and better," he said. He turned a look upon
the broad face of his watch, which hung upon the wall. "I have bedding
enough for us all," he said. "So let's turn to it and get some sleep.
To-morrow we take the track back to the city."




                                XXXVIII


They were astir early in the morning and had their breakfast. The brig
was still in sight, but some distance to the northeast, as Christopher
reported after a look through one of the windows. And as they ate
Anthony nodded toward the pistol, which still hung upon the wall.

"I have not had occasion to use it," said he. "But, with those
gentlemen in the offing, there is no telling what might have come about
in the long run."

Tom Horn looked from the weapon to Anthony.

"No man's life is safe if he places it between these villains and their
will," he said.

"They are spending a deal of time loitering along the coast," said
Christopher. "Of what service would it be to them to find the ruins of
a ship piled upon a bar?"

"They would then know that ship's fate," said Tom Horn. "It would be
shown to them that they need seek no further."

Christopher looked at the odd clerk with round eyes.

"This, then," said he, "is only a beginning of their search?"

"The prize is a rich one," said Tom Horn. "They'd hunt the seas of the
world if they thought they might come upon it."

All that was readily portable of Anthony's effects was carried to
the boat which had brought Christopher and Tom to the island; and by
mid-morning they hoisted sail and headed for the mainland. Here the
baggage was transferred to a wagon, and they were on their way through
the barrens, on the first stretch of sand tracks toward the city. By
hard traveling they accomplished the distance by the third morning, and
Anthony went at once to his lodgings. It was a gorgeous, blowy July
day; the sun was in Sassafras Street; the scent of the little gardens
round about rose to him as he raised his windows; all the world seemed
open before him, and he felt a mounting life in his body that would
carry him through it. He was shaving by a window, with a mirror propped
against a hat-box, when a knock came upon the door.

"Come in," said Anthony, and Mr. Sparhawk, neat, precise, and looking
more like a wise old bird than ever, walked into the room.

"Why, this is a splendid surprise, indeed," said the little gentleman.
"I had expected you, it's true, for there was reason to think you'd
be attracted back to town; but such immediate action in the matter is
quite heartening, and charming."

He shook Anthony's hand, and sat down, crossed his silk-stockinged
legs, and his alert gaze ran over the young man from head to foot. The
bronzed, rugged health that he saw, the long, powerful muscles under
the close-fitting shirt, caused him to nod with approval; the brisk,
sure movements and the snapping light of the eyes brought a smile to
the little gentleman's face--a smile of assurance and content.

"You had the news of my return very quickly," said Anthony, as he
proceeded with his shaving at the window.

"Christopher Dent came in upon me while I was still at breakfast,"
said Mr. Sparhawk. "A kindly, good soul! I appreciate Christopher very
much. And after he left me he was off to Mademoiselle Lafargue with his
tidings. He anticipated great excitement there, I know."

"You have heard this theory of Tom Horn's regarding the ship _Rufus
Stevens_?" Anthony held the razor suspended as he asked this question,
and his soap-covered face was turned toward Mr. Sparhawk.

The precise little gentleman put down his hat carefully; and then he
answered:

"Mademoiselle Lafargue brought the matter to my attention some days
ago. She attached much value to it."

"And you?" said Anthony.

"I have known Tom Horn a long time," said Mr. Sparhawk. "A very long
time. He is a person of strange moods; many look on him as a man
distraught, but I have never been convinced that he is so. For, do you
see," and Mr. Sparhawk nodded, quite firmly, "though his manner is odd
and his method of expression is not usual, there is much matter in his
sayings. He has a mind that thinks; though, as I've said before, many
do not credit it."

"Have any steps been taken in this matter?" asked Anthony.

Mr. Sparhawk put his head to one side in the way that gave him the
bird-like look.

"No doubt you'll be calling at the Lafargues' before the day is out,"
said he. "And, if so, mademoiselle will tell you what has been done."

Anthony rasped at his beard with a not over-sharp razor.

"I had it in my mind to visit them early in the day," said he.

"Very good," said the old gentleman. "As she knows you've come back to
town, no doubt she'll be at home."

Mr. Sparhawk then fell into talk of many things; most of them had to
do with the clouded affairs of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and the plans and
purposes of those reasonable creditors who had its destiny in charge.

"A deal is due you and Mr. Crousillat for your interest," said Anthony.
"You have gone much out of your way to do a kindly thing."

"Why, as to that," said Mr. Sparhawk, "there are many who would do
as we have done,--more especially as I have done,--had the same urge
induced them forward."

Anthony, glancing over his shoulder, nodded soberly. And Mr. Sparhawk
went on to tell all the steps that had been taken to bring some degree
of order out of the ruin. It was a bleak, dispiriting catalogue; the
track of events wound through gloomy places; there were voids which
had been filled with promises; there were moneys paid out of which
there was no accounting; there were debts due or owing which had never
been written down; there were passages dull with stupidity, or foul
with malpractice; and Anthony grew a little sick as he listened; for
it was familiar ground; it had broken him before, and he felt it could
break him again. He tried to shut his ears to the dull hammering of Mr.
Sparhawk's facts. The clever parrying of that little gentleman, or of
old Mr. Crousillat, in some close engagements of wits, or their sudden
and skilful assault upon some detected plunderer, brought nothing but
pain to Anthony's mind; for he could think only of his own struggles
and defeats in that same place of gloom, of dismal suspicion, of
maddening unreality. He felt as a trapped wolf might feel, brought back
to the place of its disaster.

And he wanted no more of it! He fervently wanted no more of it. A
struggle he did not mind; indeed, he welcomed it; but it must be a
struggle with things seen, with men or events with which one might come
in open contact. This ship, now--adrift, lost, crammed with a treasure
of merchandise! She was a thing to make his nerves crackle and his
blood leap. His mind could value the danger she was in, if the sea
held her at all--danger at the hands of wandering or purposeful men,
in the crush of winds and seas, in the heart of a vast silence, and
a desolation almost impossible to penetrate. With a sound deck under
him, a few resourceful hands to carry out his orders, and the far seas
ahead! That would be a man's part. He'd rise to that. But to be like a
mole, digging, digging in the dark! He'd have no more of it! He could
stand no more of it!

Mr. Sparhawk stayed for an hour and talked. The things he said were
needful things, though unpleasant; and Anthony, understanding this,
tried to bear with them. But, when the little man finally took his
leave, the young one drew a deep breath and at once began to change his
dress, preparatory to his day's affairs.

Within an hour he was at the Lafargues' lodgings. Both mademoiselle and
her father were awaiting him.

"It is generous of you to come back to the city so promptly," said
Monsieur Lafargue eagerly.

"Are not my interests involved?" asked Anthony. "When a chance is shown
me finally to accomplish a thing for which I once strove and failed,
could I stand still and see it pass?"

"You think, then," said the girl, her eyes shining, "that there _is_ a
chance?"

"It is a strange thing," said Anthony. "A strange thing, indeed. But,
then, why not? If we stopped because things were not usual, our hands
would hang at our sides in all the important turnings of our lives."

"That a ship could live through a storm like that, seems impossible,"
said Monsieur Lafargue.

"Others did, and came into port," said mademoiselle.

"True." Monsieur Lafargue stroked his shaven chin. "True, indeed. But I
cannot forget the _Rufus Stevens_ was already a wreck when seen."

"Her masts were gone," said Anthony. "That is always grave; but it is
not necessarily fatal. I have seen vessels so stricken which have lived
boldly; I myself was once in a ship so circumstanced; she was battered
and beaten by the sea for days; but she held together and sailed many
a voyage afterwards."

"Christopher was greatly excited," said mademoiselle, "and he came to
me with the story of what Tom Horn had said; he was perplexed and did
not know what to believe. And I was in the same state of mind, even
after I'd talked to the man himself and written the letter asking you
to return. I wanted to believe and accept it all as an actual thing,"
she said, "for it seemed the only hope left. But it was not until I saw
Mr. Sparhawk that my mind became settled."

Anthony looked at her questioningly; he recalled the attitude of that
same little gentleman an hour before, the cock of his head, and the
tolerant tone with which he spoke of Tom Horn and his theory.

"His disbelief fixed your mind in opposition, then?" said Anthony.

"Disbelief!" The girl laughed, her beautiful teeth flashing. "He was
as credulous as a child. He walked the floor; he took great quantities
of snuff; he at once began to plan how moneys might be had to equip a
vessel to be sent searching the seas."

Anthony also laughed. The cunning of the dapper little fox! Not once
had he shown even a trace of actual belief; and yet there he was, mad
to set forward, and hoping, Anthony had no doubt, with the best of them!

"The money was easily had; those who had interests in the cargo were
willing to chance something; the larger creditors were of a like mind;
this was all spoken of secretly, and the sums gathered in the same way.
And so there is a small vessel, all ready for sea, lying in Pegg Run;
and you are to be her master if you care to undertake the task."

"There is no task in the world at this moment that I am so eager for,"
said Anthony. "And, thank God, it's one for which I feel fitted.
It's not like the mousing, grubbing work I was compelled to do in the
counting-room, trying to hold off the things that I see now were bound
to come."

They talked of the prospects for an early beginning; of the storing of
the vessel, which, so it seemed, was already under way, the chances for
slipping out to sea with no one the wiser. And then they left the house
and walked north on Water Street until they reached Pegg Run; and the
girl pointed out to Anthony a trim little schooner, fit, and fresh with
paint, her tall masts telling of a fine spread of sail, and her strong
hull bending into the curving sweep of speed. The young man glowed at
sight of the craft; she was so like the one he would have selected
himself for the work ahead of him that it might well have been his
will, acting through another, when she was fixed upon.

"You like her?" asked the girl.

"She's a fine, upstanding craft," said Anthony, "roomy, with plenty
of space for a press of wind, and I have no doubt, sails well in most
weathers. She'll ride like a duck; I know that buoyant look."

"I'm glad," said mademoiselle. "I tried to please you."

His eyes met hers, and he held them steadily.

"You have pleased me in more than that," said Anthony. "One by one I
have been storing the instances away in my mind; some day I shall tell
you what they are."

There was an open look in his eye that stopped the speech on her
lips: a flush came into her face, and her own eyes were very bright
as she turned her head, so that he might not see. The tackle from
the schooner's foremast strained and whined through the blocks; some
negroes, chanting monotonously, laid their weight against the capstan
bars.

"In two days," said the girl, "she will be ready."

"In two days," said Anthony, "she will be gone."




                                 XXXIX


It was in less than two days that the last keg and case was received on
board and the last carpenter packed his kit and left the schooner; in
the meantime Anthony made calculations as to the hands needed to man
her and set about procuring them. Almost the first person he met, at a
tavern frequented by sailors in Front Street, was Corkery, who had been
mate in Rufus Stevens' Sons' ship _General Stark_. And in an instant
Anthony had him at the far end of the bar, a mug of beer before each of
them, and was explaining his errand--or as much of it as the occasion
seemed to need.

"A crew?" said Corkery; "four men, a cook, a mate? A short voyage and
good pay? What ship?"

"The schooner _Roebuck_," said Anthony.

Corkery nodded.

"I know her," he said. "Owned by Crousillat, and lately engaged in the
trade with Havana." He took a draft of the beer. "About the mate, now:
I'm looking for a ship myself, and this voyage might fit me well if
you'd be inclined to have me."

"The papers are waiting for your name," said Anthony, his eyes
snapping, for he felt the value of the man. "And, now, the others."

"A quiet crew, you say," said Corkery thoughtfully; "one that goes
about its affairs, gives its time to handling the ship, and leaves all
other matters to its officers. Such should be found readily enough.
When do you sail?"

"To-morrow," replied Anthony.

"Where bound?" asked the mate.

"That," said Anthony, "I do not yet know."

Corkery looked surprised; but he took another draft of the good beer
and said:

"Put it in my hands, and I'll have your men on board by night."

Willingly Anthony did so and gave himself to other matters. Late in
the day he had his effects carried to the wharf in Pegg Run and placed
on board. At almost the same time Tom Horn arrived with his bedding
in a roll, and his other belongings in a stout chest. He looked into
Anthony's cabin, after stowing these, and nodded approval of the little
array of muskets and pistols and stout hangers which he saw on the wall.

"The forehanded man is the least likely to meet danger," he said. "Your
grandfather never allowed a ship to sail without plenty of powder and
ball, and a musket to a man; his seamen always knew how to load and
fire them; and that is an example many a ship-owner could follow with
profit."

Corkery reached the vessel by nightfall as he had said he would, and
with him were the hands. By the light of a lantern swinging amidships,
Anthony watched the men bear their dunnage aboard, inspect their new
ship, and then disappear into the forecastle.

"Two of them are off a Dutch ship just in from the East," said Corkery.
"I don't know them, but they have the name of good seamen; the other
two sailed under me in one of your uncle's brigs a few years ago. The
cook is a mulatto, as you've seen, a clever man, and not above lending
a hand when required in other matters."

"We should have a carpenter," said Anthony, "but I suppose, if the need
of one is pressing, we can make shift between us."

Corkery, as an active mate should, soon had his company divided into
watches and employed about the schooner. And, having seen things all
right and prospering, Anthony went ashore. At Christopher Dent's he
bade the little apothecary good-by.

"Good fortune!" said Christopher. "And a swift return. I have, with
discretion, mind you, spoken with several people about the _Roebuck_.
She has the name of a lucky ship. So you have that much in your favor,
at least. I wish I were going with you; but," wistfully, "I wouldn't be
of much use in such an enterprise." He shook Anthony's hand again. "I
feel," he said, "that you are to return with great credit. Every night
I shall mark the stars that must hang above your ship; and I'll try to
read from them what is before you."

When Anthony was shown into the sitting-room of Monsieur Lafargue,
mademoiselle was there with her father, and Mr. Sparhawk sat
comfortably in a big chair. Some trunks, corded and ready, rested near
the head of the stairs.

"Well," said Mr. Sparhawk, after the visitor had been greeted and had
taken a chair. "You are busy making ready, I suppose?"

"The company is aboard," said Anthony. "And we'll drop down the river
with the next tide."

Mr. Sparhawk applauded this news with soft pattering hands.

"Brisk work!" praised he. "Oh, excellent!"

"When does the tide turn?" asked Mademoiselle Lafargue.

"At three in the morning," said Anthony.

"You will have time for a few hours' sleep," said Monsieur Lafargue to
mademoiselle. "But your baggage had better be sent aboard at once."

Anthony looked from one to the other; then he turned his gaze upon Mr.
Sparhawk. The little gentleman spoke in his most persuasive voice.

"I trust," said he, "that the _Roebuck_ is as roomy as she looks, and
that you have managed to set apart quarters that will be reasonably
comfortable for mademoiselle."

"For mademoiselle!" said Anthony, astonished.

"Now, God bless my soul!" said Mr. Sparhawk regretfully. "How could I
have been so neglectful? I have not told him," to Monsieur Lafargue.
"How can you forgive me?" to mademoiselle.

"Not told him!" said mademoiselle, her face crimson.

"I ask your pardon," said Mr. Sparhawk. He waved a hand helplessly.
"There is no possible excuse that I can offer." For all he seemed so
distressed, there was, so Anthony thought, a gleam at the back of his
eye that was self-possessed enough. "We had arranged it all between
us," said Mr. Sparhawk to Anthony, "that Mademoiselle Lafargue was to
sail with you; and it was further arranged that I make you acquainted
with our purpose, which, stupidly enough, I have not done."

"There is no place for a woman in such an expedition," said Anthony. He
looked at the girl, who had now arisen and was standing by her father's
chair, tall, straight, wonderful. It rose in his heart to say that he
was a fool; that there was a place for her anywhere; that, if it were
given him to do, he'd make a place for her--and a safe place--at the
very feet of peril itself. But he did not say it. He only looked at her
stubbornly, and denied her permission to put foot on the _Roebuck_. But
she said nothing; it was Mr. Sparhawk who spoke.

"It would be as well," said the little gentleman, "to hear our reasons
for this." He crossed his legs and dandled one foot, while he looked
at Anthony mildly. "It is customary," he proceeded, "when a ship puts
to sea to have on board of her a person who represents the owners
of the cargo. The presence of this person also serves the owners and
officers of the ship; because, in case of unavoidable mischance, he
is present as a witness and can absolve them from blame. Of course,"
and Mr. Sparhawk gestured lightly, "the _Roebuck_ carries no cargo
out; but it is the hope of those who send her, the creditors of Rufus
Stevens' Sons, that she will return with a most valuable one. It
would be a useful thing if there were some one on board to receive
this merchandise and set down, as far as might be, a report of its
conditions."

"And it is your thought to send a girl to fill that office?" said
Anthony, frowning. "A ship like this, and bound upon the errand this
one's to set out on, stands to meet peril of more than the usual kind.
If a supercargo must be sent, let it be a man, and one used to the sea
and its mishaps."

"Do not forget," said Mr. Sparhawk, "that we who engage in this
enterprise must keep it secret. If the news of the _Roebuck's_ purpose
got out, the sea would be covered with sail, and each ship would be
seeking to salvage the _Rufus Stevens_. So we must guard our intention;
we must trust no one. I would go with you, but matters of business
press; monsieur is not in good health; the only person available in
whom the creditors have complete confidence is mademoiselle; so," and
Mr. Sparhawk pursed his lips and raised his brows, "what are we to do?"

The stubborn answer was in Anthony's mouth; but before it was spoken he
chanced to look at the girl. She was so still; there was such spirited
beauty in her fine eyes; her color was wonderful; her attitude was of
eager desire; and yet she held herself proudly. A rush of feeling came
smothering into the young man's mind; he tried to fight it back, but
could not. Then he felt very quiet; peace followed where resentment had
been; there was a warm joy; he admired the cleverness of Mr. Sparhawk
in making it so impossible to refuse. His eyes drank her in; there was
a surprise, an incredulous amazement, that he should have ever held her
off, that he had been resolved to leave her behind, when everything
favored her going with him.

"I shall have your trunks taken on board," said he to the girl. "And
you must follow well before the tide swings."

"Yes, Captain Stevens," she said.

He caught the smile hidden behind the words and smiled himself. And for
the first time since the night at the Crooked Billet the bitter wind
that blew between them died completely down; he placed her chair for
her, and drew his own toward it; and he talked to her in a new tone,
with confidence and spirit; she sat and listened, and the hands which
were folded in her lap trembled ever so little, and her eyes were even
brighter than before.




                                  XL


The _Roebuck_ let go her moorings in the gray of the July morning;
one of the boats towed her out of the run and into the river; then
under mainsail, topsail, and jibs she pointed her nose downstream on
the tedious journey to the capes. The tide ran out strongly, and the
wind favored the vessel's progress; she had dropped the city behind
by sun-up, the flats went by, and she picked up the towns on the
river-bank one by one. The bay opened out late in the afternoon; the
mate marked the lights of Lewes well into the night; and by morning
they were at sea, under full sail and headed directly east.

The mulatto proved a good cook, and the breakfast he brought into
the main cabin was excellent and plentiful. There was a large cut of
Westphalia ham upon a broad platter, hot, candied, and delicious; there
was a dish of rice like a hillock of snow, ship's biscuit, and steaming
chocolate in a tall, slim pot.

"We are to be well fed, at all events," said Anthony, as he sat to the
breakfast, with satisfaction. Mademoiselle and Tom Horn had been seated
before he came in, and the clerk had a chart, marked in red and blue
and black ink, upon the table between them. "The schooner is pointed
due east," said Anthony. "Corkery tells me those were your directions."

"East, on the inner skirt of the circle until we reach the Azores,"
said Tom Horn, pointing to the characters on his chart and following
them with a finger. "Then south to the Sargasso."

Mademoiselle, as she followed the tracing finger, bent forward; and, as
it stopped at the region where lay the sea of grass, she saw its place
was marked by a widening circle of skulls. She shivered a little and
drew back.

"With the wind holding," said Anthony, "We should raise the Azores in
two weeks."

"We must cling to the inner rim of the circle," said Tom Horn, still
with his finger on the chart, "for all things carried by the current
drift toward its center; the moon and the running tides and the turning
of the world draw them. And we must follow the circle to the place
where it begins to bend to the south; the hulk we seek may have been
delayed in its passage, for no man knows what the sea will do, and no
one can judge the mysteries of the wind."

All through the breakfast, Anthony and mademoiselle talked with Tom
Horn, and more than one of his peculiar charts came to the table while
they sat there; then the two went on deck, leaving the man poring
over his figures, his signs, and his curving lines. The morning was
sparkling: the west wind pushed boisterously in the sails, and the
little schooner leaped ahead. Corkery approached from amidships, at a
look from Anthony.

"How does she set into her work?" asked the young man.

"As ably as a craft twice her bulk," said the mate. "This is no narrow
spread of sail," with a look up at the strong, weather-stained canvas,
"and yet see how steadily she stands under it."

The _Roebuck_ slipped easily up the long sides of the sea, her sharp
prow split its crests, and then she'd sleek jauntily down into the vast
hollows, flirting the water from her like a duck. The sky was a rare
color, with racing clouds upon its breast; the sun lifted higher and
higher, and the gleam of the sea grew brighter, throwing back the sky's
own blue, the waves thinning to a green and breaking into a sudden,
hissing white. The face of mademoiselle was filled with wonder.

"I have never before been to sea in a little ship," she said, "and so
I have not known what being at sea means." Her eyes swept the sky and
heaving water; she breathed in the wonderful, singing air; her body
swayed with the spring of the craft beneath her. "It is glorious!" she
said.

Anthony nodded: _he_ did not look at the sea and sky; he looked at
_her_. And he said:

"Yes, it is glorious."

The full west wind held and blew the _Roebuck_ before it all that day;
it whistled sharply through the night, and Anthony, whose watch it was
on deck stripped the schooner of a part of her sail. The second morning
saw the sea running grayer and longer; the sky was steely, and the
sun was hidden. This held for twenty-four hours; then the wind hauled
around to the east and scraped the sky's gray into mountains of black;
the rain and wind lashed about, and the sea leaped to meet them; the
schooner, under topsail and jib, was tossed like a chip, but she held
stanchly upright and fought her way through, the blow scarcely wetting
her decks. At the end of the fourth day out, Anthony, who stood near
the helmsman, mademoiselle at his side, saw a blue gleam through the
sober sky.

"The sun will shine to-morrow," he said, "and the sea will run down
during the night."

"I am almost sorry," she said. "The angry sea is amazing; I'm afraid I
shall not like it, smiling, as greatly as I did before."

As Anthony foretold, the wind slackened during the night and the sea
ran down; the sun rose, huge and yellow, in the morning, and the sky
bent lightly to the water on the horizon's edge. The wind continued
good and from the southwest; the schooner heeled a little to it, her
sails bulging full; and either Anthony or Corkery constantly walked
the deck. But no eye on board was as watchful as Tom Horn's, as those
smooth, rolling days at sea slipped by. He'd take his place in the bow,
early of a morning, and there he'd stay with intent face until far into
the night. The water racing past the vessel's side seemed to fascinate
him; he'd brood over its passage, wearing a strange look; and as the
earth slowly turned, giving a new facet to the sun's warmth, the odd
clerk would watch its progress in wonder and in silence.

The lowering sun, almost level in the west, one evening caught an
object to the east and held it glittering.

"St. Michael's," said Anthony, searching the spot with a glass.

The rising of the Azores caused a deal of excitement in Tom Horn. He
came aft to where Anthony stood, and the young man felt a shaking hand
upon his arm.

"South," said Tom Horn. "South, and a trifle to the west, the merest
trifle; for that is as the waters run. The ship may be in those seas,"
and he pointed to starboard: "she may be drifting there, still outside
the rim of dead things. We must watch, night and day; we must watch!"

The _Roebuck_ was headed south, and so held for a week; there followed
a succession of light winds; they made but little headway; and with
each day the sea grew quieter; there seemed a gathering of drift on
the surface; the sky was shot with yellow; the dulled sun threw off
a sweltering heat. At last the sails hung idle; rocking gently, the
schooner was borne on through a thickening sea.

"Slowly," said Tom Horn, "very slowly." He gazed about over the
forbidding waters, a look that seemed both exaltation and fear, in his
strange eyes. "It was about here that the _William and Mary_ first
touched the edge of that strange place," he said. "She drifted as we
are drifting; sometimes it seemed that she did not move at all. But
she came to it at last, as all helpless things must come to it when
once the circle draws them. Without wind we are as helpless as she
was," said Tom Horn. "Just as helpless. And we are being carried on,
as she was carried on, and as the _Rufus Stevens_ is being carried on,
somewhere outside our vision."

Corkery, who stood by, and heard the man's words, cocked an eye after
him as he went forward; and he said to Anthony:

"He's worse than I ever saw him before. I've heard say he was out of
balance, but up to now I have noticed only that he kept stiller than
most."

"He is excited," said Anthony. "This region brings up memories of
certain suffering he's gone through."

Corkery said nothing for a space, and his keen eye went backward and
forward over the sluggish sea. Then he spoke:

"You haven't said what your meaning is in this voyage, and I haven't
asked any questions. But in the last few days I've come to see that
our friend there," and he nodded toward Tom Horn, who had taken his
accustomed place in the bow, "has something to do with it; and so I
bid you look to your facts. Even now we are in strange seas; and we're
headed for stranger still."

Anthony nodded.

"The ship is commissioned for an errand out of the common," he said.
"And we are headed now as I intended to head from the first."

Corkery looked at the sky to the north, and then at the limp sails.

"We'll have a stir of wind in a little," he said. "And I'll be pleased
enough when it comes."

But the breeze was a light one, and, though it huddled into the sails,
it increased the schooner's pace but little. Mademoiselle Lafargue, who
had come on deck, gazed out across the water with its masses of weed
and its bits of wreckage.

"I had been trying to read," she said. "But there is something
oppressive in the air, and I could not. So I sat and looked out at
the port; the sea looks strange, and the birds that hover about are
stranger still."

She pointed to where some dirty, evil-looking fowl hung, poised, near
the schooner; their great wings seldom stirred, and their narrow eyes
were fixed upon the _Roebuck_.

"Tom Horn has told me of those," said Anthony. "It seems to be a sort
of vulture, and, no doubt, there is much drifts into these seas which
goes to keeping them sleek."

She shivered as she looked at the birds.

"What can be to the south of us," she said, "when the approach is so
full of anxiety? The very air seems poisonous."

"It blows over the grave of many a hope, if all I hear is true," said
Anthony. "But let us not think of that. To us it offers a chance of
victory; and we can't let our nerves grow slack because of the tales of
other men, whether false or true. Ahead is our direction." He looked at
her soberly. "And ahead we must go, no matter what foul promises grow
in our sight."

She looked into his face; and deep in her woman's eyes was the candor
of a child.

"That is like you," she said. "It is very like you. I am ashamed."

"God knows," he said, "I like the place no more than you! Give me clear
water, and it may rage as it likes, for that is only natural. But a sea
which runs with a kind of slime, and whose birds are eaters of carrion,
has no place in the book of things. Nevertheless," and he nodded
to her and smiled, "we'll move deeper into it; and then I may have
occasion to alter my views."

Two weeks passed; often their sails hung idle, while time went
completely around the clock; a slow, hot wind sometimes blew; and
they held to the south and made what time they might. The drift grew
thicker; the weed sometimes choked their progress; a green, stiff
sea spread out before them; strange life crept upon it, and the
hideous birds perched upon bits of wreckage, much as crows might in a
stump-filled field.

In the mists of one morning a cry came from Tom Horn; and Corkery,
whose watch on deck it was, advanced toward him. The clerk, trembling
and clinging to the forward rail with one hand, was pointing away to
the south with the other.

Corkery followed the direction indicated; through the piling formations
of mist he saw a vast huddle; it loomed up out of the sea, hung with
flying tendrils of fog; a dim light set through its spaces, pale,
phosphorescent, unreal.

"Land!" said Corkery. "Land, by God!"

"No," said Tom Horn. "It is the place of my captivity! It is the city
of dead ships!"




                                  XLI


The mate had Anthony on deck directly, and the young man eagerly
searched the mists to make out what manner of a place it was that
bulked up so out of the sea. In a few moments mademoiselle also
appeared; and as she stood with them in the schooner's bow her face was
white, but she said nothing.

The sails were motionless; the rotting sea piled against their prow;
the air was hot and dull; the mist, veiling the whole region, was like
steam.

"The pull of this current promises a deal of discomfort to us if we
can't make way against it," said Anthony to the mate.

"I could wish we were well quit of it," said Corkery. "A little farther
into the midst of this sea, and it might take more than a wind to help
us away again."

"What depth of water does your chart give?" said Anthony, to Tom Horn.

The clerk turned his head but still kept his tight clutch on the rail.

"I so feared what was beneath these waters," he said, "that I never
sounded them. But there is a great depth; there must be, because of the
dreadful life that swarms there."

"Too much water for an anchor," said the mate. But he called for the
lead, nevertheless, and watched fathom after fathom of line run over
the side. "As deep a hole as there is in all the sea," he grumbled.

"If every cable in the ship were fastened end to end," said Tom Horn,
"they'd do no good. There would be nothing for your anchor to grapple
with. It would be like hanging over the rim of the moon, fishing for
the world."

Slowly the sun seeped through the mist; then it rent holes in it; the
vapor curled forlornly before the light, and lifted away from the
surface of the sea. The vague loom ahead now became solid; it took both
body and color; it was a huddle of broken ships, crowding together
like cattle in a green field. The rotting sea held them; their planks
were warped; their seams gaped thirstily. And, as the schooner's
company watched, the drift rode the _Roebuck_ on; the mass of weed and
sea-rubbish turned, and shifted drearily, and seemed to deepen.

As there was no sign of a breeze, Anthony ordered out a boat; three
men were put into it, and he took an oar himself; a line was made fast
to the schooner, and they lay to the work of pulling her head around.
But the mass of weed was too stiff; the stout, ashen oars bent in the
thole-pins; but the vessel did not swerve; the boat could make no way;
the drift went on, and they went with it. And while the boat was being
hoisted in Tom Horn spoke to mademoiselle.

"The circle has tightened; no power can slacken it--no wind--no wash
of the sea. It is the grip of the great law, the world's roll, and the
force of the planet that guides the tides. It gives nothing up."

"You were once lost in this place," said the girl, her face still pale,
but with steady voice. "And you made away from it."

"I was here until my heart died in me," said Tom Horn. "I was here so
long that it seemed the very heavens were splashed with slime; and my
hope rotted as everything must rot that stays here. Each morning," he
said, in his odd way, "the sun lifted out of the east like a threat
and hung burning over a ghastly sea. All day I saw dead things or
dead men; I saw shapes rear themselves out of the scum that withered
my sight. By night winged horrors drifted across the moon; in the dark
there were millions of pale candles, lighted round the coffin of a
world that had passed."

The schooner's company was gathered in the waist as Anthony went below;
he noted them whispering and nodding, sullen looks upon their faces;
and his own was grim as he sat down to his breakfast. Mademoiselle
was already at the table. And they ate for some time in silence. The
hideous, turgid sea lay flat through the schooner's stern window, and
the girl's eyes were fixed upon it. Anthony studied her; the sparkle
which had filled her eyes from the time they had put to sea was gone;
her face was intent; fear worked beneath her look.

"Tom Horn does not seem to have a mind for his breakfast," said Anthony.

"No," she replied.

She kept her eyes fixed upon the motionless sea; there was another
silence.

"And," said the young man, "you do not appear to be greatly inclined to
it yourself."

"No," she said again.

"For some days," said Anthony, "I have noted you engaged in talk with
Tom. And a little space ago I saw you again, after we'd sighted the
wrecks ahead. And I would suggest," continued the young man, "that you
not give too much attention to his sayings at this time."

"It is your own word," said the girl, "that of all those with whom you
have spoken this man has been nearest the truth."

Anthony poured some wine into a high glass; its amber body picked up
a ray of light, bathed joyously in it, and then shot it out, stained
and gleaming. And while the young man studied its cheerful message he
replied to the girl:

"What you say is fact; I'd be the last to question it. Queer as his
way has been, odd and circuitous as his warnings and suggestions, he
has often grasped the truth and drawn the darkness from about it. But
witness: All these matters dealt with the goings-on at Rufus Stevens'
Sons; they had to do with things of record, with the accounts of the
house, with the book of arithmetic. He was, no doubt, soundly trained
in those things and so stands straight in them. But this," and Anthony
nodded out the window, "is a region where he once was cast away, where
his spirit sank in the stillness, and his blunting mind gave the
darkness shapes no man had known. Many say Tom Horn is mad. I don't
know. But if it is so then his distemper took form in this sea; so,
when he talks of it, I balance his words with doubt. And if you did the
like it would be a careful thing."

"When he spoke of the chance of finding the ship _Rufus Stevens_, did
he not speak of this sea?" asked the girl. "And yet you showed no doubt
then; you thought it a thing to follow out with speed and hopefulness."

"And I still think so," said Anthony. "For the chance of the ship being
somewhere within the great ocean current, and of finally drifting into
this slack sea, is a thing which comes of his arithmetic and not of his
madness."

She regarded him quietly for a moment.

"When you wear that look," she said, "I cannot help but see things as
you see them."

Her hand rested upon the table quite near to him, and his own went out
and rested upon it.

"Keep your courage," he said. "You must not lose it because of the
fears of a man whose wits are amiss. Hold to your first thoughts of
good fortune, for a look like you wore brings luck to a ship."

She was smiling now; and there was that brightness in her eyes that
tears make.

"I will be brave," she said. "Indeed, I will be more than that," her
chin going out much as Anthony's own did on occasions. "I will be
helpful."

He looked at her with his heart quickening.

"There is no one who could be more so than you, if you willed it so.
Let your soul warm to what's ahead, for only strength of soul can
conquer this stark place and bring our journey to a fortunate end."

The sun burned its way across the sky, and the day began to wane; the
mists rose once more from the great fields of decaying matter and sent
their fanciful plumes into the air.

"We do not seem any nearer to the hulks than we were this morning,"
said Corkery.

"We approach them slowly," said Tom Horn. "But we are nearer,
nevertheless. I was weeks in coming abreast of them. The current is
slow here, but it is strong and does not give up. We must not struggle
against it. Be warned by me. Flow with it peacefully. Let us give our
minds to finding the ship we are in search of; let the current take us
deep into the core of the circle; it will take us out again, as it took
me after I had learned its secret."

Corkery pointed to the mass of broken ships ahead.

"It has not taken those out," he said.

"They are dead," said Tom Horn. "And they are over-borne by other dead;
they have no minds to call on God; they have no sails to hold aloft to
the winds; and so they remain here, and will remain until they sink, as
many have sunk before them, into the thick depths and to horrors that
no one has seen."

The sun grew red as it went behind the climbing mist; it grew huge
and fiery and shot long, threatening darts across the silent sea; the
hideous birds came croaking out of the air and settled heavily upon
the broken spars and green, fungus-grown bits of wreckage. Thicker and
thicker grew the mist, and things magnified marvelously; it shook and
waved like banners; it arose and floated like clouds.

"It is a wall," said Tom Horn. "It is a vast thing come between
heaven and men who are lost. What does it seek to hide?" he asked of
Anthony, as the sun's rim dipped below the sea and the shadows suddenly
thickened. "What is there in the air above that the malevolence of this
dying sea tries to keep from its victims? I once thought," and his
voice was now a whisper, "that it might be hope, a something which told
of release. I'd hold that in my mind through whole long nights; and
comfort came from it for then I'd not seem so completely forsaken and
alone."

After this it grew dark; the ship's lights glowed feebly; heavy
flights of birds stirred the air; from distant places came queer,
deep movements of the water, then long silences. Anthony wrapped
mademoiselle in a great cloak to protect her from the damp, and side
by side they walked the deck. The binnacle-light threw a glow over
the man at the wheel; outside the lamp's radius the mist banked
steep and white. Then a wind crept up; in the lantern-light the mist
became agitated; it rolled and mounted and sunk; and then it began
to drift away. A dim glow showed itself out over the drift. Suddenly
mademoiselle said, in a voice of fear:

"Look! The wrecked ships! Some one is aboard them!"

Through the seams and ports of the distant hulks, pale lights were
glimmering, illuminating the sea with a ghastly radiance.

"They are 'witch' lights such as one sees in a marsh; a place like the
Sargasso would have many of them," said Anthony.

For some time they stood together, watching the silent hulks, and the
corpse lights on their decks and rails; then the moon came up, clear,
cold, and almost at its full; its rays, glancing upon the shreds of
mist, sparkled wanly. The wind grew more active; it rustled in the
sails, as though calling attention to its presence, and Anthony, with
the help of the watch, trimmed the canvas to get what good there was in
it.

"By morning," said one of the men, "we'll be in that press of wreckage
ahead there."

"What wind there is," said Anthony, "will not give us head against this
grass and litter; if we move at all it must be forward."

"I've heard tales of this sea," said the other man, putting his weight
on the line willingly enough. "It's no place for a human with a heart
in his body."

"We'll come safe out of it," said Anthony. "We have sound planks under
us, upstanding masts, and a dress of sails. There's wind here, as in
other places, and where there's wind and water there a ship can go
without a deal a hazard."

The moon's white light bleached the thick top of the sea to a silver;
the brittle stars flickered raggedly in their settings of violet; from
the topmasts of the _Roebuck_ and from her bowsprit leaped little
glowing spots of light.

"Mark that!" said one of the hands. "Did you see it?"

"It's a visitation," said the other. "A hand of fire touches our spars;
it may be bidding us to go back!"

Anthony laughed.

"If it is a fiery hand," said he, "it is the hand of St. Elmo. And no
honest person has anything to fear from him, for, from the sound of
him, he was a fine old hero and well intentioned. As for the fire that
carries his name it is nothing at all; for it has shown itself on more
than one ship I've sailed in, and no harm came to any of them."

It was some time later that mademoiselle went below; Anthony walked
the deck through his watch, with the moon sailing high and free in the
sky; the strange sea held his eye; bleached white by the light, it lay
flat, motionless; the corpse candles glowed in the hulks; the strange,
deep movements of water came now and then from a long way off. About
the third hour of his watch, Anthony heard a step at his side. It was
Tom Horn.

"I thought you were abed this long time," said the young man.

"No," said the clerk, "I cannot sleep. I must watch."

"Watch?" said Anthony. As he looked at the man, the pale, luminous
something which he'd always noticed in him seemed magnified. The white,
still moonlight seemed kin to him; he was as strange, as quiet, and as
cold.

"There are memories," said Tom Horn, "memories of nights like this;
they were nights in which my soul was troubled. In the quiet I heard
stirrings that had no place in the world; in the light I saw things God
had not sanctioned. It is ill for a man to be alone; and I was alone
for a long, long time. At first odd things pass before him--things he
has not known; then they become strange; then monstrous. For there
is death within life; there is evil within good. Surrounded by other
souls, a man is safe; but when he is abandoned, as I was abandoned,
when there is no spirit to touch his own in kindness, he is naked to
evil things, and God's world is far away."

"God's world is here," said Anthony. "Where sea and sky meet, there He
is; no matter how remote the place, or how desolate, God stands there,
armed against evil."

The wan moon lighted the clerk's face, and Anthony saw him smile.

"That saying is good; it is the touch of a friendly spirit," he said.
"Let two souls be together, and they make each other strong. But let
one be alone, as I was alone, let there be no warmth, no kindliness,
and hope dies. Horrors creep in; the nether world comes close, and the
corporal eye, grown keen by the soul's suffering, is witness to things
it should not see."

Just then there came one of the deep movements which Anthony had noted
more than once; the ocean's scum seemed to heave under the moon. Tom
Horn's hand touched Anthony's arm and held there; his voice fell to a
whisper.

"It is very deep," he said. "Oh, quite deep! I never sounded it. The
life below is monstrous. Ask God that the sight of His work be kept
from your eyes."

Then the man went quietly back to his post in the bow; and Anthony
continued to pace and watch until Corkery came on deck to relieve him.
The wind held all through the night, languid, hot, and of not a deal of
weight; but it bellied the sails and added its urge to the drift of the
current, and the schooner slowly approached the group of broken ships.

It was past daylight when Anthony appeared once more; despite the
mist that enveloped the vessel, he became aware of a vast loom to his
larboard; it was huge, dark, rearing; he hastily stepped across the
deck, and there found mademoiselle.

"It is a ship," she said; "we must have come alongside it in the night.
Mr. Corkery thinks it's one of the wrecks we were watching yesterday."

Corkery, hearing Anthony's voice, approached.

"I have made fast to her," he said. "It's a large vessel of a kind I do
not know, and she seems to lie quite still."

"We have reached one of the outer vessels of the group we saw
yesterday," said mademoiselle. "I do not think we have gone among them,
for we have collided with none."

"True enough, mademoiselle," said Corkery; "with sun-up I think we'll
see your word made good."

But it was still early; the mist clung to the ship, to the surface of
the sea, poisonous, thick; through it the lanterns burned a feeble
yellow. The vast timbers of the vessel at whose side they lay were
rotted and dripped with slime; they could feel open seams, gaping like
mouths; when they spoke their voices came back from its hollows as
though from a cavern. They felt chilled, and their spirits ran low.

Tom Horn, much to the surprise of mademoiselle and Anthony, appeared at
breakfast: it was the first time he had sat down with them since the
_Roebuck_ entered the Sargasso; he had kept the deck night and day, and
what little food he'd eaten had been taken to him by the cook. He had
one of his charts with him and unrolled it upon the table.

"In an hour the mist will lift, and we shall be able to see," said he.
"And this," his finger pointing to a spot among the figures and signs
upon the sheet, "is _what_ we shall see."

The girl and the young man leaned forward and studied the chart; but
the figures told them nothing.

"The vessel alongside can be none other than the _San Josef_," said Tom
Horn, "and next her should be the Dutch ship of the line; then comes
the Salem merchantman whose goods served me so well while I was captive
here, and then the ancient galley whose deck was so rotted that I never
ventured to stand on it. Then there follow others, ship on ship," the
pointing finger moving slowly across the chart; "I know them all, and
could number them as one numbers the shops and houses in a street."

"Except the new ones," said Anthony.

"Hah!" said Tom Horn. "The new ones to be sure. Here and there you find
a new ship--and wedged in where you would never expect her. It's as
though the fear of the place came upon them; they dread being outside,
alone, and force their way among the others for companionship and
protection. The Salem ship was a new one while I was here; and yet she
had gotten herself between the Dutchman and the galley--two very old
vessels, indeed."

"But where," asked mademoiselle, "is the _Rufus Stevens_? In what part
of this sea are we to look for her?"

"We do not know what winds hastened or hindered her," said the clerk.
"Hulks pitch slowly along through the sea and may be many months going
a short way, or their movements may be quickened by steady winds. I
have considered all that is possible, and I have put the possibilities
into figures; the _Rufus Stevens_ is surely here, but she has been here
no great while," and the man's eyes kindled with their strange glow.
"No, she has but lately arrived; we shall find her somewhere on the
edge of this concourse, and at no great distance from where we are now
lying. My calculations are close, and I have held in mind, not only the
winds, but the power of the great circle; she must have drifted much as
we have sailed, and this day should show us many things."

They ate their breakfasts and studied the chart, while Tom Horn
expounded it; and while they were so engaged the sun worked its
uncertain way through the mist; with banners fluttering and deep banks
whirling, the fog broke before the lances of light; and strange things
appeared upon the face of the sea. The broken ships were seen huddled
in the still waters, some on level keel, others stern down and bowsprit
pointed at the sky, others with stern high and down by the head. Green
slime streaked their rotting planks; pale, horrible-looking fungus grew
thickly upon rails and housing; flocks of vulture-like birds rested
upon them; the sea all about was massed with decaying weed and timbers.

"It is as I thought; it is the _San Josef_," said Tom Horn, when they
reached the deck. He pointed to the vast wooden wall which arose,
sheer, alongside them; up and up it went, and Anthony counted three
great decks; the stern towered like a castle, and had been pierced by
a dozen windows; the huge sides grinned with ports where brass cannon
had once threatened the stout English sea-thieves. Traces of fire were
about her timbers; the fungus growth seemed all that held her together.

"Taken, looted, and burned," said Anthony. "A treasure-galleon, like as
not, and the prey of a Cumberland, a Drake, or a Morgan, years ago."

Next the _San Josef_ was a great Dutch ship; she was almost as tall
in the stern as the Spaniard; her timbers had been splintered by the
shot of some ancient battle, but the strength of her great dowels and
cunningly wrought frame had kept her corpse whole. Beside the Dutchman
floated the Salem merchantman, a sturdy ship and a swift one before
fate overtook her, but small compared to the lumbering fighting craft
of an older day. The galley spoken of by Tom Horn lay almost submerged;
the green slippery planks of her bow stuck tragically out of the scum.

"If I could convince myself that it were possible," said Anthony,
his eyes upon this craft, "I'd say she was of the Mediterranean, for
there's been no galleys in the Atlantic these many years."

"She once wore a great beak on her stem," said Corkery. "See where it's
been sawn away."

"Don John of Austria fought the battle of Lepanto with just such
craft," said Anthony, "and before the fight he ordered the ram to
be cut from every ship in his fleet, so that they might run close
alongside the enemy. But that was two hundred years ago."

"I would not take one day of it from this vessel's age," said Corkery,
shaking his head. "Like as not she's one of the stove-in hulks that
drifted out of that old fight. But how did she make her way through all
the seas and get lodgment here at last?"

"God knows," said Anthony. "And that's an answer that must be made to
many a question asked of this strange place."

"Look!" cried Tom Horn.

"Look, oh, look!" cried mademoiselle.

Their voices arose almost together; Anthony and the mate turned, and
there, freely riding the scum in an open space, the stumps of her masts
showing above the bulwarks, they saw the fine, sound hull of the _Rufus
Stevens_!




                                 XLII


Yes, there she rode, as calmly as though at anchor in the river; the
very paint looked new upon her; she was clean and whole and undismayed.

At once Anthony ordered out a boat and put three of the seamen in it;
then, with mademoiselle, he also got in and headed through the mass of
litter toward the ship. It was laborious pulling, but stout sweeps and
strong bodies accomplished it, and within an hour they stood upon the
vessel's deck.

[Illustration: "... HEADED THROUGH THE MASS OF LITTER TOWARD THE SHIP."]

Some six feet remained of her mainmast; the others had broken shorter;
her hatches were fast, with tarpaulins and battens on each; here and
there the bulwarks were broken, but the deck was as tight as on the day
she was launched.

"Get the hatches open," said Anthony. And, while the three seamen
employed themselves in ripping off the battens, he got a lantern and
kindled a light. And while mademoiselle lowered it, at the end of a
line, into the throat of the mainhatch, Anthony went down another line,
after it.

Dry! He took the lamp in his hands and looked about. By God, it was
so dry there was dust on things! Here were some bales of silk, now.
Oh, yes, dry! They couldn't be more so. And, God save us, how perfect
the scantlings were! they were like bones they were that free of wet.
And how tightly the cargo was wedged; there was not the least sign of
shifting anywhere that he could see. He called the news up the hatch,
and mademoiselle cried out her joy. The other hatches were now off, and
the light poured in. It was wonderful the way things were! Amazing! He
went climbing over the cargo and down into its timbered crevices. As
tight as a drum! Quite the tightest shipful of stuff he'd ever seen.
The man who stowed this had his wits about him. He was an excellent
workman, and knew how to prepare for the long pitch of the Indian
Ocean; he had taken time in hand, and set himself to guard against the
Atlantic's storms. Oh, yes, a tight cargo; wedged like a cork in the
neck of a bottle. Not a cask, not a bale had budged since they had been
swung into the hold at Calcutta.

Of all good things, so Anthony thought, as he sat on a mound of goods
and looked about, the touch of a skilful hand is best. The cunning
turns, the clever artifices! Here was work that had been done to
admiration. The man who could stow a ship like this could write a great
song; for he had music in him, bold music, of a kind you could sit and
listen to, and that would put you to wondering about fine things.

The hold was a great, wide belly filled with rich food; and it was deep
as a mine. Woven silks and raw! swathed in strong wrappings and bound
by cords. Opium in chests, with delights and curses written on their
lids; dyes, gums, spices, rare fabrics. Shawls! fine cashmere shawls,
soft and warm and beautiful, woven in that far-off valley, of the fine
under-hair of goats. A pair of them would bring five hundred Farakhabad
rupees at Amritsar, and four times as much in any Western port. And
carpets: soft, thick, rich! with the markings on the bundles telling
tales of far-off peoples and places; skins; made leather; indigo;
shell-lac. Wondrous stores of these. Then more silks; piece silks in
patterns, a commodity swift to sell, and holding profits that had made
many a trader rich.

Anthony climbed out of the hold, his head heavy with wonder. He saw now
why Charles Stevens had dreamed and talked of this shipful; for it was
a cargo that would be counted rich by a mercantile house made up of
princes.

The captain's cabin was fast; they forced it. Here were certain weighty
chests, locked and sealed; there were empty brandy-bottles on the floor
and full ones in a cupboard; the place was foul of drunkenness; and
rage arose in Anthony as he looked about.

"What serves it to build sound ships if beasts are to master them?" he
said. "No storm that ever blew would have disabled this vessel in the
waters she was in if a sober, clever man had managed her."

He tried to imagine what had happened. But he was sure of one thing
only: the great storm had come between the pirates and their loot.

"The ship was abandoned," Anthony told himself, "but not at the time
set down in their plans. They quit her at some lull in the storm,
thinking they'd be safer in the boats. The brig I saw poking among the
bars and shoals off the Jerseys was the vessel which they had elected
to salvage the _Rufus Stevens_, if all had gone as they wished; her
business along the coast was in the hope that the ship's wreckage had
been driven ashore at some lonely point and that they might at least
profit by that."

He took the vessel's papers and the log-book from a metal box; then he
and mademoiselle sat at an open window in the main cabin and searched
them carefully. The sealed chests were declared to contain vessels
of wrought gold, jewels set, unset, and matched, and inlaid wares of
crafty make. And while they sat there a breeze began stirring and gave
a gentle motion to the ship. About two hours had passed and they were
deep in talk, when they heard Corkery's voice, and, going on deck, they
saw the schooner, lowering mainsail and jibs, and close alongside.
Corkery and Tom Horn came aboard, and Anthony went over the ship with
them.

"As sound as a nut," said the mate, late in the afternoon, when they
had done. "If her masts were in her I'd not hesitate to ship as her
mate for a voyage round the world."

"A mast is needful," said Tom Horn. "A tall mast that will reach the
high drifts of air. She'll be quick then, and this sea will slacken in
power over her. She'll have life of her own, and, well guided, she'll
escape."

Next day they came back to the matter. In all that sea they'd come
through, said Anthony, he had not seen a sound spar, and he feared one
would be hard to come by. To this Corkery agreed; vessels that found
their way into the Sargasso were not likely to carry such matters as
masts. But, if it must be done, there was the _Roebuck's_ mainmast,
a stout stick of timber, over-small for a ship of the tonnage of the
_Rufus Stevens_, but one that would give service. Anthony shook his
head over this; he had no fancy for two crippled ships. Said Tom Horn:

"The great drift of water is to the east and then to the south. Sound
spars are apt to be found only on ships newly come into this sea; and
all those come as the _Rufus Stevens_ came, from the northeast."

So, when the mist lifted its barriers and the gloomy stretch of sea was
visible, Anthony began searching the east and northeast; rank on dismal
rank stretched the green, fungus-grown hulks; the water in places
seemed to lift itself in solid waves of rotting grass. But no sign
of a standing mast was anywhere. As there was a possibility of one,
unstepped or broken off, lying upon one of the decks, the mate took a
boat's crew and set off; they were gone until nightfall and returned
unsuccessful. Next day Anthony took up the venture; for hours the men
strove with the thick sea and drifting wreckage; Anthony clambered
from hulk to hulk; but he returned as Corkery had done, defeated. A
week went by; in a few days there was a light wind, and the schooner,
with all sail set and the _Rufus Stevens_ towing astern, made some
small way around the crowding wrecks. But the last of the week saw
Corkery chance upon a stout mast adrift amid the weed; by deal of
effort it was brought alongside the ship and hoisted on board. With an
adze and an ax Anthony trimmed the heel of the timber into the required
shape; and Corkery served the stump of the _Rufus Stevens_ in a way
that would be like to meet it. With a pair of spars erected as sheers,
and blocks and lines, the mast was swung into place and lashed firmly
to the stump, the braces were hauled taut, and the cleats made fast
about the heel. By the afternoon of the next day the spars and sail
were in place; also a bowsprit had been rigged and a pair of jibs added
to the spread of canvas. By the following noon a sluggish wind had both
vessels moving. The short spars and ill-fitting sails of the _Rufus
Stevens_ gave her a slovenly look; but Anthony felt like a prince as
he stood at her wheel and guided the great hull through the scum and
desolation of that gloomy place.

"Keep outside the hulks," said Tom Horn, "well outside, and you'll have
no great odds to contend with. You are now in the current; it moves
slowly here, but will grow swifter later on. Days and weeks will pass,
and all the time you'll seem to be burrowing deeper into this region's
rotting heart; you will sicken as I did, but keep hope with you, for
the end will be good."

Days did pass; and weeks passed, also. Each morning came the same: the
banks of mist rearing from a sea to sky, a thin light seeping through,
and then the first sparklings of the sun, and a wind that set the
tendrils and banners of the fog a-tossing. Sometimes the direction of
the breeze was favorable; the sails flapped as the grudging measures
were poured into them, and foot by foot the great ship took her way.
The sun traveled hot and red across the sky; the files of dead ships
hung steadily upon their quarter. The filthy, vulture-like birds
hovered about with hideous expectancy. And night settled, dark, silent,
filled with a choking miasma, or burning with brittle stars, and with a
quiet moon, spreading a corpse-cloth over the sea.

The _Roebuck_, with Corkery aboard, kept in the van; her sails took
more of the wind, and her narrower bulk slipped along with greater
ease. Then, well into one quiet night, they rode into clear water; Tom
Horn heard the sucking pull under the ship's foot and raised a cry; the
wind had a snapping vigor and smelled clean; there was a feeling of
fine, leaping life in the world. And then morning came dancing toward
them across the white, tufted seas; the vast, shining expanse lifted
and lowered; and the spotted sky raced over them like charging horses.

"God's sun!" said Tom Horn. "God's sky, and God's sea! There is that in
a man's soul which will always be the saving of him, if he trusts to it
and keeps himself from fear."

After they had their breakfast, Anthony fixed their position by the
sun; a few fair days sail would lift the Cape Verdes into view; so,
signaling Corkery, in the schooner, he turned the ship west by a trifle
south, meaning to skirt the Sargasso and fall into the sea roads
traveled by ships working north from Rio or the Far East.

The sails drew badly and were hard to manage; nevertheless, the vessel
made good time. The _Roebuck_ kept her well in view, stepping along
under shortened canvas; at night the mate would draw the schooner off;
but at daylight he'd creep up once more. One morning when Anthony came
on deck he noted Tom Horn forward, with the glass, holding it steadily
upon a point almost due west.

"A sail," said the clerk; "a spot only, and standing just above the
line."

There was that in his voice which caught Anthony's attention: the man's
hands were shaking; his face was gray.

"We'll meet many vessels from now on," said Anthony. "We are coming
into the track of them."

But Tom Horn said nothing, holding the glass leveled. Another fifteen
minutes lifted the sail into plainer view.

"She is a brig," said the clerk, "and, by her build and manner of
wearing her rigging, she's American." He was silent for a few moments
more; then he held out the glass very quietly to Anthony and said: "It
was a brig we saw prowling off the coast of the Jerseys when we were
there, I think."

Anthony took the glass and picked up the approaching vessel. She
was brig-rigged and slackly kept; her dress of sails was shabby and
patched, but the morning light caught and held in a foretopsail that
was white and new.




                                 XLIII


Mademoiselle Lafargue was reading at one of the windows of the main
cabin when Anthony came in. He went to the arms-chest in one corner,
threw up the lid, and stood glowering into it. She said nothing. He
took out a musket, examined the lock, and snapped it; and he did the
like with a half-dozen more. Then pistols: he carefully laid them upon
a settle in a row--cold, shining, deadly; he loaded them, and the
muskets, too.

Then she spoke.

"Something has happened," she said.

"There is a vessel ahead that I have reason to mistrust," said Anthony.
"A slatternly-looking ship; the same that I saw going up and down the
coast before you sent for me."

She put down her book and arose.

"They have found us!" she said, but she said it without a deal of fear.
"What a strange thing, in all these seas, to have come to this one
place!"

"It was no chance," said Anthony, scowling; "it is not in nature to hit
a thing off as precisely as that."

"You have suffered," she said; "you have suffered a deal, and dared
more; and now you are in a new danger when you thought to win safely
home. I am sorry."

Yes, she was sorry; he saw it in her eyes. She was wistful, too, and
it pleased him. To have a beautiful woman think so of one is no mean
thing. But this was not all, and he continued to look at her. Sorrow
did not make her hold herself so proudly; wistfulness did not keep her
eyes so level; and neither of them gave her manner that serene sure
quality.

It was confidence. His heart quickened as he understood: danger had
come again, but nowhere in her mind was there a doubt but he'd make
through it; she had no thought but that he'd keep her safe. Her silence
was saying a thing to him any man would be proud of; and his mind was
still listening to it when he heard voices hailing the ship, and the
creak of blocks from very close at hand.

They went upon deck. It was crisp and blowing; the waves were short and
tufted with white; the light gleamed on the sea; and the blue swept
overhead and down into the west like a great cascade. The stranger
brig was lying, with flapping sails, directly in their course; there
was nothing for Anthony to do but throw his own ship out, and the two
drifted and rose and fell within speaking distance, Tarrant stood at
the rail amidships, a sneer upon his handsome mouth and victory in his
look. Blake was near him. Both were watching the ship, and Blake's
laugh came ringing over the water.

"Now hold to that," he said, "and we'll be aboard of you directly."

Anthony heard a splash at the stern of the brig; they had launched a
boat. Two men pulled it around to the vessel's side, and Blake prepared
to step into it. Anthony took up one of the muskets, and looked to its
flint and priming; then he balanced it upon the high bulwark before him.

"If you value your peace of mind, you'll keep your distance," he said.

Blake gazed at him with a deal of good humor.

"What," said he, "are you still of the mind to carry yourself so?"
Then, looking past Anthony, he roared with laughing. "So help me
God!" he said, "it's mademoiselle! Well struck, sir! Mademoiselle,
I congratulate you on a champion who keeps his pose, no matter how
events point or carry."

Tarrant spoke, a bitter look in his face. Anthony could not hear the
words, but the gesture motioned Blake into the boat, quite plainly. And
the young men called across the place between the two vessels:

"Tarrant, if that man attempts to board me, I'll have his life."

With the same sneering, bitter look, Tarrant faced the ship for a
moment, not stirring nor speaking; Blake, never heeding Anthony's
words, leaped into the boat. Then a man appeared on the brig's after
deck--a man who held his head well up and stepped with the sureness
of a great cat. Anthony, the musket still on the bulwark before him,
stared at sight of him.

"Captain Weir!" said mademoiselle. Her hand held tightly to Anthony's
sleeve.

"How does he come aboard that vessel?" said the young man.

"He has ventured out, looking for us," said mademoiselle. "He is our
friend."

There was a deep look in Anthony's eyes, as he frowned across the
stretch of water between the two vessels.

"Yes, he is our friend," he said. "But still I ask, how does he come on
board this ship, of all others?"

After a short word with Tarrant, Weir came to the brig's side and
hailed the _Stevens_. Anthony replied.

"I desire to come aboard you," Weir said. They saw a smile on his face,
as he added: "Have I your permission?"

"To you," said Anthony, "there is no objection. You will be welcomed."

Weir waved his hand, still smiling; but when he ordered Blake out of
the boat his face was stern enough. After the pirate climbed aboard,
Weir was seen standing bold upright before the two; and what he said
to them must have cut like a whip, for Blake shrugged and turned away,
and Tarrant lowered ill-favoredly.

In a short space Captain Weir stood upon the _Rufus Stevens's_ deck; he
bowed to mademoiselle and shook Anthony by the hand.

"A most fortunate meeting," he said. "I've searched these seas for
weeks in the hope of finding you."

"Why?" asked Anthony. "And what brought this particular region to your
mind? And how did you come in this brig?"

It was a story soon told. The captain had been away,--at Boston--at New
York--and there were several other places,--all on the business of the
house of Stevens. And when he returned he visited Anthony's lodgings in
Sassafras Street; but Anthony had gone. He had been gone for some time.
The captain then went to Pump Court; but Tom Horn was absent, also.

"Then," said the captain, "I thought of Christopher Dent, and went
to his place, feeling he'd have some news to tell. But he would say
little. He seemed to cuddle what he knew up in his mind and was as
close-mouthed as a man could be. Yes, you were away from the city. He
thought you were very far away. Tom Horn, too, was gone; he fancied
Tom was with you, but as to that he was not sure. There was something
in his manner that put an edge on my attention; and so," said Captain
Weir, with his cold smile, "I questioned him in ways he was not used
to, and in a little he let slip the fact that mademoiselle, too, was
gone, that you had all taken ship and were venturing somewhere at sea."

"Poor Christopher!" said mademoiselle.

"As honest a soul as ever lived," said Captain Weir, still with the
cold smile. "And, having got so far with him, I spoke of my close
association with the house of Stevens, of my friendship with your
uncle," to Anthony, "of my regard for yourself. I said your problems
were mine; anything having to do with the business was for me to
know; if an effort were being made that promised help in the firm's
difficulties, I should be told. And then he told me."

"And then?" said Anthony.

"The chance that took you away," said Captain Weir, "seemed mad and
slim; but, for all that, I set myself to get a ship and make after you."

He made inquiries at the exchanges, and almost at once heard of a brig,
newly come into the river from a trading-venture along the coast.

"A trading-venture!" said Anthony, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes," replied Weir. "They said little about it; and, as they seemed
disinclined to speak, I did not question them. The vessel was ready,
provisioned, and manned; and as Tarrant is a good officer, and had
voyaged with me more than once, I settled my terms, stepped aboard, and
we made sail."

"In Tarrant you may have an excellent seaman, and in Blake the same,
I'll not gainsay their skill," said Anthony. "But you have also in
them two hectoring, damned ruffians whom I would trust with neither my
throat nor my purse."

Captain Weir smiled, and seemed in no way troubled.

"I know Tarrant of old," he said. "And Blake's name and doings are
common things. But they can handle a ship, and that's enough for me. If
I'd kept from the sea every time a bully lifted his snout at me, I'd
been a landsman all my life. Never bother yourself about this pair; for
as I know them, so do they know me, and if they speak at all in any
matter of importance, their voices will not be above a whisper."

Anthony took note of Weir--a careful note; and for the first time he
saw in him the man old Rufus had chosen years before to master the ship
he was giving up. And this note, too, had in it the suggestion of a
wilderness cat, not only in the step but in the body's posture. The
merchant captain who had won through hostile fleets with his goods, and
beaten off attacking vessels of war, was in the steady, cold, green
eyes; the red edges of the cutlass-stroke down his face spoke like lips
of the deadly fighter who closed instantly with his foes; his manner
was the still top of a vast depth of resolution, lashed up only on
occasions. And Anthony looked at him; away at the back of his mind odd
thoughts were forming.

All three vessels now dressed their idle sails to the wind; the brig
followed the schooner and ship. Corkery, having had news of Weir's
presence, paced the schooner's deck contentedly.

And mademoiselle was glad the captain was to remain on board the ship.
For they had been so short-handed. Anthony and two men were not enough
to handle that great vessel, for all her meager spread of sail; and
the ship must get home safely. She must! for she carried the means of
slackening the law's processes and easing many hatreds. The captain
smiled when she said this. Anthony would have managed very well; there
were few that would have ventured, as he had ventured, into that lonely
sea, so feared and cursed by sailors, and whose place in the world's
waters was so vague that no two charts gave it the same position. Oh,
yes; Anthony was a man to carry a thing through when once he had begun
it; and the captain's eyes were very cold and very steady, indeed,
as they fastened upon the young man on the forward deck, adding his
weight to a seaman's, hauling away on a line. And mademoiselle found
herself looking at those eyes, so like hard, green agates; and she felt
something like fear creep upon her.

They had breakfast. During its course, Tom Horn said never a word;
indeed, he had not spoken since Weir had come into the ship; he ate
and stared and listened, and sometimes he sat quite still, his eyes on
the captain, and a queer down-drawn twitch to his lip. Weir gave them
what news he had of the port; and Anthony laid out the ship's papers
for him to see.

"Excellent traffic!" said the captain, over the items of cargo. He
sipped his small glass of brandy. "Oh, excellent! Your uncle knew the
East; he seemed to feel the levels where the rich things lay. It was
a kind of genius with him. Here we have a shipful of value such as no
other merchant could have collected." He finished the brandy. "And all
in good condition, you say?"

Anthony had the hatches off after breakfast; and Captain Weir saw the
merchandise for himself. He came out of the hold and dusted his fingers
and clothes with a kerchief.

"It could not be snugger nor better," he said. He looked at
mademoiselle. "Yes, we must get her safe, supercargo; no chance must
take her from us now."

The wind kept brisk for days, and it blew the three vessels before it;
then it shifted and came out of the northeast with a shrill cut, a
whipping of the water, and a racing of clouds. The schooner and brig
stripped close to keep in the crippled ship's company; and Anthony,
with Weir's help, added more braces to the makeshift mast. One morning,
at dawn, after a blowy night, and with the Barbados somewhere ahead,
they saw the brig tossing away to the south and the schooner nowhere
visible. All that day the gale lashed and raved and drove into the
southwest; the sky was like lead and seemed to touch the wild waters.
In the first dog-watch the ship, slow to mind her helm, was struck by
a great sea; the man at the wheel was washed overboard, and Captain
Weir was dashed against one of the boats and carried below with a
broken leg. And so Anthony was left to work the ship with one man,
for Tom Horn had little power in his body and no sea-going skill in
his hands. For three days and nights the young man slept only while
mademoiselle held the wheel at quiet spaces in the storm; he kept sail
to the vessel, and ran her, upright, before the shock of the wind. Then
the storm died down, and the sea raced itself out; and Captain Weir,
stretched on his bed, gray with pain but with steadfast eyes, said:

"Is the brig still in sight?"

Anthony bowed, and, grim and tired, stood in the cabin doorway.

"She's hung to us like a limpet," he answered. "I've said a deal
against Tarrant and Blake, and I feel I'll say more. But they can
manage a ship, and they keep to their purpose; and I trust God Almighty
will hold those things to their credit when they finally stand before
Him, stripped and sorry and ashamed."

Captain Weir eased his hurt leg, held tight between bits of scantling.

"You need sleep," he said to Anthony. "You cannot work the vessel
yourself, with a single man. Get a message to the brig; have them send
two hands aboard of us."

Anthony frowned.

"I have no liking for that ship, as you know," he said. "And I'd rather
keep her people from my deck."

"Is it not time to put our dislikes aside?" said the captain. "Should
we not think of the ship, and what getting her home means? Have we any
fear of two foremast men, no matter what vessel they come out of?"

Mademoiselle was at the wheel when Anthony came heavily on deck. The
ocean was heaving in long, smooth swells, green and wonderful. A signal
was made to the brig, and the two vessels bore toward each other. It
was Blake whom Anthony spoke to; and when he asked for the men the
pirate laughed cheerfully and agreed. He came with the boat, his big
body laid against the tiller-handle; and it was he who caught the
rope flung by Anthony and made it fast; and the two men, able-looking
fellows and active, came nimbly over the side.

"Good fortune," said Blake, as he cast loose, and made away again.
"Your mast still stands, and you've seen the worst weather you're like
to see. With this wind we look to convoying you to your dock in less
than ten days' time."

Anthony pointed the ship to the northwest; as level as a gull's flight,
the blunted bowsprit held to Henlopen. Then he gave the wheel to one of
the new hands and pointed to the compass.

"Hold her so," he said.

Captain Weir asked to be brought upon deck; he lay on a mattress under
the stump of the mainmast, his leg straight and stiff and dead-looking;
and ready to his hand lay a pair of loaded pistols.

"Now," said he to Anthony, "you may get some rest, all of you. I keep
watch on deck until you've slept the clock at least half around."

Tom Horn stood at the foot of the companion-ladder when Anthony came
below; the man's face looked wan in the half-light, and the pale glow
of his eyes had the cold melancholy of the moonlight.

"The deck," said he, "is held by the brig's people. And the brig is not
your friend."

"Captain Weir is there," said Anthony tolerantly.

"Are the hawks to be trusted when the swan come down the wind?" asked
Tom Horn mildly.

"The captain will see to us," said Anthony.

Mademoiselle, worn and faint from the long battle with the storm, stood
by.

"The captain is hurt; he is held fast to his bed," she protested.

"He will hear," said Anthony, dull with sleep. "An old fox, and with
the blow of a bear. The brig will not approach while he is there; never
fear."

"But," said mademoiselle, a vague dread in her heart, "if she should?
If the men on deck should overpower him?"

"Then," said Anthony, "I shall hear. For all I am so full of sleep,
I'll be keen enough, if wanted."

He went into his cabin, and in a moment they heard the cords of his bed
straining under his weight as he threw himself down.

"How tired he must be!" said the girl. "Day and night he fought for our
lives. Oh, I trust there will be nothing more to try him."

"Hark!" said Tom Horn, as he held up his hand and she listened. There
was a creaking of blocks, a humming among the cordage, a crowding of
wind into the sails. And the seas were heard leaping monotonously at
the great prow like running wolves at the throat of a buck.

"It is the wind and the sea," said Tom Horn. "There is no evil in
either in this region. But evil may ride them, as one may ride an
honest horse to do a wrongful deed."

Mademoiselle's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

"We are in clean seas," said Tom in his hushed voice. "God's sky is
over us, and we've kept our way through many dangers. But we've taken
from the Sargasso what it claimed for its own; and a curse will reach
from a long way off if the spirit in it be very bitter. Everywhere
in that strange sea is the stink of evil; wrong springs up like lush
grass; horror takes shapes that even God had not foreseen." His voice
went to a whisper. "But in the months I was there I came to know the
great truth: I learned that the world, the sea, and the wind went round
and round, never stopping; and the knowledge of this law helped me to
make away from my captivity." He shook his head, and the mild look of
a child was in his face. "But the Sargasso had claimed me, and one day
it found me out; the winds carried its curse to me, and it was then
that its haze came between me and the world."

In the forecastle the sailorman who stood so courageously with Anthony
through the storm slept soundly. And now mademoiselle, weary beyond
thought, went to her cabin and also slept. In the late afternoon light
Tom Horn kept the deck like a quiet wraith; the seamen from the brig
held the ship upon her course with an easy hand; gray of face, and with
eyes hot with fever, Captain Weir lay without movement, the brace of
pistols beside him; to the south the brig, under scant sail, bounded
like a checked hound.

And Anthony slept. Fatigue had unbraced and slackened his body; he had
sunk so deeply into the strange place of sleep that only the stirring
of his heart kept him in the world. His mind received no impressions;
his nerves were still; and he lay at a great depth for a long time.
Then he arose to the lower level of dreams; he had a dull, formless
sense of himself; then he realized other things and gradually came to
speculate upon them. Feet raced across the vault of heaven; the corners
of the world were straining; there was a thundering as of wind in many
sails; great voices lifted against each other like blades.

But this passed, and he sank again; darkness held him; he did not move.
But light will creep through the scum of a tarn; it will brighten
dull, still water; it will plunge its shining arm deep into the muck
and bring up those living things which have only heard the first faint
whisperings of the world. A sound once more lifted Anthony from the
pit; again he lay at the dream level, and the sound broke urgently over
him. It had a dim, mournful insistance; he could not bear it; all the
trouble God permitted seemed in the sound; and his heart raced in pity
and desire. His spirit struggled heavily; but his body had no footing
in the world; it lay like the dead. He suffered keenly. The call
broke in shrill waves through the gray place of sleep. He was wanted!
Somewhere--some one needed him. Bitterly he strove upward; he fought
as a dark angel might have fought, under the foot of Michael; he raved
and cursed and fought upward from level to level; the vagueness fell
from him like rent veils. He burst through the gates of sleep. His body
leaped up.

It was mademoiselle who was calling.

"Anthony! Do you hear, Anthony? Oh, do you hear me?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I hear." Like a dull-witted bear he pawed at the
latch of his door. "What is it?"

"They are on deck," she said. "I am locked in my cabin. I have been
calling you, but you would not waken."

"Who is on deck?" The door would not give, and he wrenched at it
savagely. "Who locked you in?"

"Tarrant. And Blake. They came aboard in the night. They have taken
charge of the ship."

Anthony's wits came to an edge; he stopped wrenching at the door, and
stood, calling its possibilities to mind.

"What of Captain Weir?" he said. "Where is he?"

"I do not know," said mademoiselle.

Anthony fixed upon the spot where the door had been fastened, and laid
his weight against it. The nails started, and the ironmongery gave way.
Then he released mademoiselle, and she was trembling.

"I was afraid," she said. "You slept so, you seemed very far away. I
was afraid."

He held her close to him.

"There is rare courage in you," he said. "Call it out; make it stand by
you."

"I am not afraid now--for myself. But you'll be going on deck. I'm
afraid for you."

The light was dim where they stood; but he looked into her eyes, and
there seemed a fine brightness through the world.

"You fear for me because I am your man," he said to her. "Is it so?"

"Yes," she said, quietly.

He put her hair back from her brow and kissed her there.

"I am satisfied," he said. "You belong to me. And, because of that,
there is nothing in life that shall harm you."

He went into his cabin, and he came out with a brace of pistols; one of
them he gave to her.

"Stay here," he said, "and keep this by you, in case of need."

Then he went to the companion-ladder, and at the foot of it he paused.
For there were voices on deck; one of them was Captain Weir's, and it
was thick with anger.

"Let us have no more words," the captain was saying. "I have my own
thoughts about any matter in my charge, as I've told you more than once
before. I warned you not to come aboard this ship and that I would
tolerate no interference. It is now daylight; get into your boat, go
back to your vessel, and take Blake with you."

It was Tarrant who answered.

"You are injured," he said. "It will be many a day before you are up
and active. And, as what is to be done should be done quickly, the need
is too great for us to leave the vessel without--"

But he was stopped by a burst of bitter cursing. Softly Anthony went
up the ladder, and he stopped again when his eyes were level with the
combing. Weir had lifted himself to his elbow; his face was twisted
with pain, and he held a pistol leveled at Tarrant, who stood,
sneering and disbelieving, before him.

"Over the side," said the captain. "Over the side, and into your boat.
I've warned you I'd one day split your skull with a bullet if you
continued to cross me!"

"In your condition," said Tarrant, "it is best not to worry. Above all,
do not worry about me. I am in a fairly settled state of mind here; and
I think--"

Cold, deadly, with an ugly twist at one corner of his mouth, Captain
Weir looked along the barrel of the pistol and fired; Tarrant, with his
hands at his chest and death in his face, fell. As Anthony leaped upon
deck there came a second shot; the pistol dropped from Weir's hand, and
he stretched back upon his bed.

Blake blew the smoke from the muzzle of his weapon, and viewed the two
bodies.

"Now," said he to Anthony, "here's a state of affairs. Here's a cutting
down of a ship's company. Two gone to the devil as quick as you'd wink
your eye."

But Anthony gave him no attention; he went to Captain Weir and saw he
was beyond all aid: to him the words of Weir had been the words of an
honest man, resolute in his defense of the right, and Anthony's heart
tightened in his chest. But, seaman-like, he looked first at the trim
of the sail and then at the compass, which told him the ship was headed
far out of the course he had laid down.

"Northwest!" he growled to the helmsman. "Point her that way, and hold
her so."

The man's look mocked him, and there was no move to obey; so Anthony
drove a blow into his face that spun him away from the wheel. Grim and
lowering, the young man set the ship on her course. And while he did
this Blake stood leaning with his back to the rail and looking vastly
amused.

"Now, by God!" said the pirate, "you are the most satisfactory fellow
in the world. One need never cudgel his brains about you; you do
precisely the thing expected of you."

With his chin out and a scowl on his brow, Anthony looked at him.

"I hope to be able to say something the same of you," said he. "For I
expect you, with no loss of time, to lower a boat and take yourself and
your two men out of this ship."

The sun stood red on the eastern edge of the ocean; the wind blew
freshly, the ship held upon her altered course, and the sea ran crisply
beside her. The brig was frolicking a league away.

Blake shouted with laughter.

"Good!" said he. "Splendid! If heaven had only sent you among a group
of play-actors, what a man you'd have been! I'd have enjoyed seeing
you, for, comedy deliciously played is a rare thing."

With a turn of the wheel Anthony brought the ship to, and, as she
stood with her sails muttering, he called to the two sailors who stood
together in the waist, one stanching the flowing blood of the other:

"Hoist out the yawl! You'll have a more peaceful time in your own
vessel, so you're going back to her. Be lively now!"

He fingered the trigger-guard of his pistol; the seamen made haste to
free the tackle of a small boat; and Blake laughed louder than ever.

"Never tell me this is to be the piece you played on board _Le
Mousquet_!" he said. His big chest swelled with mirth, and his fists
drummed upon it. "Well, God sends us good luck now and then, for all.
But I'd say one word to you; I would presume no more. Play it as you
did before! For," and he shoved his head forward, "do you recall the
price I once put on the pleasure of hearing and seeing you? My two
thumbs!" He smiled at Anthony, and beneath the good humor there was a
gleam of the tiger. "My two thumbs!"

"I remember," said Anthony. "And, also, I see the boat will be launched
all the swifter if you lend a hand. And it will be better for you if
you spend some of your good humor in getting safe out of my sight!"

There were about two yards between the two men; Blake leaped it with a
swiftness that took Anthony by surprise. The pistol roared wrathfully,
but the pirate was holding its muzzle upward; then the two closed.

"Now," said Blake, "we shall see how high you'll hold you hand and
head. By God, I'll dress you! I'll make you step!"

Dour, silent, Anthony drove a short, stabbing blow at the man's face;
a spurt of blood followed it; and Blake was smiling through a crimson
mask.

"Well struck," said he. And as he said it he beat Anthony about the
body with a power that made the young man's breath catch and his ribs
bend. Gasping, Anthony gave back.

"What!" jeered Blake, "so soon? Is this the man who talked so highly?
Is this, indeed, our famous fighter?"

But Anthony had the two seamen in mind; and, while he avoided Blake, he
looked toward the waist. The men had let go the boat's tackle and, each
armed with a belaying-pin, were hurrying aft. He must beat Blake down
before they got in hand's reach; if he failed, he was lost. And the
pirate was pressing forward, his face a smear of blood but his laugh
persisting.

"Where are the thews I've heard so much of?" he mocked. "Your body is
big enough, but it has no more guts than a drum. Stand to, and I'll--"

But Anthony was on him like a wolf. A terrible blow on the side of the
head stopped Blake's jeers, and he rocked on his feet; another one
down below, and the life was wheezing out of his throat. Blake closed;
his great arms wound about Anthony; the young man strove with all his
power, but he could not escape. He heard the hurrying feet of the
seamen behind him; then came the voice of mademoiselle, high-pitched,
almost a scream.

"Go back!" it said. "Go back! I'll fire if you take another step."

Anthony forced Blake around, and so saw the length of the deck forward,
over his shoulder. The girl, her eyes blazing, her hair loosened, stood
between him and the sailors; she had the pistol he had given her, and
it was lifted menacingly.

More time! What a girl! And time was what he needed then; just a
little time. He dug his elbow into Blake's throat and so shut off his
breath; the frightful blow on the side of the head had weakened the
man; but let him fight his way through this phase and he would recover.
Viciously the elbow dug deeper; with his great chest empty, the man let
go; his aimless feet took him back a step, and then the whistling blows
smashed into his body, and he fell.

Panting, torn, his face black and threatening, Anthony turned upon the
two men.

"Hoist out the yawl," he said.

With his own weight added to the lines, the boat was swung out and
lowered. Blake, broken and unconscious, was put into it, as was the
body of Tarrant; then the seamen pulled away toward the brig.

And when they had gone the _Rufus Stevens_ was put into the wind once
more; and Anthony, leaning against the wheel, said to mademoiselle:

"That is the last."

"Oh, I hope and pray it is so!" she said.

He took a shining strand of the dark, loosened hair in his hand and
kissed it; and she clung to him and looked up at him. And the winds of
the ocean stirred about them and filled the sails; and the great ship,
for whose safety they had endured so much, bore them slowly homeward.

[Illustration: "AND THE WINDS OF THE OCEAN STIRRED ABOUT THEM AND
FILLED THE SAILS."]




                                 XLIV


The warehouse of Rufus Stevens' Sons stood on the waterfront, huge,
square, and with many windows. 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 by
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 thought of that day one
half-year before--the day the _Rufus Stevens_, under her makeshift mast
and ill-fitting sail, rounded the bend in the river, amazing all who
beheld her.

And that wonderful cargo! That shipful of riches! What Charles had
dreamed of it came true; for there was the house of Rufus Stevens' Sons
once more set squarely upon its foundations; there it stood, fixed,
settled, strong, with no man to speak a word against it.

For that part of its past, foul with villainy, was canceled. And its
future was bright and long. And there was peace, and there was honor,
and there was prosperity.

       *       *       *       *       *

Anthony went to see Charles at his house on Ninth Street on a snowy
Sunday evening. And he found him wrapped comfortably in a rug before
the library fire, reading a play-book. Charles smiled and shook the
young man's hand.

"It is pleasant to sit here," he said, "and read and look at the fire
and think how safe things are in your hands."

"How are you?" Anthony asked.

"I am better. Oh, I am a deal better. You need not be afraid," and he
smiled and patted the young, strong arm. "I am back from the darkness
for good and all. But here I'll sit, Anthony, in the company of my
books, while the house of Stevens moves under your hand. Here I'll sit
quietly and with nothing to disturb me. I'll lead a rich life in this
room, by this fire; a rich, full life, with companions like this to
amuse me," and he riffled the leaves of the play-book.

"Your books," said Anthony, gratefully and wistfully, "thank God for
them!"

Charles smiled, and again he patted the young man's arm.

"Your grandfather never concerned himself with books; and you are a
deal like him. But they would store your mind and make it rich," he
said. "You would do well to encourage them. Those rakehells of the
Restoration, now, would amuse you, if your taste runs to their kind.
You'll find them there on the second shelf, next to the fireplace. Or,
if you'd rather take a step back, the Elizabethans are just below, and
they are a crew that'll shake your soul or your ribs, just as you'd
have them. And those Italian tale-tellers were shrewd workmen--there,
in the pigskin, right under your hand. But, if you think you'd care for
romance nearer to this present day, there is Defoe's narrative of the
shipwrecked sailor, and also Fielding's amusing chronicle of life as
he's seen it in his own England."

There was an array of pudgy little books with stout leather backs upon
a shelf quite low in the case. Anthony stooped and took one out and
opened it. The eyes of Charles sparkled.

"Voyages!" said he. "That one, I'll wager, is Bartholomew Diaz. How
often I've sailed with him, as a boy, to the mouth of the Great Fish
River! And there is fine old Vasco da Gama! Many a summer afternoon,
and I at school, he and I have doubled the cape, put the complaining
pilots in irons, and thrown their quadrants into the sea. And Columbus,
and Cabot, and the Merchant Adventurers' Company! There's a rank and
file for you, if you want actual deeds and fine accomplishment: Hawkins
and Drake, Davis and Sir Humphrey Gilbert; and that never-beaten
Yorkshireman, Martin Frobisher.

"Yes, here I'll sit in this excellent company," said Charles, and he
smiled and patted Anthony's arm. "I'll have nothing to disturb me. I'll
lead a rich, full life in this room, Anthony, God bless you; rich and
full, and with not a regret in all the world to throw either myself or
my friends out of humor."

       *       *       *       *       *

Christopher Dent sat in his back room, his spectacles on his nose, and
a big book in Latin text upon his knee. A cheery fire crackled in the
stove; two candles burned upon the table; and a number of other books,
each as big as the one Christopher held, lay beside them. Outside the
yellow flare lurked the retorts, the rows of bottles, and jars full of
pent-up possibilities. Tom Horn sat upon a bench near the stove; he
rubbed his knees in the warmth as the little apothecary looked at him
over the edge of his spectacles.

"In none of the elder tongues," said Christopher, "is there much to do
with the sea. As you say, the ancients were wise; they had a knowledge
of many strange things, but they seldom ventured far from land, and the
sea, as we know it, was a darkened thing to them. So, knowing nothing
of its secrets, they could scarcely agree with what you say. Bear in
mind," said Christopher earnestly, "I am not denying; I only announce a
lack of authority in the ancients."

"The sea," said Tom Horn in his hushed voice, "has a meaning. It is
more than a mass of water, washing around in the hollows of the world."

"I grant you that," said Christopher readily. "I grant you that
much active principle is in the sea; it holds many vital elements
crystallized and in solution. Soda, for example, is the cinder of
sea-plants; and without this friendly alkali we'd many times be brought
to a stand. The ocean gives rare and agreeable substances to materia
medica, and in time, as we plumb its depth, it will give more."

But Tom Horn shook his head.

"I have watched the sea with the sun on it," he said, "and I've watched
it running through the night. Hurricanes blow over it and make it leap
and rave; but hurricanes die down, and the sea goes on. It is always
muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it, hour after hour; it's
always muttering over something it's hidden. But it never tells; it
keeps its secrets well." He looked at Christopher for a long time, and
then said, "Captain Weir was buried in the sea."

"Poor man," said the little apothecary. "Poor man, to rest away in the
silence of the ocean's depths!"

"The sea is always muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it hour
after hour; it's always muttering over something it's hidden. But it
never tells; it keeps its secrets well."

       *       *       *       *       *

The graveyard was beside the quaint brick church; a low wall inclosed
it, and in June-time rose-vines climbed it and shook their wonders in
the wind. It was a well-kept churchyard, orderly and unfrequented;
in the cold months the snow covered the quiet graves gently; in
summer-time the grass was very green.

In a far corner of the wall was set the stone shaft to Captain Weir.
Though his body had been buried at sea, here sober thoughts of him
would be kept by his fellow-citizens. Cut deep into the base of the
monument were the words:

    To the memory of Isaac Weir, once master in the Merchant Marine. He
    was a Steady Friend, and a Faithful Servant, and Died at last in
    Defense of Justice and the Law.

"A true word," said Anthony, as the last thing had been spoken,
dedicating the stone to future generations. "A true, fair word."

"As honest a man as day ever lit a path for," said Mr. Stroude, solemn
of face and beaver hat in hand. "He could ill be spared."

Mademoiselle said no word, but put a great bunch of blossoms at the
foot of the stone; and there were tears in her eyes.

"His was a strong hand," said Christopher Dent. "And a brave spirit. I
mind well how he insisted that I give him the facts that sent him away
to sea and to his death. A friend was in peril, and he must go to him.
A splendid, high resolve for any man."

Tom Horn stood silent and said nothing at all; and Mr. Sparhawk,
dapper, with more the look of a wise old bird than ever before, took
a careful pinch of snuff. And neither did he have any words in the
matter, but put the snuff-box into his waistcoat pocket and listened
considerately to the sayings of his neighbors.

       *       *       *       *       *

There had never before been such a ship as the _Rufus Stevens_. The
Siddons yard, in that springtime, had hummed with her making; such a
hammering and sawing as there had been, such a chipping and shaving,
and boring and fitting, the clever old place never saw before. The
keel was of solid, seasoned, toughened oak, as surely fitted, as
strongly braced as old Rufus' spine had been. And to this grew the
ribs, powerful, graceful, bent cunningly, to waste the impact of the
sea, and to give space to her cargo. Then the beams went in to brace
the frame; mighty, weighty, strong beams of live-oak that was like
iron; beams that had been nursed and molded and cut to fit by shrewd
joiners. Live-oak had been Charles's highest demand; live-oak that had
been felled in proper time and seasoned in the sun and rain and wind.
The stem was made of it--a great cutting stem that would throw the
seas lightly apart; the stern-post was of it, and also the transoms,
aprons, knight-heads, hawse-timbers, and keelson; and it was all clean
and without defects. And, when she had been launched, how the workmen
swarmed in her; how her masts reared when set in place; how wide and
smooth and clean her deck was! What enormous yards and sails!

Anthony thought of all these things as he watched her, once more
headed south and east, with the Delaware capes on either side, and the
ocean under her foot. And madame stood by his side. Oh, no, no longer
mademoiselle. She was his wife now; and she stood by his side, tall,
beautiful, with fine brave eyes; and her hand was upon his arm; and
she, too, watched the ship.

"She sails like a hawk," said Anthony. "And Corkery is a master
that'll take advantage of it. With wind and weather, she'll dock in
Calcutta in ninety days."

And they watched her head away for the Far East, sail over sail, her
bow cutting the water and piling it white about her; and they were
still watching as she winged away into the depths beyond the ocean's
curve.

"God send her safe!" said madame softly. "And God send her back again."

And Anthony patted the hand that rested upon his arm; and there was the
deep friendship of one comrade for another in the look he gave her;
and there was in it, too, the love of a man for the dear woman he had
greatly desired.

"She will return," said Anthony. "She will return many, many times."

"Why are you so sure?" she said; and she smiled.

"When you are with me, my senses seem keyed to unusual things,"
he said. "I see joy and peace coming down the wind, and there's a
wonderful singing from far-off places."

And madame laughed and held tighter to his arm, and looked up at him,
and loved him.


                                THE END





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