It was easy work to get alongside and pass them a line.
The grimy, blistered men who cheered as the boat prepared to take them aboard had no belongings to hamper the transfer. Some of them were half naked and it was plain to read that they had left their vessel in the most desperate haste, after fighting fire to the last moment. First over the gunwale was a very stout derelict in dripping blue trousers, who puffed like a porpoise as he sputtered:
"Can't swim a stroke, but floated like a cork. How's that? Me the owner? Not on your life. I'm the wireless juggler that sent you the holler for help. No more life on the ocean wave for Willie. I've been eating smoke and spitting cinders since yesterday."
While this undismayed survivor babbled on as if his tongue were hung in the middle, David was trying to drag from the raft a ragged man who lay limp and face downward. The task was too heavy for his strength, and with great difficulty two pairs of arms heaved and lifted until they rolled their burden inboard. Without pausing to look him over, David lent a hand elsewhere until the Restless party, twenty strong, was stowed aboard and the life-raft cast adrift.
Most of them were able to sit up and talk. The man who seemed to be worst off was the first one who had been helped aboard by David. The late chief officer of the yacht made his way toward this huddled and senseless figure and called to Mr. Briggs:
"Here's the owner, all in a heap. Looks like his heart has gone back on him, for he wasn't in the water more than five minutes."
As he lay propped against a thwart the owner's back was toward David at his oar. The cadet had no idea that he had ever clapped eyes on him before, and he listened with eager interest to the answers which the other men gave to Mr. Briggs's questions.
"The rest of us are in two boats, somewhere to the eastward, sir," they explained. "No, there was nobody left on board. The way it was, the captain and them others was fightin' the fire aft, and they got cut off from us who was driven clear up into the bows of her before we got through. She was just a solid blaze amidships, understand, and there was no getting back to each other. The other crowd stood it as long as they could, and then when it was take to the water or be frizzled where they stood, they pitched the boats over and got away. The fog hadn't begun to lift then. They were going to lay by and wait for us, but the blazin' heat below set her engines goin' in a kind of dying flurry and she ran a while before she stopped for good. We couldn't get below to stop her, and we couldn't go overboard for fear of bein' chewed up by the screw, and so there we stuck up forward till we could get the raft over. The two boats lost us in the fog, and you know the rest of it."
"The owner's boy was with the captain's crowd aft. Mr. Cochran put him in the skipper's charge when things looked desperate," explained the mate of the Restless. "When Mr. Cochran got separated from the lad and couldn't get aft to him, and saw him drift out of sight in the fog, he just threw up his hands and went clean off his head."
"Mr. Cochran! The owner's boy!" gasped David Downes. He leaned over and raised the pallid face of the owner of the Restless. Yes, although sadly changed, it was the once pompous and lordly man of millions who had rescued, befriended, and then forsaken him in New York. And Arthur, the slim, delicate lad with the shy, confiding smile who had been so fond of the cadet—poor lad, he was adrift in an open boat beyond help from the Roanoke's boat. David forgot all the resentment he had cherished against the father, as he tried to heave him into a more comfortable position and anxiously searched his face for signs of life.
"He was a fine boy. Heart as big as a cork fender," said a Restless seaman. "God bring him safe to port, say I. Will we be after goin' in search of the boats, do you know?"
Mr. Briggs shook his head reluctantly. He must return to the Roanoke with all haste.
"We have done all we can," he answered slowly. "Our own ship needs us, and we are lucky to have done this much. It is awful tough on Mr. Cochran, I know, to leave his boy adrift, but we wouldn't have one chance in a million of finding them to-night."
These words seemed to awaken the dulled understanding of the father. He roused from his stupor and hoarsely quavered:
"Where is Arthur? Leave the boy adrift? What did I hear? What do you mean? There's some mistake. Look for him till you find him, I tell you. Oh, my boy, my boy, I never meant to forsake you."
David patted him on the shoulder and wiped the clammy face with the sleeve of his jersey. The great man was no more than a sodden lump of sorrowing humanity, crushed and useless, and David wished that he might somehow comfort him. Mr. Cochran had fallen back speechless and exhausted, and he did not come to himself again until the boat was well on her way toward the Roanoke. His wits were clearing, and with a trace of his old domineering manner he addressed Mr. Briggs:
"Keep up the search until you find him, my man. Ten thousand dollars for you and your men if you give me back my boy."
"We have been headed the other way for an hour," replied the third officer, with pity in his voice. "I am obeying my orders. That is all I can do."
"What? You have abandoned the yacht's boats?" Mr. Cochran almost screamed. "Turn about with you, instantly. Don't you understand? I'll make every man of you rich for life."
He tried to struggle to his feet, but muscular hands gripped his heaving shoulders and he fell back lamenting:
"The hardship will kill him. What shall I say to his mother? Oh, what shall I tell her?"
It was the first time that David had heard Arthur's mother mentioned. He felt a deeper pang at the thought of her. But, alas, Mr. Stanley P. Cochran had to learn in this cruel hour that his millions could not buy a way through all difficulties. He fell to abusing the chief engineer of the Restless, who crouched in front of him.
"You let the yacht run away from them," he stormed. "Why didn't you stop your engines, you worthless, cowardly scoundrel?"
The engineer raised a pair of hands which were raw with burns, and felt of his blistered face. With unexpected patience he responded:
"I was the last man to come on deck. I cooked the hide off me to leave things right below. Heaven only knows what started her up again. There was no getting down there again, you know that."
The owner once more fell to mourning.
"How can I show my face anywhere? I am saved and Arthur is lost. Why couldn't it have been the other way?"
"He was takin' the lad abroad for a vacation trip," explained a harsh voice in David's ear. "The sea voyage was for the lad's health, and the old man was coaxed into pryin' himself loose from his business for once. We're sorry it wasn't the swelled-up money-grubbin' swine that went adrift instead of his boy."
Other men of the Restless grunted approval of their comrade's verdict. But David had glimpsed a new side of Mr. Cochran's nature. He would indeed have sacrificed himself to save his son. The truth of it was in his trembling voice, in the very pose of his drooping shoulders. It was hard to believe that this was the father who had fairly dragged his son away from David in the room of the hospital in New York. As Mr. Cochran began to pull himself out of his collapse, he managed to twist around so that he was looking up into David's face, which was in the light thrown by a boat-lantern. For several minutes the father stared at the tanned young seaman, as if bewildered and groping in his memory. Then he burst out with a kind of surprised snarl:
"It's the boy that had no manners or decency, the young cub that made me sick of him. What are you doing here, alive and well, with my son lost and dying out yonder, lost at sea? How can such things be?"
"I helped pick you up at any rate," faltered David, taken all aback. "And I'd gladly stay out here a week to help you find Arthur."
"You safe and well!" repeated Mr. Cochran, "and my Arthur abandoned. It's all a nightmare. It must be that."
His anger veered against Mr. Briggs, and he bombarded him with threats, bribes, and pleadings, until the rockets from the Roanoke soared into the clear night and the yacht's people shouted at the welcome sight. Then Mr. Cochran clutched at a new hope. He declared that he would buy the ship if only he might persuade the captain to search for the lost boat until he found it.
The liner was almost ready to limp on her way when the boat rejoined her. Repairs had been made with better success than Captain Thrasher hoped for. His anxious scrutiny convinced him that, with fair weather, his shattered bow could withstand the sea, and he had determined to proceed very slowly on his course toward New York. He had been in wireless communication with two steamers, one of which stood by until dusk, when the liner sent word that she would not transfer her people. The captain had also told them to look out for the boats from the burning yacht. This news was carried to Mr. Cochran, who feebly tottered forward in breathless haste to find the commander. David saw the bedraggled magnate swaying against the door of the captain's room as he begged:
"But I'll reimburse the company. I don't care what it costs. What if it does cost you your position? I'll pay you double the salary to do nothing for the rest of your life. It's my only boy, Captain. Your ship won't run any risk."
The voice of Captain Thrasher rose in response:
"I have said my last word. Do you think I'll stake the lives of two thousand people against one or twenty? Go below and get some rest. I can't talk to you to-night."
When David went aft in the late evening with the fourth officer to set the log over the stern, the liner was vibrating to the steady thrust of her engines, and her broad wake foamed white in the starlit darkness. Against the rail beside them leaned a portly man, his face hidden in the shadows. He was gazing toward the southward over the ocean which rolled away in mystery, vast and obscure.
David answered, "Ay, ay, sir," in reply to an order, and the man at the rail turned at sound of the lad's voice. As the mate raised his lantern to read the log-dial, Mr. Cochran exclaimed:
"It's you again, is it? I am sorry I spoke to you as I did to-day. I am grateful for your part in saving me and my men, and I was out of my head, I guess."
This strangely softened mood was new to David, but his sympathetic heart was quick to meet it, and to let bygones be bygones.
"I wish I could help you, sir," he returned. "But I am just chockfull of hope that we will hear from Arthur. He may be picked up before we are landed. We'll have him back again. You can bet your life on that."
The father gazed again across the darkened sea. He was leaving his only son behind him, and all the pride of wealth and self and power had been stripped from him. All he could think of to say as he shook hands with David was:
"Arthur was very fond of you, and I am sorry that I came between you two."
The Black Star Line wharf in North River was crowded with cheering men, women, and children. Their fluttering handkerchiefs looked like a sudden flurry of snow. The roar of steam whistles from a hundred harbor craft rose above the din on the wharf. Past the Battery was creeping a sea-stained liner, her great steel prow so crushed and battered that the thousands who watched her wondered how she could have been kept afloat. The news of her coming had been sent by wireless, and a fleet of the company's tugs had hurried to sea to meet her.
The kinfolk and friends of those on board had been kept in a state of panicky alarm, day after day, by the flaring newspaper head-lines which sent the Roanoke to the bottom and raised her again, in hourly "extras."
The band on the promenade deck was lustily playing "home again, home again, from a foreign shore," as the tugs poked their noses against the black side of the ocean cripple and began to nudge her into her berth. David Downes was looking for friends on the wharf, but he scanned the masses of upturned faces in vain, until the bos'n prodded him in the ribs, and said:
"Cast your eye on the end of the pier, boy. I see a red spot. It vas Becket or else there is a fire just broke out. Nobody has as red-headed a head as that crazy feller."
Sure enough, there was Mr. Becket, waving his arms like a wild man; beside him was the tall figure of Captain Bracewell; and between them a slip of a girl was dancing up and down in her efforts to get a clear view of the ship. David's eyes filled as he swung his cap above his head. There were his "dearest folks," as he called them, and he was as rich in welcomes as any of the passengers who were making so much joyful noise along the decks below. Bless them, what news had they? Was Mr. Becket still stranded, and was there any hope of a ship for Captain John? The long voyage of disaster and adventure seemed like a dream. David Downes, able seaman, was come back to his own.
The gangways were lowered, and the passengers streamed ashore, telling their stories at the top of their voices, as they flew into the arms of their friends. David went below to find Mr. Cochran, who had found no joy in this homecoming and deliverance from the sea. He was hanging back to let the crowd pass ashore, and he looked very forlorn and lonely. Gentlemen high in the world of finance, and managers of his great interests had flocked aboard to greet him and to offer their aid and sympathy. But he had begged to be left alone, and, oddly enough, his heavy face lighted for the first time when David found him. They had seen little of each other since the Roanoke resumed her voyage. David had been doing a double trick of duty, and the millionaire was so racked in body and mind that he was seldom on deck. But in their few meetings Mr. Cochran had been almost pathetically friendly of manner, as if he were trying to make amends because of his boy's fondness for the sailor lad. Now when the parting hour came Mr. Cochran seemed genuinely affected. His wonted abruptness of speech had been assumed again, and he carried himself with an air of frowning dignity, but he took one of David's hard hands between both his own as he said:
"He talked a great deal about you, and you must come and see me and talk to me about him. You won't refuse this time, will you? His—his mother will be delighted to see you."
David made haste to reply:
"Of course I will and thank you, sir. And you will send me any news of Arthur as quick as you can, please promise me that."
Mr. Cochran nodded, and David hesitated, as if he had something else on his mind. He was thinking that it might do Mr. Cochran good to know his "dearest folks" in such a time as this, but he dared stay away no longer from the crowded gangway, so he said good-by to the man whose path had so strangely crossed his own again.
Soon there appeared on the landing stage the brilliant beacon of hair which topped the robust Mr. Becket as he skilfully piloted Margaret through the confusion. It was hard work for David to keep from rushing to meet them half-way, but he remembered the discipline expected of an able seaman. Mr. Becket was first to reach him, and he proceeded to thump David's chest and pound his back with the exhortation:
"All sound and fit for duty? The collision didn't stave you in anywheres?"
Margaret was able to greet her "big brother" only by shoving Mr. Becket out of the way with all her might.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, abusing David as if you weren't a bit glad to see him," she cried. "Oh, but we are glad to see you, and are you all right, and are you coming home to supper with us? I don't believe I've slept a wink this week, have I, grandfather?"
Captain John was meekly waiting for a chance to make his presence known. He clapped his hands on David's shoulders and his honest eyes glowed with pride and affection as he exclaimed:
"We feel quite set up that you belong to us, Davy. Here you go picking up more mariners in distress. We've heard all about it."
"We can talk it all over to-night," said David, shaking hands all round again. "I am on watch now and I mustn't neglect my duty even for you."
His boyish manner was so very serious that Mr. Becket went off into a series of explosive chuckles, from which he was diverted by the appearance of the bos'n who declared in the most threatening voice:
"The red-headed loafer again? I vill protect my whiskers mit my life. Get ashore mit you, you terrible Becket man, or I vill vash you down mit the fire-hose."
Mr. Becket was not in the least alarmed, and after a harmless exchange of blood-thirsty threats, he followed Captain John and Margaret down the gangway.
Later in the day the chief officer told David that as soon as her cargo was discharged, the Roanoke would go to Philadelphia for temporary repairs, which might take a month or more. The captain had left word that David could have a week's shore leave and then rejoin the ship at Philadelphia. The news sounded too good to be true, and as soon as he was relieved from duty, David fairly ran ashore with a canvas bag of clothes under his arm. He made all speed to the tiny flat in which Margaret was keeping house for Captain John. Mr. Becket had been invited for supper, and he was boiling with eagerness to ask David a question which had been disturbing him all day long.
"Did you say anything to Mr. Stanley P. Cochran about vessels? You know what I mean. I didn't say a word to Captain John, for I don't want to get him stirred up with false alarms."
They had met in the outer hall, and Mr. Becket softly closed the door behind him, for his stage-whispers carried far.
"Of course I didn't," responded David, "with his boy adrift and his heart broken clean in two. It was a silly notion of yours to begin with."
"Well, you needn't bite my head off," growled Mr. Becket, as they shouldered their way into the tiny living room. Margaret called blithely from the birdcage of a kitchen.
"Do keep Mr. Becket away from here, Davy. Every time he turns around or takes a long breath, he breaks a dish or upsets something. He ought to live out-doors."
Captain John was beaming a welcome as he hauled David by the collar to a seat on the sofa beside him, and declared:
"You'd be a mate next year if you had chosen sail instead of steam, you strapping big lump of a lad. You are the kind of Yankee sailor they used to breed in my early days at sea. How many years more do you serve in your old machine shop before you get your papers?"
"Three or four," cheerfully replied David. "And even then I won't be fit to be left in charge of the ship for a minute. A fourth officer is mighty small potatoes in my trade."
"I was master of a deep-water ship when I was twenty-one," said Captain John. "Ah, those days are gone. Tell us all about this boy that was lost with the yacht."
"He isn't lost," stoutly returned David. "With good weather they will be picked up. I'm sure of it."
"The sea is very cruel, Davy," murmured the skipper, and his face clouded with sad memories of his boy lost with Margaret's mother. The "little girl" peered anxiously from the kitchen door and tried to shift the topic to happier themes:
"Just think what Davy's been through all in one year, and he lives to tell it, so let's enjoy him while we can. We mustn't even mention the whiskers of Mr. Becket's skipper and his awful tale of woe."
"There's a master wanted in a Jamaica fruiter," observed Mr. Becket. "But my old skipper is trying to do me with the owners. However, they can't keep a good man down, and you will stand by your friends, blow high, blow low, won't you, Davy?"
Supper was on the table and Margaret waited on her hungry crew with pretty anxiety to play well her part in this festal reunion. She consented to sit down with them when it came to serving the apple pie which she herself had made. Mr. Becket demanded Captain John's old-fashioned quadrant with which to measure off the exact number of degrees of pie each was entitled to, and nearly upset the table before this mathematical problem was adjusted. In the midst of the excitement the door-bell buzzed. Mr. Becket sprang to the speaking-tube as if he were in a wheel-house and shouted:
"Below there. What's wanted?"
While he cocked his head to listen, his face began to express the most intense amazement, and his reply was absurdly meek, as he cried:
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir. The dickens it is. Two flights up, and don't break your precious neck on the dark landings, sir."
Turning to the puzzled listeners, Mr. Becket explained in a flurried tone:
"It is Mr. Stanley P. Cochran, no less, and none other. Now what do you think of that?"
Margaret whisked off her apron and began to clear away the dishes, pie and all, but Captain John stopped her with:
"Stay as you are, girlie. Nobody's ashamed of sitting down to a square meal. Mr. Cochran is just a poor, grieving daddy, that's all."
"Oh, maybe he has good news for Davy," cried Margaret. "You run out and meet him, David."
Mr. Cochran entered the door a moment later, with the air of an intruder. He hesitated in the doorway of the crowded little room and fumbled with his hat.
"Plenty of room at the table," said Captain John, rising and holding out his hand. "Becket, you hang yourself out on the fire-escape and make room for Mr. Cochran. Margaret, a plate and another cup of coffee."
"These are my best friends, Mr. Cochran," put in David, presenting them by name. "We have sort of adopted each other all round."
Mr. Cochran sank into a chair, while Margaret timidly asked him:
"Will you have a piece of my apple pie, sir? These sailor men seem to like it."
"It is simply grand," rumbled Mr. Becket from the window.
The visitor looked about him. Something in the homely cheer and affection of this atmosphere seemed to touch his emotions. His eyes were moist and his voice was not quite steady as he thanked Margaret and then said to David:
"You are lucky to have such friends, and they have made no mistake in you. I went down to the ship to find you and the bos'n sent me here. I—I was asked to come, and——"
He hesitated, bit his lip, and waited, as if trying to keep his voice under better control.
"Is there any news?" asked David.
"Not yet. But his mother wants you to come up and see her this evening. She asked me to find you. Of course I came. It seems that our boy took it more to heart than I had any idea of—when I disappointed him about your coming to visit him last year. He told his mother—but he didn't say very much to me. And he has had so few boy friends."
It was pitiful to hear this pleading, remorseful speech from such a man as Stanley P. Cochran had always been. Captain John's kindly face was twitching, while he murmured, as if talking to himself:
"I once had an only son."
"Of course I'll go with you," said David, as he rose from the table. "You will excuse me, won't you, folks?"
There was so much hearty sympathy in their response that Mr. Cochran smiled a little wistfully, as if he wished to stay longer in this simple, genuine circle of friends. They were not awed by his name, they did not cringe before his wealth, and they seemed to have found the secret of contentment, in what, to him, seemed like dire poverty. He could pour out his heart about his boy to people like these, and they would understand.
"I hate to take you away," he said at length. "But his mother will be waiting for us."
"Don't you stay here a minute longer, Davy," urged Margaret. "And be just as cheerful as you can. We are all praying for your son, Mr. Cochran, and we know that he will come back to you."
The millionaire wavered and picked up the cup of coffee with a sheepish air.
"I haven't eaten a bite to-day," said he. "But the smell of things here makes me hungry, I really believe."
"A bit of that chicken salad, and a chop, and a section of our peerless apple pie will make a new man of you," spoke up the half-hidden Mr. Becket, who was feeling more at ease. The guest seemed grateful for this sound advice, and appeared to relish his hasty meal. Before he finished he said, not at all as if he were doing a favor, but as one friend to another:
"Captain Bracewell, I wish you and your charming granddaughter and Mr. Becket and David Downes would do me the pleasure of dining at my house some night this week. Arthur's mother and I find it very lonesome, and it will help to keep her from brooding."
Captain John was too used to being a master among men to be at all agitated by this unexpected invitation, but Margaret fluttered between dining-room and kitchen in much excitement. Mr. Becket was stricken dumb and could only make signals of distress.
"I will answer for us all," returned Captain John. "If it will cheer up you and your wife to see us plain seafaring folks, we will accept, with hearty thanks."
Mr. Cochran expressed his gratitude, as if they were doing him a kindness, and departed, with David in his wake. As these two rolled up town in the millionaire's automobile, Mr. Cochran observed, after a long silence:
"I like those friends of yours. I wish I could have known them before. Arthur would enjoy them."
It was on the tip of David's tongue to tell him that these were the people whom he had preferred to see on that day a year ago when Mr. Cochran had flown into a rage and cast him off. But this was no time to recall old misunderstandings. All David could do was to wait in patience, and hope that Mr. Cochran might discover what a splendid man Captain John was, and take an interest in him on his own account.
The automobile halted in front of a huge stone mansion in upper Fifth Avenue. It looked more like a castle than a home. The immense tapestry-hung parlors, past which David was led, were silent and cheerless. Captain John's flat was far more cheery and livable than these gloomy apartments, thought David, as he followed his host up the echoing marble staircase to the second story.
Presently they came to a smaller room which looked as if people really lived in it. A slender woman in black rose from a divan to greet them. In her smile there was the timid, tremulous sweetness which had made her boy so attractive to David on first acquaintance. There could have been little in common between her and the hard, domineering father until a great grief bridged the gulf that had grown between them. Even now, she looked at Mr. Cochran with an appealing glance, as if waiting for him to speak. David wanted to pick her up in his strong young arms and comfort her.
"So this is the boy that Arthur said he wished he could be like," were her first words, as she looked up at David's brown face and well-set shoulders. "Why, you are not a boy. You are a man."
"I've grown a lot in the last year, and sea life agrees with me," laughed David, with a blush at her frank admiration.
"That is what the doctors told Mr. Cochran when he planned the trip abroad for Arthur, in the yacht," sighed the mother. "He did not ask me to go, because I am such a wretched sailor, I suppose. I expected to join them later in the south of France."
"It is a good deal better for a man's health when he has to work his way," explained David. "Sitting under a yacht's awning all day isn't a bit like having your regular watches to stand in all weathers. When Arthur comes home you will find him fit as a fiddle. Being adrift for a few days will do him good."
"How awful!" exclaimed Mrs. Cochran, nervously clasping her hands. "Why I have done almost nothing except carry out the doctors' orders for his health since he was a baby."
"That may be partly the trouble, mother," remarked Mr. Cochran. "I'd give half I own to see him looking like this big lad here. I met some of his friends to-night. They are coming up to see you soon. You can't help liking them. They are the kind we used to know down East, ages and ages ago, 'when we were so happy and so poor.'"
"If they are anything like David Downes, I know I shall be fond of them," smiled the mother.
Then she fell to telling David all about Arthur's boyhood, and her fond interest in every detail of her son's affairs found such a ready and warm-hearted listener that Mr. Cochran stole away, and left them sitting side by side on the divan. Little by little David's confidence in Arthur's safety began to reassure the tormented mother. The sailor talked to her of the sea with a knowledge born of his experience and of the bright hopefulness of youth. Quite naturally he drifted into telling her about the wreck of the Pilgrim, to show how there was chance of escape in the most desperate disaster. Her mother's heart was drawn to the picture of Margaret, as David painted it, in words of loving loyalty and admiration.
"You are like a fresh breeze blowing from a big, fine, wholesome world that we seem to have been shut off from," she cried, as she looked at him with affectionate eyes. "I do believe that Arthur will be brought home to us."
They heard a telephone bell ring in another room. The mother's face became white and tense, and she grasped David's hand and held it fast. There might be some tidings. After minutes that seemed like hours Mr. Cochran entered the room with dragging step and bowed shoulders. He spoke very slowly, as if reluctant to repeat the message which had come to him.
"It was a telegram, mother," said he. "One of the Restless boats was picked up at sea—empty. A Cunarder reported it by wireless."
Mrs. Cochran swayed against David, who pulled himself together, and his voice rang out with vibrant conviction:
"It doesn't mean what you think it does. Ten to one some vessel picked them up and cast the boat adrift. And the chances are still even that Arthur was in the other boat. Now is the time to sit tight and hold your nerve."
A weary week passed, without tidings of the castaways of the Restless. Arthur Cochran's mother lost heart, and refused to be comforted. She seemed to be letting go her hold on life, and her husband, as if seeking to atone for the years in which he had allowed his worldly interests to absorb his time and thought, was seldom away from her. His devotion was tender and whole-hearted. The visit of the Bracewell household had been postponed. Mrs. Cochran was too ill to leave her room, and even David had to be denied the pleasure of seeing her again, much as she longed to talk to him about her beloved son.
The week of shore leave ended and David said good-by to his "dearest folks" in the tiny flat and posted off to Philadelphia to report on board the Roanoke. He was glad, too, beyond measure, to learn that Captain Thrasher had been cleared of all blame for the collision, and would stay in his command.
"It was vat you call a tight squeak," explained David's faithful shipmate, the bos'n. "They tells me the Board asks the old man why don't he get out and push the iceberg to one side, or some such foolishness. But he proves he was usin' all proper care, and they can't give him the sack, eh? Mr. Cochran, the moneybags vat we picked up, he vas very mad mit our old man at first, but he cool down by and by and see vat a idiot he vas. And he gets some gratitude under his belt, and puts in a word for the old man, I t'ink. Stanley P. Cochran is very strong mit the company. He owns much stock."
So Mr. Cochran had gone out of his way to befriend the captain of the Roanoke, reflected David. It showed that the great man had a sense of fair play and square dealing if his eyes were once opened. If there was only some way to enlist this powerful interest in Captain John's behalf, without making it seem like asking charity. If Arthur should be saved from the sea, the way might be found. The master of the Pilgrim was growing old before his time, while he ate out his heart in vain hopes. He was proud and independent to a fault, and David knew he would starve sooner than crowd another man out of his berth. While in New York David had taken pains to learn that none of the sailing ships in Mr. Cochran's sugar-carrying trade were without masters, and for the present he could see no help in that quarter.
One week followed another, and David found no chance to go to New York again. One of his letters from Margaret told him:
"Mrs. Cochran sent for me to go and see her yesterday. Grandfather took me up and was going to sit on the front steps and wait, but the servants took him in tow and he was invited up-stairs with me. Mr. Cochran must have said some nice things about poor little me. She was very sweet and lovely, but so sad looking. And she wanted to know if I would show her how to make an apple pie. There are at least twenty servants in their crew, Davy, and imagine me making apple pies in that house. What makes such very rich people seem so dreadfully lonesome? She explained that Arthur's boy friends were all out of town, and that he didn't have many anyhow.
"They have sense enough to know that you are a wonderful Big Brother, which is why I like them. Grandfather told her all sorts of cheerful yarns about people who were not heard of at sea for weeks and weeks, and then came into port all safe and smiling. She seemed to have faith in that simple, quiet way of his, when he leans forward and looks you straight in the eyes as he talks. She asked him had he given up going to sea, and he told her yes. And I spoke right up as bold as anything:
"'It isn't because he wants to, but because sailing ships are so scarce. He never would have anything to do with steam.'
"She did not quite understand, but he shut me up before I could tell her that he was one of the finest ship-masters that ever cracked on sail in a gale of wind. Won't we see you again before we sail, Davy? I am sending a box of apple pies by express. I made them with my own fair hands, and one of them is specially for the bos'n, with his initials on the crust. Mr. Becket says I ought to have put on, 'FOR A DUTCH HUMBUG.'"
Davy duly delivered the pie and Mr. Becket's message, and was thanked for the one and cuffed over the head for the other.
The Roanoke was almost ready for sea a few days later, when a telegram came aboard for David. He opened the envelope with stumbling fingers, fearing something might have happened to his "dearest folks." The message was from Mr. Cochran, however, and said no more than:
"There may be good news for us. Cannot tell yet. Try to come at once."
David showed the message to the chief officer, who advised him to take it to Captain Thrasher. That august personage said at once:
"Jump right along with you. Give Mr. Cochran my best regards, and tell him to send you back as soon as he can."
On the train bound for New York David tried to fathom the meaning of the uncertain tidings. Either Arthur had been saved or he had not, but apparently the father was waiting for more information. When David jumped from the car in the Jersey City station, he was surprised to see Mr. Cochran waiting for him, with every sign of impatient haste.
"Come along, youngster," he called at the top of his voice. "I have a tug with steam up right here by the ferry dock."
He grasped David's arm and they charged pell-mell through the crowd. Mr. Cochran had no breath to spare until they had scrambled from the string-piece of the pier to the deck of a sea-going tug, whose escape valve was roaring in a cloud of steam. Orders were shouted, a bell clanged, another jingled, and the tug was racing down the North River toward the Bay.
"Mrs. Cochran was not strong enough to come," panted her husband as he mopped his face. "And we may be disappointed after all. I can't stand much more of a strain myself. But we shall know in three or four hours, I hope."
"What—why—how do you know?" stammered David, whose head felt dazed.
"Only that a tramp steamer arriving this morning reported being signalled by a sailing ship, the Sea Witch, that she had on board part of the crew of a yacht. It was blowing hard when the vessels sighted each other, and the captain of the tramp could not read the flags distinctly."
"But where was the Sea Witch when sighted, and whither bound?"
"Liverpool to New York—a hundred and fifty miles out, twenty-four hours ago. The wind has shifted to fair for her since midnight, and she will be in sight of Sandy Hook before dark."
"Of course Arthur is aboard," cried David, with buoyant faith.
The father said nothing. Perhaps he was thinking of the sufferings which had killed so many strong men adrift in open boats. And this boy of his was a weakling, used to the constant care and luxury which wealth had lavished on him. David tried to rouse him from his reflections by saying:
"The Sea Witch is the finest and smartest ship of her class afloat, sir. She is the largest four-masted sailing ship that flies the American flag. I'd give a lot to see her."
"I believe I control some kind of a fleet of barks and ships in my sugar business," replied Mr. Cochran, "but I haven't paid much attention to them. Don't believe I ever laid eyes on one of them. But I don't recall hearing of the Sea Witch."
"Almost four thousand tons, and sailing mostly to the Orient with case oil," added David. "I know a man that was in her."
The tug churned her way through the Narrows and lifted her bow to the swell of the Bay. Mr. Cochran had become lost in his own thoughts as he stared from a wheel-house window, while David swapped briny yarns with the mate.
"The Sea Witch was spoken three hundred miles out, a week ago," said the mate. "Then she was blown to sea, and now she's piling in again with the wind where she wants it."
The green sea opened ahead, and the tug plunged her guard rail under as her skipper crowded a good thirteen knots out of her. The Navesink Highlands became vague and misty over her stern, and still her course was held toward the east-south-east.
"The Sea Witch ought to be showing us her royals before long," said the skipper.
He had no more than spoken when the mate shouted: "There she is, right to the minute. A point off the port bow."
Swiftly the white patch crept above the horizon; sail by sail the gleaming canvas of the Sea Witch lifted fair and graceful, until her black hull was visible as a mere dot beneath the immense sweep of her snowy wings. Every stitch of cloth she could spread was pulling her homeward. David had been at sea for more than a year without glimpsing such a noble picture as this. When they had run close enough to make out the stars and stripes whipping from the mizzen of the Sea Witch like a tongue of flame, he drew a long breath and felt little chills run up and down his back. Now he began to understand what the sea and its ships meant to Captain John Bracewell, ship-master of the old school.
Mr. Cochran had no eyes for the rare beauty of the Sea Witch under full sail. He was leaning far out of his window, imploring the captain of the tug to make more speed. When the two vessels were a half mile apart, a string of signal bunting soared to the tug's mast-head, announcing: "Wish to speak to you, most important."
After a little interval, the Sea Witch signalled back:
"Can't stop. What is your business?"
"Oh, quit that foolishness," groaned Mr. Cochran, wringing his hands. "Run alongside and speak her as soon as you can."
The tug swept round in a foaming arc, and came up on the lee side of the four-master, which was surging home like a race-horse. A long line of heads bobbed above the bulwark in the waist of the Sea Witch, and presently a slim young figure danced up the poop ladder and climbed on top of the cabin.
"That looks like him," cried Mr. Cochran, "but he was never as frisky as that in all his life."
The excited David thumped the magnate between the shoulders, and yelled:
"Of course it's Arthur. I can make him out as plain as daylight."
The tug sheered closer and closer at top speed, but she was rapidly dropping astern of the flying ship. The agile figure on the cabin roof caught up a speaking-trumpet and piped shrilly:
"Daddy, ahoy! It's me! How's mother?"
The father scrambled on deck and bawled with arms outstretched:
"All well, you little rascal! Are all hands with you?"
"There they are in the waist. All the men in our boat. Count 'em for yourself. All present and accounted for, down to the cook's pet monkey. Anybody lost of your company? And has the other boat been picked up?"
"We were all saved, thank God. No, the second boat has not been heard from yet. Here's a youngster who can tell you all about our end of it."
Arthur failed to recognize at long range the Roanoke cadet whom he had last seen in bed with a bandaged head. David shouted a welcome, but it was lost in the stentorian roar of the captain of the Sea Witch:
"I'll lay my main-yard aback and put your lad aboard, Mr. Cochran. I wouldn't do it for anybody else but his daddy."
The tug dropped farther astern, and the towering square rigger began to slacken her rushing speed as her mighty yards were swung round. Then as she lay at rest, a rope ladder was dropped overside, and young Arthur Cochran swarmed down it as if he had been the pet monkey saved from the yacht. A boat from the tug was waiting, and Mr. Cochran, rising in the stern-sheets, fairly grabbed the boy in his arms and hugged him like a bear. Arthur struggled to get his breath and sputtered:
"Tell the Restless men you're glad to see them, father. They were mighty good to me."
"I am an unfeeling brute, but I couldn't think of anything else than getting my hands on you. Sea Witch, ahoy! A glad welcome home to the Restless captain and his men. Report at my office on landing, and you won't be sorry that you sailed with me! I feel sure that the rest of the crew have been saved and will be reported soon."
As soon as they were aboard the tug, Mr. Cochran began to take stock of his son and heir. Instead of the wasted invalid he had dreaded to find, this survivor was tanned, clear-eyed, and vigorous.
"What kind of a miracle has happened to you?" he asked. "Your mother won't know you."
"Plain grub and hard work, I guess," grinned Arthur. "We were adrift four days, and I got a razor edge on my appetite. Three weeks aboard the Sea Witch did the rest. The captain said I'd been coddled to death as soon as he found out who I was, and you bet he kept me busy. Why, I helped reef the fore-topgallant sail last night."
Mr. Cochran glanced up at the dizzy yards of the Sea Witch and shuddered. Then Arthur found time to stare hard at David, who was tactfully keeping in the background.
"Well, I'll be jiggered! It's you, is it?" shouted Arthur. "This is better luck than I counted on. So you two have made it up? Fine! Father was horrid mean to you. I suppose you picked him up at sea. Rescuing folks seems to be one of your steady habits."
"You have guessed right," laughed David. "There was more than one sunny side to the loss of the Restless. It's an ill wind that blows nobody good."
While the tug sped toward Sandy Hook, Mr. Cochran and his boy sat in the skipper's little room abaft the wheel-house and talked to their heart's content. David was wise enough to leave them alone, and with peace in his heart he gazed at the Sea Witch, which, scorning a tow-boat, was driving astern of them. The signal station at Sandy Hook was told to telegraph the good news ahead, and long before they landed newsboys were crying "Evening Extras," with the return of Stanley P. Cochran's son emblazoned in head-lines of blue and red.
David said good-by at the wharf, but Arthur stoutly refused to let him go.
"I haven't had a chance to see you more than a minute," exclaimed the jubilant castaway. "Hang your old ship! Let her wait. Father will wire the captain for you. Now is the glad time to work Mr. Stanley P. Cochran for most any old thing."
"You don't know Captain Stephen Thrasher," said his father. "I tried to buy him and his ship once. He has asked me to send David back to the Roanoke as soon as possible, and he meant exactly what he said. I have learned to let seafaring people have their own way. They are a terribly obstinate lot," and he winked comically at David.
No longer afraid of Mr. Cochran's wrath, David told him:
"I must catch the next train to Philadelphia. Give my love to Mrs. Cochran, please, and the Bracewells, if you happen to see them."
"Why, bless me," declared Mr. Cochran, "have you come to New York without a chance to see your folks? That's absurd. It was very selfish of me to kidnap you, I'm sure, but there was no one else I wanted to take out to meet the Sea Witch."
"Never mind. I can write them before I sail," and with this David set off for the ferry at a smart trot. When he reported aboard the Roanoke in the evening, Captain Thrasher was just going ashore.
"What news?" he halted to ask. "Young Cochran safe in port? Well, well, I am very thankful to hear it. What ship found them? The Sea Witch? Why I know her master well. Dried-up little man with a white goatee?"
This described the man who had shouted orders from the quarter-deck of the Sea Witch, and David meekly answered, "Yes, sir."
"Seventy, if he is a day, and tough as a pine knot," concluded Captain Thrasher. "He was master of a ship when I went to sea as a boy."
Before David turned in he wrote to Margaret, and wound up with:
"You never saw such a beautiful ship in your life as the Sea Witch. Be sure to take Captain John down to see her when she docks. If there were only really and truly fairies, or if I had a magic wand, I would wave it around Mr. Cochran's head and ask him to buy the Sea Witch and put Captain John in her, instead of the frosted old pippin that is master of her. She almost makes me wish I had not gone into steam. Oh, if you could have seen her under full sail—but what is the use of my raving about the Sea Witch? Good-night, and God bless you all."
The Roanoke was almost ready to proceed straight to Southampton for a thorough overhauling after the patch-work repairs made to enable her to cross the Atlantic in safety. There was no excitement about this kind of a departure, and on the morning of sailing her empty decks made David feel a little homesick. He was sent ashore with a bundle of the captain's farewell letters, and on his way back dodged a cab which was rattling down to the wharf in runaway fashion. A volley of "Whoas" and "Hullos" came from inside, and wheeling about, David saw the head of Arthur Cochran poked out of the window.
"Ahoy, there," he shouted, pushing open the door, and alighting fairly on top of David before the driver could pull up his sweating steed. "Father came over on business, and I coaxed him into letting me come along, on the chance of seeing you."
"Come aboard," said David, joyfully. "We're ready to cast off, but there will be a few minutes to spare, I guess. You don't look a shipwrecked sailor, not a little bit."
"I have met those pals of yours," confided Arthur as they hurried up the gangway. "And they are just bully, aren't they? They are the real thing. Mother dotes on the dear little sister, and she is a dear, and Captain Bracewell is a copper-fastened A1 old-time Yankee sailor, that you read about in books. Say, but he is a brick, a whole ton of 'em. And, oh, you will be tickled to death to hear that the other Restless boat was found by a steamer which carried the men to Liverpool."
"Good enough," cried David. "That is the bulliest kind of news."
Elated as he was to learn that all the yacht's crew had been accounted for, the praise of Margaret made David wince a trifle in spite of himself. Jealousy had never invaded his feelings toward the "little sister." He wanted Arthur to like his "dearest folks," but it was not easy to think of sharing their affection. Beating down this ungenerous emotion with a very manly spirit, David cordially agreed:
"They are the salt of the earth, Arthur, and I am mighty glad you like them. They worried themselves almost sick about you. What about Mr. Becket? Have you met him?"
"He looked me up yesterday, and was so full of mystery that I couldn't make head or tail of him. He got almost to the point of telling me something, and then he sheered off on another tack, rubbed his red head, sighed, looked out of the window, and muttered something about guessing he'd have to see you first."
"Was it anything about Captain Bracewell?"
"He never got that far. He seemed to be in the last stages of buck-fever or acute rattles. But he doesn't look like a timid man."
David was called forward, and while Arthur kicked his heels on a bench by the gangway, Captain Thrasher happened along, on his way to the bridge.
"My father, Mr. Cochran, sends you his warmest regards," said Arthur, "and wishes you a luckier voyage than the last."
"So you are the young nine-days' wonder, are you? You look as if sea life agreed with you."
"That's what everybody says, Captain, and I am trying to persuade mother to let me go for a long voyage. My, but I should like to go out in the Sea Witch to Japan."
"No finer sailing vessel afloat," said Captain Thrasher. "How is that old barnacle that commands her? Bad-tempered as ever?"
"He is pretty violent," smiled Arthur. "But he is done with the sea. This was his last voyage. He told me he was going home to Maine as quick as the Lord would let him, and raise potatoes and cabbages, 'gosh whang it.' He has been at sea fifty-seven years."
"Who will take her out?"
"The mate expects to get her, sir. But he is a pie-faced, wooden-headed Norwegian, with a thirst for rum. I didn't take to him at all."
"Too bad to see a Norwegian in command of the finest Yankee ship afloat," was Captain Thrasher's comment as he went on his way.
Fifteen minutes passed and David had not returned. It was like hunting a needle in a hay-stack to look for him, and Arthur fidgeted where he was until the deck officer warned him that it was time to go ashore. Then David came running aft, just as the Roanoke blew a long blast to let all hands know she was ready to cast off.
"I had to tally a lot of stores that just came aboard for the paint room," panted David. "It is a shame that I can't hear all about what happened to you at sea. But I'll be back in a few weeks."
Arthur shouted his farewells, as he ran to the wharf, while David said to himself, with sorrowful countenance:
"And I never got in a word for Captain John."
He would have been more regretful could he have overheard the news about the command of the Sea Witch as Arthur had told it to Captain Thrasher.
David had been gone a week, when Arthur Cochran announced to his father:
"There is no sense in waiting till David, the bold sailor boy, comes home from sea. I want to ask the Bracewells and Mr. Becket up to dinner. You postponed it once, before I turned up, and anyhow you owe them a dinner to square yourself for the apple pie you got away with."
Since their disaster at sea the domineering manner of Mr. Cochran toward his son had changed to a relation of good comradeship, in which Arthur no longer feared and trembled. His timid smile had become frank and boyish, and he carried himself in a way that made his father proud of him.
"By all means," heartily replied Mr. Cochran. "It won't hurt you to know folks who don't care a rap for your money, and who are not looking for a chance to pull your leg. They preach a healthy gospel by just living along in their own way."
Arthur's mother mildly suggested that the dinner await David's return, but she was routed by the argument:
"That will be an excuse for another dinner. The more, the merrier."
Thereupon she offered her services as a partner in his plans, and between them they devised all manner of novel decorations and surprises. The thing which pleased them most was a lake of real water that extended the length of the dining table, and upon which floated two toy vessels. One of them was the model of a full-rigged sailing ship, the other of an ocean steamer, with a black star between her funnels. They were christened the Sea Witch and the Roanoke. For the bridge of the liner Arthur found a most dashing miniature captain in blue, who was tagged, in honor of the absent friend, "Captain David Downes."
The guests arrived fairly calm, but somewhat awed by their surroundings. Captain John, in his Sunday black, loomed like a benevolent Viking. His massive, clean-shaven face had lost its sea tan, but he was as fine a specimen of the American ship-master as could have been found in his almost vanished generation. Margaret, dressed in white, with a rose in her fair hair, was winsomely girlish, enjoying every moment of this red-letter night. Mr. Becket's rolling gait put the costly bric-a-brac in some danger, and he would insist on making side remarks to the servants, but Margaret was a skilful pilot, and steered him in safety to the haven of the dining-room.
"I don't quite figure out how it all happened," said Captain Bracewell, from his chair at Mrs. Cochran's right hand, "but we are all glad to be here, ma'am. Most of us have been saved by the Lord's grace from the perils of the deep. But the boy who fetched us all together is absent from us, and I move we drink his health standing."
While the company toasted the young able seaman of the Roanoke, Arthur cried:
"And here's to all ships and sailors, their sisters, sweethearts, and wives."
He glanced at Margaret with so mischievous a twinkle in his dancing eyes that she felt her cheek grow hot, for no reason at all, of course. Mr. Becket made a diversion, however, by pensively observing:
"There was a black-eyed senorita in Valparaiso. But she hasn't written me in eleven years, and I couldn't read it if she did. But I hereby drink to her most hearty."
Captain Bracewell's bold and resolute manner, which became him so well, was returning in the enjoyment of this festal occasion. The weary year of disappointment and failure was forgotten for the time. He seemed to grow younger as the dinner wore on. Mr. Cochran, who knew men and how to draw them out, was shrewdly studying this fine figure of a mariner. There was more behind that square-hewn face than simple honesty and loyalty. The man of wealth and power had lost some of his former contempt for those who could not "make money." Perhaps more than he realized, he had learned new values of men from David Downes. But why should Captain Bracewell have quit his calling, reflected Mr. Cochran, while he was still fit for years of command? "He is not a day over sixty," the host was saying to himself, "and he looks as sturdy as an oak tree." Mr. Cochran did not know that there had been a kind of blind conspiracy to hide the truth from him. David had let slip his chance to confide in Arthur; Captain John would not have dreamed of presuming on Mr. Cochran's friendship; while Mr. Becket had lost his daring at a critical moment.
Their well-meaning secrecy, their fond hopes and wishes, were revealed without warning, and without any prompting of their own. They were talking about the two little ships which swam so proudly on the lake between them. Mock congratulations were showered upon the absurd figure of a doll, which stood so stiffly on the tiny liner's bridge. Margaret called out playfully:
"Why don't you toot your whistle and salute us, Captain Downes? Too haughty and stuck-up, I suppose, like all you steamer captains."
"S-s-s-sh. He is on duty," chided Arthur. "No talking on the bridge."
"He can have his old steamer," flung back Margaret. "I'll take the Sea Witch yonder, every time. Oh, isn't she just beautiful, even as a toy?"
The blood of a long line of sailor ancestors thrilled in Margaret's veins, as she clasped her hands and leaned forward to waft her breath against the white sails of the clipper ship. The Sea Witch dipped to this fair gale, gathered headway, and furrowed the pond with a wake of tiny ripples. Her bowsprit pointed straight at Captain Bracewell, and fanned by the breath of the guests as she passed them, the Sea Witch glided without swerving from her course to the mossy bank in front of the captain's plate.
"But she hasn't any skipper," cried Arthur. "That doll on her quarter-deck must be the mutton-headed Norwegian mate. Chuck him overboard, mother. He's no good."
With a gay laugh, Mrs. Cochran tossed the luckless manikin into the water, where he sank to the bottom without a struggle, and reposed against a rock with arms calmly folded across his chest. The heartless onlookers applauded this tragedy, all save Captain John, who was looking down at the ship. Perhaps he had a trace of the superstition which can be found in the hardest-headed seafarer. The Sea Witch, without a captain, had laid her course for him, and was waiting on the shore. This make-believe voyage might be a good omen.
Arthur had an inspiration, while the attention of the others was drawn to Captain John and the fairy ship. Springing to his feet, he flourished his napkin in the air, and shouted:
"What's the matter with Captain John Bracewell as master of the Sea Witch? Wouldn't as fine a ship as this persuade you to go to sea again?"
Margaret was thrown into confusion, and Mr. Becket was taken all aback, but Captain John smiled and threw back his shoulders, as he gently answered:
"I should like nothing better, but her owners don't see it that way."
"Who owns the Sea Witch?" spoke up Mr. Cochran.
"Burgess, Jones & Company. She is the last of their four-masted ships that were built for the Far Eastern trade," said Captain John.
"Why, it is plain as the nose on your face," declared the headlong Arthur, who was taking full command of the situation. "Don't let her be turned into a coal barge, father. That is what they talk of doing with her after one more voyage. She can be made to pay her way with your brains back of her. Buy her to-morrow. I'll get you all the facts and figures. And one long voyage in her is what I need to make me as husky as David Downes."
Matters were moving too fast for the guests. Mr. Becket's face was fairly purple with suppressed emotions, and he could only pound the table in a dazed kind of way and mutter:
"Exactly what I tried to tell him. Exactly it. But I got hung on a dead centre."
Captain Bracewell raised his hand to command silence. He was anxious to pull Mr. Cochran out of an awkward situation, and did his best to make light of the discussion by saying:
"It is just a boy's fancy, sir. Don't mind him. He means well. We will just call it a bit of fun, and forget it. Besides, I'm asking no favors from anybody."
Captain John had risen to his feet, and was bending toward his host. Mr. Cochran looked up with frank admiration at the imposing figure which faced him, and returned:
"Arthur goes off at half-cock a good deal. But there is a grain or two of sense in him. Suppose we talk this matter over to-morrow, Captain. I am a business man, and you are pretty solidly ballasted yourself. I don't want to fling a lot of money into the sea, nor do you wish any position that comes to you as a whim."
But Arthur was not ready to dismiss his great idea, until he noticed that his mother's face was full of suffering and her dear eyes were moist with tears. He went around to her and kissed her cheek, as he asked what the trouble might be.
"I hope you can make Captain Bracewell happy," she whispered. "But I can't let you go to sea again so soon. You must not leave me now, when I feel as if you had been given back to me from the grave. You won't go, will you, if you can feel strong and well at home with us?"
The boy responded with impulsive tenderness:
"Not if you feel that way about it, mother. And I am going to stay strong and fit, anyway. But you will help me to get the Sea Witch for the captain, won't you?"
The father was thinking as he watched them that it was worth a great deal to have his only son learn lessons of unselfishness; to see him more absorbed in the welfare of others than in his own interests. Mr. Becket said to Margaret, in what was meant for a whisper:
"The lad couldn't know our David very long without getting some of that help-the-other-fellow spirit. Our boy has always been studying what he could do for you and Captain John. He even has me on his mind these days."
Mr. Becket's whisper was heard the length of the table, and Arthur's father commented with a smile:
"I guess you are right, Mr. Becket, but why on earth didn't David let me know that the captain wanted a ship?"
"Because you blackguarded and scolded him out of his boots when he stuck to these friends of his, last year," bravely returned the aroused Mr. Becket. "And our boy don't crawl on his knees to no millionaires, potentates, or boojums. That's one reason."
With tactful desire to restore peace, Mrs. Cochran signalled to a servant, and a phonograph hidden in the palms began to play "Nancy Lee." The Sea Witch was not mentioned again until the guests were ready to take their leave, when Margaret slipped up to Mrs. Cochran and confided with fluttering voice: