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The Spread Eagle and Other Stories by Gouverneur Morris

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speaking. But finally to be addressed in courteous and pleasant tones
was not what Brett expected. For this he had his own good looks to
thank, as Mr. Merriman hated, with the exception of his own music,
everything that was ugly.

"Good-evening, sir," said Mr. Merriman. "But I can't for the life of me
think what you are doing on my yacht. I was expecting a man, but
not you."

"You couldn't guess," said Brett, "why I have been so impertinent as to
call upon you without an invitation."

"Then," said Mr. Merriman, "perhaps you had better tell me. I think I
have seen you before."

"My name is Brett," said Brett. "You may have seen me trying to play
tennis at Newport. I have often seen you there, looking on."

"You didn't come to accuse me of being a looker-on?" Mr. Merriman asked.

"No, sir," said Brett, "but I do wish that could have been the reason.
I've come, sir, as a matter of fact, because you are, on the contrary,
so very, very active in the game."

"I don't understand," said Merriman rather coldly,

"Oh," said Brett, "everybody I care for in the world is being ruined,
including myself, and I said, 'Mr. Merriman could save us all if he only
would.' So I came to ask you if you couldn't see your way to letting up
on us all."

"'Mr. Brett," said Mr. Merriman, "you may have heard, since gossip
occasionally concerns herself with me, that in my youth I was a priest."

Brett nodded.

"Well," continued Mr. Merriman, "I have never before listened to so
nave a confession as yours."

Brett blushed to his eyes.

"I knew when I came," he said, "that I shouldn't know how to go about
what I've come for."

"But I think I have a better opinion of you," smiled Mr. Merriman, and
his smile was very engaging. "You have been frank without being fresh,
you have been bashful without showing fear. You meet the eye in a manly
way, and you seem a clean and worthy young man. As opposed to these
things, what you might have thought out to say to me would
hardly matter."

"Oh," cried Brett impulsively, "if you would only let up!"

"I suppose, Mr. Brett," the banker smiled, even more engagingly, "that
you mean you would like me to come to the personal rescue of all those
persons who have recently shown bad judgment in the conduct of their
affairs. But let me tell you that I have precisely your own objections
to seeing people go to smash. But they _will_ do it. They don't even
come to me for advice."

"You wouldn't give it to them if they did," said Brett.

"No," said Mr. Merriman, "I couldn't. But I should like to, and a piece
of my mind to boot. Now, sir, you have suggested something for me to do.
Will you go further and tell me how I am to do it?"

"Why," said Brett, diffidently but unabashed, "you could start in early
to-morrow morning, couldn't you, and bull the market?"

"Mr. Brett," said Mr. Merriman forcefully, "I have for the last month
been straining my resources to hold the market. But it is too heavy,
sir, for one pair of shoulders."

A look of doubt must have crossed Brett's face, for the banker smote his
right fist into the palm of his left hand with considerable violence,
and rose to his feet, almost menacingly.

"Have the courtesy not to doubt my statements, young sir," he said
sharply. "I have made light of your intrusion; see that you do not make
light of the courtesy and consideration thus shown you."

"Of course, I believe you," said Brett, and he did.

"You are one of those," said Mr. Merriman, "who listen to what the run
of people say, and make capital of it."

"Of course, I can't help hearing what people say," said Brett.

"Or believing it!" Mr. Merriman laughed savagely, "What are they saying
of me these days?" he asked.

Brett hesitated.

"Come, come," said the great man, in a mocking voice. "You are here
without an invitation. Entertain me! Entertain me! Make good!"

Brett was nettled.

"Well," said he, "they say that Mr. Waters was tremendously extended for
a rise in stocks, and that you found it out, and that you hate him, and
that you went for him to give him a lesson, and that you pulled all the
props out of the market, and smashed it all to pieces, just for a
private spite. That's what they say!"

The banker was silent for quite a long time.

"If there wasn't something awful about that," he said at last, "it would
be very funny."

The officer who had ushered Brett into the saloon appeared at the door.

"Well?" said Merriman curtly.

"There's a gentleman," said the officer, "who wants to come aboard. He
says you are expecting him. But as you only mentioned one gentleman--"

"Yes, yes," said Merriman, "I'm expecting this other gentleman, too."

He turned to Brett.

"I am going to ask you to remain," he said, "to assist at a conference
on the present state of the market between yourself, and myself, and my
_arch-enemy_--Mr. Waters."


Even if Brett should live to be a distinguished financier himself--which
is not likely--he will never forget that midnight conference on board
the _Sappho_. He had supposed that famous men--unless they were dead
statesmen--thought only of themselves, and how they might best and most
easily increase their own power and wealth. He had believed with the
rest of the smaller Wall Street interests that the present difficulties
were the result of a private feud. Instead of this he now saw that the
supposed quarrellers had forgotten their differences, and were in the
closest kind of an alliance to save the situation. He discovered that
until prices had fallen fifty points neither of them had been in the
market to any significant extent; and that, to avert the appalling
calamities which seemed imminent, both were ready if necessary to
impoverish themselves or to take unusual risks of so doing. He learned
the real causes of the panic, so far as these were not hidden from
Merriman and Waters themselves, and when at last the two men decided
what should be attempted, to what strategic points they should send
re-enforcements, and just what assistance they should ask the Secretary
of the Treasury to furnish, Brett felt that he had seen history in
the making.

Waters left the _Sappho_ at one in the morning, and Brett was for going,
too, but Merriman laid a hand on the young man's shoulder and asked him
to remain for a few moments.

"Now, my son," he said, "you see how the panic has affected some of the
so-called big interests. It may be that Waters and I can't do very much.
But it will be good for you to remember that we tried; it will make you
perhaps see others in a more tolerant light. But for purposes of
conversation you will, of course, forget that you have been here. Now,
as to your own affairs--"

Mr. Merriman looked old and tired, but very indulgent and kind.

"Knowing what I know now," said Brett, "I would rather take my chances
with the other little fools who have made so much trouble for you and
Mr. Waters. If your schemes work out I'll be saved in spite of myself;
and if they don't--well, I hope I've learned not to be so great a
fool again."

"In every honest young man," said Merriman, "there is something of the
early Christian--he is very noble and very silly. Write your name and
telephone number on that sheet of paper. At least, you won't refuse
orders from me in the morning. Waters and I will have to use many
brokers to-morrow, of whom I hope you will consent to be one."

Brett hung his head in pleasure and shame. Then he looked Mr. Merriman
in the face with a bright smile.

"If you've got to help some private individual, Mr. Merriman, I'd rather
you didn't make it me; I'd rather you made it old man Callender. If he
goes under now he'll never get to the top again."

"Not Samuel B. Callender?" said Merriman, with a note of surprise and
very real interest in his voice. "Is he in trouble? I didn't know. Why,
that will never do--a fine old fighting character like that--and
besides ... why, wouldn't you have thought that he would have come to
me himself or that at least he would have confided in my son Jim?"

Brett winced.

Merriman wrote something upon a card and handed it to Brett.

"Can you see that he gets that?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Brett.

"Tell him, then, to present it at my office the first thing in the
morning. It will get him straight to me. I can't stand idle and see the
father of the girl my boy is going to marry ruined."

"I didn't know--" said Brett. He was very white, and his lips trembled
in spite of his best efforts to control them. "I congratulate you, sir.
She is very lovely," he added.

Mr. Merriman regarded the miserable young man quizzically.

"But," he said, "Mr. Callender has three daughters."

"Oh, no," said Brett dismally, "there is only the one."

"My boy," said Mr. Merriman, "I am afraid that you are an incorrigible
plunger--at stocks, at romance, and at conclusions. I don't know if I am
going to comfort you or give you pain, but the girl my son is going to
marry is _Mary_ Callender."

The color returned to Brett's cheek and the sparkle to his eyes. He
grasped Mr. Merriman by both hands, and in a confidential voice he said:

"Mr. Merriman, there is no such person."



By the look of her she might have been a queen, or a princess, or at the
very least a duchess. But she was no one of these. She was only a
commoner--a plain miss, though very far from plain. Which is
extraordinary when you consider that the blood of the Bruce flowed with
exceeding liveliness in her veins, together with the blood of many
another valiant Scot--Randolph, Douglas, Campbell--who bled with Bruce
or for him.

With the fact that she was not at the very least a duchess, _most_ of
her temporal troubles came to an abrupt end. When she tired of her
castle at Beem-Tay she could hop into her motor-car and fly down the
Great North Road to her castle at Brig O'Dread. This was a fifty-mile
run, and from any part of the road she could see land that belonged to
her--forest, farm, and moor. If the air at Beem-Tay was too formal, or
the keep at Brig O'Dread too gloomy, she could put up at any of her
half-dozen shooting lodges, built in wild, inaccessible, wild-fowly
places, and shake the dust of the world from her feet, and tread, just
under heaven, upon the heather.

But mixed up with all this fine estate was one other temporal trouble.
For, over and above the expenses of keeping the castles on a good
footing, and the shooting lodges clean and attractive, and the motor-car
full of petrol, and the horses full of oats, and the lawns empty of
weeds, and the glass houses full of fruit, she had no money whatsoever.
She could not sell any of her land because it was entailed--that is, it
really belonged to somebody who didn't exist; she couldn't sell her
diamonds, for the same reason; and she could not rent any of her
shootings, because her ancestors had not done so. I honestly believe
that a sixpence of real money looked big to her.

Her first name was the same as that of the Lady of the Lake--Ellen. Her
last name was McTavish--if she had been a man she would have been The
McTavish (and many people did call her that)--and her middle names were
like the sands of the sea in number, and sounded like bugles blowing a
charge--Campbell and Cameron, Dundee and Douglas. She had a family
tartan--heather brown, with Lincoln green tit-tat-toe crisscrosses--and
she had learned how to walk from a thousand years of strong-walking
ancestors. She had her eyes from the deepest part of a deep moorland
loch, her cheeks from the briar rose, some of the notes of her voice
from the upland plover, and some from the lark. And her laugh was like
an echo of the sounds that the River Tay makes when it goes among
the shallows.

One day she was sitting all by herself in the Seventh Drawing Room
(forty feet by twenty-four) of Brig O'Dread Castle, looking from a
fourteen-foot-deep window embrasure, upon the brig itself, the river
rushing under it, and the clean, flowery town upon both banks. From most
of her houses she could see nothing but her own possessions, but from
Brig O'Dread Castle, standing, as it did, in one corner of her estates,
she could see past her entrance gate, with its flowery, embattled lodge,
a little into the outside world. There were tourists whirling by in
automobiles along the Great North Road, or parties of Scotch gypsies,
with their dark faces and ear-rings, with their wagons and folded tents,
passing from one good poaching neighborhood to the next. Sometimes it
amused her to see tourists turned from her gates by the proud porter who
lived in the lodge; and on the present occasion, when an automobile
stopped in front of the gate and the chauffeur hopped out and rang the
bell, she was prepared to be mildly amused once more in the same way.

The proud porter emerged like a conquering hero from the lodge, the
pleated kilt of the McTavish tartan swinging against his great thighs,
his knees bare and glowing in the sun, and the jaunty Highland bonnet
low upon the side of his head. He approached the gate and began to
parley, but not with the chauffeur; a more important person (if
possible) had descended from the car--a person of unguessable age, owing
to automobile goggles, dressed in a London-made shooting suit of tweed,
and a cap to match. The parley ended, the stranger appeared to place
something in the proud porter's hand; and the latter swung upon his heel
and strode up the driveway to the castle. Meanwhile the stranger
remained without the gate.

Presently word came to The McTavish, in the Seventh Drawing Room, that
an American gentleman named McTavish, who had come all the way from
America for the purpose, desired to read the inscriptions upon the
McTavish tombstones in the chapel of Brig O'Dread Castle. The porter,
who brought this word himself, being a privileged character, looked very
wistful when he had delivered it--as much as to say that the frightful
itching of his palm had not been as yet wholly assuaged. The
McTavish smiled.

"Bring the gentleman to the Great Tower door, McDougall," she said,
"and--I will show him about, myself."

The proud porter's face fell. His snow-white _mustachios_ took on a
fuller droop.

"McDougall," said The McTavish--and this time she laughed aloud--"if
the gentleman from America crosses my hand with silver, it shall
be yours."

"More like"--and McDougall became gloomier still--"more like he will
cross it with gold." (Only he said this in a kind of dialect that was
delightful to hear, difficult to understand, and would be insulting to
the reader to reproduce in print.)

"If it's gold," said The McTavish sharply, "I'll not part wi' it,
McDougall, and you may lay to that."

You might have thought that McDougall had been brought up in the Black
Hole of Calcutta--so sad he looked, and so hurt, so softly he left the
room, so loudly he closed the door.

The McTavish burst into laughter, and promised herself, not without some
compunction, to hand over the gold to McDougall, if any should
materialize. Next she flew to her dressing-room and made herself look as
much like a gentlewoman's housekeeper as she could in the few minutes at
her disposal. Then she danced through a long, dark passageway, and
whisked down a narrow winding stair, and stood at last in the door of
the Great Tower in the sunlight. And when she heard the stranger's feet
upon the gravel she composed her face; and when he appeared round the
corner of a clipped yew she rattled the keys at her belt and bustled on
her feet, as becomes a housekeeper, and bobbed a courtesy.

The stranger McTavish was no more than thirty. He had brown eyes, and
wore upon his face a steady, enigmatic smile.


"Good-morning," said the American McTavish. "It is very kind of Miss
McTavish to let me go into her chapel. Are you the housekeeper?"

"I am," said The McTavish. "Mrs. Nevis is my name."

"What a pity!" murmured the gentleman.

"This way, sir," said The McTavish.

She stepped into the open, and, jangling her keys occasionally, led him
along an almost interminable path of green turf bordered by larkspur and
flowering sage, which ended at last at a somewhat battered lead statue
of Atlas, crowning a pudding-shaped mound of turf.

"When the Red Currie sacked Brig O'Dread Castle," said The McTavish, "he
dug a pit here and flung the dead into it. There will be McTavishes
among them."

"There are no inscriptions," said the gentleman.

"Those are in the chapel," said The McTavish. "This way." And she swung
into another turf walk, long, wide, springy, and bordered by birches.

"Tell me," said the American, "is it true that Miss McTavish is down on

She looked at him over her shoulder. He still wore his enigmatic smile.

"I don't know what got into her," she said, "to let you in." She halted
in her tracks and, looking cautiously this way and that, like a
conspirator in a play: "She's a hard woman to deal with," she said,
"between you and me."

"I've heard something of the kind," said the American. "Indeed, I asked
the porter. I said, 'What manner of woman is Miss McTavish?' and he
said, in a kind of whisper, 'The McTavish, sir, is a roaring, ranting,
stingy, bony female.'"

"He said that, did he?" asked the pseudo Mrs. Nevis, tightening her lips
and jangling her keys.

"But I didn't believe him," said the American; "I wouldn't believe what
he said of any cousin of mine."

"Is The McTavish your cousin?"

"Why, yes," said he; "but just which one I don't know. That's what I
have come to find out. I have an idea--I and my lawyers have--that if
The McTavish died without a direct heir, I should be The McTavish; that
is, that this nice castle, and Red Curries Mound, and all and all, would
be mine. I could come every August for the shooting. It would be
very nice."

"It wouldn't be very nice for The McTavish to die before you," said
Mrs. Nevis. "She's only twenty-two."

"Great heavens!" said the American. "Between you, you made me think she
was a horrid old woman!"

"Horrid," said Mrs. Nevis, "very. But not old."

She led the way abruptly to a turf circle which ended the birch walk and
from which sprang, in turn, a walk of larch, a walk of Lebanon cedars,
and one of mountain ash. At the end of the cedar walk, far off, could be
seen the squat gray tower of the chapel, heavy with ivy. McTavish caught
up with Mrs. Nevis and walked at her side. Their feet made no sound upon
the pleasant, springy turf. Only the bunch of keys sounded occasionally.

"How," said McTavish, not without insinuation, "could one get to know
one's cousin?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Nevis, "if you are troubled with spare cash and stay in
the neighborhood long enough, she'll manage that. She has little enough
to spend, poor woman. Why, sir, when she told me to show you the chapel,
she said, 'Catherine,' she said, 'there's one Carnegie come out of the
States--see if yon McTavish is not another.'"

"She said that?"

"She did so."

"And how did you propose to go to work to find out, Mrs. Nevis?"

"Oh," said she, "I've hinted broadly at the news that's required at
headquarters. I can do no more."

McTavish reflected, "Tell her," he said presently, "when you see her,
that I'm not Carnegie, nor near it. But tell her that, as we Americans
say, 'I've enough for two.'"

"Oh," said Mrs. Nevis, "that would mean too much or too little to a

"Call it, then," said McTavish, "several million pounds."

"Several," Mrs. Nevis reflected.

"Say--three," said McTavish.

Mrs. Nevis sighed. "And where did you gather it all?" she asked.

"Oh, from my father," said McTavish. "And it was given to him by the

"Why?" she asked.

"Not why," said he, "so much as how. You see, our government is
passionately fond of certain people and makes them very rich. But it's
perfectly fair, because at the same time it makes other people, of whom
it is not fond, desperately poor. We call it protection," he said. "For
instance, my government lets a man buy a Shetland wool sweater in
Scotland for two dollars, and lets him sell it on Broadway for twenty
dollars. The process makes that man rich in time, but it's perfectly
fair, because it makes the man who has to buy the sweater poor."

"But the fool doesn't have to buy it," said Mrs. Nevis.

"Oh yes, he does," said McTavish; "in America--if he likes the look of
it and the feel of it--he has to buy. It's the climate, I suppose."

"Did your father make his money in Shetland sweaters?" she asked.

"Nothing so nice," said McTavish; "rails."

A covey of birds rose in the woods at their right with a loud whir of

"Whew!" exclaimed McTavish.

"Baby pheasants," explained Mrs. Nevis. "They shoot three thousand at
Brig O'Dread in the season."

After certain difficulties, during which their hands touched, the
greatest key in Mrs. Nevis's bunch was made to open the chapel door, and
they went in.

The place had no roof; the flagged floor had disappeared, and it had
been replaced by velvety turf, level between the graves and headstones.
Supporting columns reared themselves here and there, supporting nothing.
A sturdy thorn tree grew against the left-hand wall; but the sun shone
brightly into the ruin, and sparrows twittered pleasantly among the
in-growths of ivy.

"Will you wish to read all the inscriptions?" asked Mrs. Nevis,
doubtfully, for there were hundreds of tombstones crowding the turf or
pegged to the walls.

"No, no," said McTavish "I see what I came to see--already."

For the first time the enigmatic smile left his face, and she watched
him with a kind of excited interest as he crossed the narrow houses of
the dead and halted before a small tablet of white marble. She followed
him, more slowly, and stood presently at his side as he read aloud:

JUNE 15TH, 1801."

Immediately below the inscription a bar of music was engraved in the
marble. "I can't read that," said McTavish.

Mrs. Nevis hummed a pathetic air very sweetly, almost under her breath.
He listened until she had finished and then: "What tune is that?" he
asked, excitedly.

"'Wandering Willie,'" she answered.

"Of course," said he, "it would be that."

"Was this the stone you came to see?" she asked presently.

"Yes," he said. "Colland McTavish, who disappeared, was my
great-grandfather. The old gentleman--I never saw him myself--used to
say that he remembered a long, long driveway, and a great iron gate, and
riding for ever and ever in a wagon with a tent over it, and sleeping at
night on the bare hills or in forests beside streams. And that was all
he remembered, except being on a ship on the sea for years and years.
But he had this--"

McTavish extracted from a pocket into which it had been buttoned for
safety what appeared, at first sight, to be a linen handkerchief yellow
with age. But, on unfolding, it proved to be a child's shirt, cracked
and broken in places, and lacking all but one of its bone buttons.
Embroidered on the tiny shirt tail, in faint and faded blue, was the
name Colland McTavish.

"He always thought," said McTavish, "that the gypsies stole him. It
looks as if they had, doesn't it? And, just think, he used to live in
this beautiful place, and play in it, and belong to it! Wasn't it
curious, my seeing that tablet the first thing when we came in? It
looked as big as a house and seemed to beckon me."

"It looks more like the ghost of a little child," said Mrs. Nevis
quietly. "Perhaps that is why it drew you so."

"Why," said he, "has this chapel been allowed to fall to pieces?"

"Because," said Mrs. Nevis, "there's never been the money to mend it."

"I wonder," he mused, "if The McTavish would let me do it? After all,
I'm not an utter stranger; I'm a distant cousin--after all."

"Not so distant, sir," said Mrs. Nevis, "as may appear, if what you say
is true. Colland McTavish, your great-grandfather, and The McTavish's
great-grandfather, were brothers--and the poor bereft mother that put up
this tablet was your great-great-grandmother, and hers."

"Surely then," said he, "The McTavish would let me put a roof on the
chapel. I'd _like_ to," he said, and the red came strongly into his
cheeks. "I'll ask her. Surely she wouldn't refuse to see me on such
a matter."

"You can never tell," Mrs. Nevis said. "She's a woman that won't bear

He looked at her for the first time in some minutes. "Why," said he,
"you're ill; you're white as a sheet!"

"It's the long walk uphill. It takes me in the heart, somehow."

"I'm sorry," said McTavish simply. "I'm mighty sorry. It's all my

"Why, so it is," said she, with the flicker of a smile.

"You must take my arm going back. I _am_ sorry."

When they had left the chapel and locked the door, she took his arm
without any further invitation.

"I will, if you don't mind," she said. "I am shaken, and that's the
truth.... But what," and again the smile flickered--"what would The
McTavish say if she saw us--her cousin and her housekeeper--dawdling
along arm in arm?"

McTavish laughed. "I don't mind, if you don't."

They returned slowly by the long turf walk to the statue of Atlas.

"Now," said he, "how should I go about getting an interview with The

"Well," said Mrs. Nevis, "it will not be for to-day. She is leaving
within the hour for Beem-Tay in her motor-car."

"Oh, then I shall follow her to Beem-Tay."

"If you can do that," said Mrs. Nevis, "I will give you a line to my
sister. Maybe she could help you. She's the housekeeper at
Beem-Tay--Miss MacNish is her name." And she added as if by an
after-thought. "We are twins."

"Are there two of you?" exclaimed McTavish.

"Why not?" she asked, with a guileless face.

"Why," said he, "it's wonderful. Does she look like you?"

"Exactly," said Mrs. Nevis. "Same red hair, same eyes, nose, and faint
spells--only," and there was a certain arch quality in her clear voice,
"_she's_ single."

"And she looks exactly like you--and she's single! I don't believe it."

Mrs. Nevis withdrew her hand from his arm. When they had reached the
door of the Great Tower she stopped.

"If you care for a line to my sister," she said, "I'll write it. You can
wait here."

"I wish it of all things, and if there are any stairs to climb, mind you
take your time. Remember you're not very good at hills."

When she had gone, he smiled his enigmatic smile and began to walk
slowly up and down in front of the door, his hands clasped behind his
back. Once he made a remark. "Scotland," he said, "is the place for me."

But when at length she returned with the letter, he did not offer her
money; instead he offered his hand. "You've been very kind," he said,
"and when I meet your mistress I will tell her how very courteous you
have been. Thank you."

He placed the letter in the breast-pocket of his shooting-coat. "Any
messages for your sister?" he asked.

"You may tell her I hope she is putting by something for a rainy day.
You may tell her The McTavish is verra hard up the noo"--she smiled
very charmingly in his face--"and will na' brook an extravagant table."

"Do you think," said McTavish, "that your sister will get me a chance to
see _The_ McTavish?"

"If any one can, she can."

"Good-by," he said, and once more they shook hands.

A few minutes later she heard the distant purring of his car, and a
thought struck her with dismay. "What if he goes straight to Beem-Tay
and presents the letter before I get there!"

She flowered into swift action, flashed up the turret stairs, and,
having violently rung a bell, flew into her dressing-room, and began to
drag various automobiling coats, hats, and goggles out of their hiding
places. When the bell was answered: "The car," she cried, "at once!"

A few moments later, veiled, goggled, and coated, she was dashing from
the castle to the stables. Halfway she met the car. "McDonald," she
cried, "can you make Beem-Tay in the hour?"

"It's fifty miles," said the driver, doubtfully.

"Can you make it?"

"The road--" he began.

"I know the road," she said impatiently; "it's all twisty-wisty. Can you
make it?"

"I'm a married man," said he.

"Ten pounds sterling if you make it."

"And if we smash and are kilt?"

"Why, there'll be a more generous master than I in Beem-Tay and in Brig
O'Dread--that's all."

She leaped into the car, and a minute later they were flying along the
narrow, tortuous North Road like a nightmare. Once she leaned over the
driver's seat and spoke in his ear: "I hav'na the ten pounds noo," she
said, "but I'll beg them, McDonald, or borrow them--" The car began to
slow down, the driver's face grew gloomy. "Or steal them!" she cried.
McDonald's face brightened, for The McTavish's money difficulties were
no better known than the fact that she was a woman of her word. He
opened the throttle and the car once more shot dizzily forward.

Twenty miles out of Brig O'Dread they came upon another car, bound in
the same direction and also running desperately fast. They passed it in
a roaring smother of dust.

"McDonald," said The McTavish, "you needna run sae fast noo. Keep the
lead o' yon car to Beem-Tay gate--that is all."

She sank back luxuriously, sighed, and began to wonder how she should
find McDonald his ten pounds sterling.


She need not have hurried, nor thrown to the wind those ten pounds that
she had somehow to raise. On arriving at Beem-Tay she had given orders
that any note addressed to Miss MacNish, and presented at the gate,
should be brought at once to her. McTavish did not come that day, but
she learned indirectly that he had taken rooms at the McTavish Arms in
Beem-Tay village, and from Mr. Traquair, manager of the local branch of
the Bank of Scotland, that he was taking steps to hire for the season
the forest of Clackmanness, a splendid sporting estate that marched with
her own lands. Mr. Traquair, a gentleman as thin as a pipe stem, and as
kind as tobacco, had called upon her the second day, in answer to an
impetuous summons. He found her looking very anxious and very beautiful,
and told her so.

"May the looks stand me in good stead, Mr. Traquair," said she, "for I'm
like to become Wandering Willie of the song--Wandering Wilhelmina,
rather. There's a man yont, named McTavish, will oost me frae hoose
and name."

"That would be the young gentleman stopping at the McTavish Arms."

"Ah," said The McTavish, "he might stop here if he but knew."

"He's no intending it, then," said Mr. Traquair, "for he called upon me
this morning to hire the Duke's forest of Clackmanness."

"Ah!" said The McTavish.

"And now," said Mr. Traquair, stroking his white mustache, "tell me what
it all means."

"It means that Colland McTavish, who was my great-grandfather's elder
brother, has returned in the person of the young gentleman at the Arms."

"A fine hornpipe he'll have to prove it," said Mr. Traquair.

"Fine fiddlesticks!" said The McTavish. "Man," she continued earnestly,
"you have looked in his face and you tell me it will be a dance to prove
him The McTavish?"

"He is a McTavish," admitted Mr. Traquair; "so much I knew before he
told me his name."

"He has in his pocket the bit shirt that wee Colland wore when the
gypsies snitched him and carried him over seas; it's all of a piece with
many another garment of wee Colland's. I've had out the trunk in which
his little duds have been stored these many years. The man is Colland's
great-grandson. I look at him, and I admit it without proof."

"My dear," said Mr. Traquair, "you have no comprehension of the law. I
will fight this claim through every court of the land, or I'm ready to
meet him on Bannockburn field, my ancestral claymore against his. A
rare laugh we'll have when the pretender produces his bit shirtie in the
court, and says, 'Look, your honor, upon my patent o' nobilitee.'"

"Mind this," said The McTavish, "I'll make no contests, nor have none
made. Only," she smiled faintly, "I hay'na told him who he rightly is.
He claims cousinship. But it has not dawned on him that Colland was to
have been The McTavish, that he _is_ The McTavish, that I am merely Miss
Ellen Alice Douglas Cameron Dundee Campbell McGregor Breadalbane Blair
McTavish, houseless, homeless spinster, wi' but a drap o' gude blood to
her heritage. I have not told him, Mr. Traquair. He does not know.
What's to be done? What would you do--_if you knew_ that he was he, and
that you were only you?"

"It's your meeserable conscience of a Church-going Scot," commiserated
Traquair, not without indignation. "What would a Campbell have done?
He'd have had himself made a judge in the land, and he'd have condemned
the pretender to the gallows--out of hand, my dear--out of hand!"

She shook her head at him as at a naughty child. "Where is your own
meeserable conscience, Traquair?"

"My dear," cried the little man, "it is storming my reason."

"There," said she, "I told you so. And now we are both of one mind, you
shall present these tidings to McTavish together with my compliments."

"First," said Traquair cautiously, "I'll bide a bit on the thought."

"I will leave the time to your meeserable conscience," said Miss
McTavish generously. "Meanwhile, my dear man, while the semblance of
prosperity abides over my head in the shape of a roof, there's a matter
o' ten pound--"

Mr. Traquair rose briskly to his feet. "Ten pound!" he exclaimed.

"Only ten pound," she wheedled.

"My dear," he said, "I don't see where you're to raise another matter o'
saxpence this month."

"But I've promised the ten pound on my honor," she said. "Would you have
me break my word to a servant?"

"Well--well," temporized Mr. Traquair, "I'll have another look at the
books. Mind, I'm not saying it can be done--unless you'll sell a bit
timber here and yont--"

"Dear man," she said, "full well ye know it's not mine to sell. Then
you're to let me have the ten pound?"

"If I were to employ a wheedler," said Mr. Traquair, "I'd have no choice
'twixt you and Satan. Mind, I make no promises. Ten pound is a
prodeegious sum o' money, when ye hay'na got it."

"Not later than to-morrow, then," said Miss McTavish, as though to cap a
promise that had been made to her. "I'm obliged to you, Traquair,
deeply obliged."


But it was not the matter of the ten pounds that worried Traquair as he
climbed into his pony cart and drove slowly through the castle policies
to the gate. Indeed, the lofty gates had not been closed behind him
before he had forgotten all about them. That The McTavish was not The
McTavish alone occupied his attention. And when he perceived the cause
of the trouble, strolling beside the lofty ring fence of stone that
shielded the castle policies from impertinent curiosity, it was in
anything but his usual cheerful voice that he hailed him.

"Will you take a lift, Mr. McTavish?" he invited dismally.

"Oh, no," said The McTavish, "I won't trouble you, thanks."

Traquair's meeserable conscience got the better of him all at once. And
with that his cheerfulness returned.

"Get in," he said. "You cannot help troubling me, Mr. McTavish. I've a
word for you, sir."

McTavish, wondering, climbed into the car.

"Fergus," said Traquair to the small boy who acted as groom, messenger,
and shoe polisher to the local branch of the Bank of Scotland,
"ye'll walk."

When the two were thus isolated from prying ears, Mr. Traquair cleared
his throat and spoke. "Is there anything, Mr. McTavish," he said, "in
this world that a rich man like you may want?"

"Oh, yes," said McTavish, "some things."

"More wealth?"

McTavish shook his head.

"Houses--lands?" Traquair looked up shrewdly from the corner of his eye,
but McTavish shook his head again.

"Power, then, Mr. McTavish?"

"No--not power."


"No," said McTavish; "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid not."

"Then, sir," said Traquair, "it's a woman."

"No," said McTavish, and he blushed handsomely. "It's _the_ woman."

"I withdraw my insinuation," said Traquair gravely.

"I thank you," said Mr. McTavish.

"I am glad, sir," said Traquair presently, "to find you in so generous
a disposition, for we have need of your generosity. I have it from Miss
McTavish herself," he went on gravely, "that your ancestor, so far as
you know, was Colland McTavish."

"So far as I know and believe," said McTavish, "he was."

"Did you know that Colland McTavish should have been _The_ McTavish?"
asked Mr. Traquair.

"It never entered my head. Was he the oldest son?"

"He was," said Mr. Traquair solemnly, "until in the eyes of the _law_ he
ceased to exist."

"Then," said McTavish, "in every eye save that of the law I am _The_

Mr. Traquair bowed. "Miss McTavish," he said, "was for telling you at
once; but she left the matter entirely to my discretion. I have thought
best to tell you."

"Would the law," asked McTavish, "oust Miss McTavish and stand me in her

"The law," said Traquair pointedly, "would not do the former, and," with
a glance at McTavish's feet, "the Auld Nick could not do the latter."

McTavish laughed. "Then why have you told me?" he asked.

"Because," said Traquair grandly, "it is Miss McTavish's resolution to
make no opposition to your claim."

"I see; I am to become 'The' without a fight."

"Precisely," said Traquair.

"Well, discretionary powers as to informing me of this were given you,
as I understand, Mr. Traquair?"

"They were," said Traquair.

"Well," said McTavish again, "there's no use crying over spilt milk. But
is your conscience up to a heavy load?"

"'Tis a meeserable vehicle at best," protested Traquair.

"You must pretend," said McTavish, "that you have not yet told me."

"Ah!" Traquair exclaimed. "You wish to think it over."

"I do," said McTavish.

Both were silent for some moments. Then Traquair said rather solemnly:
"You are young, Mr. McTavish, but I have hopes that your thinking will
be of a wise and courageous nature."

"Do you read Tennyson?" asked McTavish, apropos of nothing.

"No," said Traquair, slightly nettled. "Burns."

"I am sorry," said McTavish simply; "then you don't know the lines:

'If you are not the heiress born,
And I,' said he, 'the lawful heir,' etc.

do you?"

"No," said Traquair, "I do not."

"It is curious how often a lack of literary affinity comes between two
persons and a heart-to-heart talk."

"Let me know," said Traquair, "when you have thought it over."

"I will. And now if you will put me down--?"

He leaped to the ground, lifted his hat to the older man, and, turning,
strode very swiftly, as if to make up for lost time, back toward the
castle gate.


McTavish was kept waiting a long time while a servant took his letter of
introduction to Miss MacNish, and brought back an answer from
the castle.

Finally, midway of a winding and shrubby short cut, into which he turned
as directed by the porter, he came suddenly upon her.

"Miss MacNish--?" he said.

"You're not Mr. McTavish!--" She seemed dumfounded, and glanced at a
letter which she carried open in her hand. "My sister writes--"

"What does she write?" asked McTavish eagerly.

"No--no!" Miss MacNish exclaimed hastily, "the letter was to me." She
tore it hastily into little pieces.

"Miss MacNish," said McTavish, somewhat hurt, "it is evident that I give
diametrically opposed impressions to you and your sister. Either she
has said something nice about me, and you, seeing me, are astonished
that she should; or she has said something horrid about me--I do hope
it's that way--and you are even more surprised. It must be one thing or
the other. And before we shake hands I think it only proper for you to
tell me which."

"Let bygones be bygones," said Miss MacNish, and she held out her hand.
McTavish took it, and smiled his enigmatic smile.

"It is your special wish, I have gathered," said Miss MacNish, "to meet
The McTavish. Now she knows about your being in the neighborhood, knows
that you are a distant cousin, but she hasn't expressed any wish to meet
you--at least I haven't heard her. If she wishes to meet you, she will
ask you to call upon her. If she doesn't wish to, she won't. Of course,
if you came upon her suddenly--somewhere in the grounds, for
instance--she'd have to listen to what you had to say, and to answer
you, I suppose. But to-day--well I'd not try it to-day."

"Why not?" asked McTavish.

"Why," said Miss MacNish, "she caught cold in the car yesterday, and her
poor nose is much too red for company."

"Why do you all try to make her out such a bad lot?"

"Is it being a bad lot to have a red nose?" exclaimed Miss MacNish.

"At twenty-two?" McTavish looked at her in surprise and horror. "I ask
_you_," he said. "There was the porter at Brig O'Dread, and your
sister--they gave her a pair of black eyes between them, and here you
give her a red nose. When the truth is probably the reverse."

"I don't know the reverse of red," said Miss MacNish, "but that would
give her white eyes."

"I am sure, Miss MacNish, that quibbling is not one of your
prerogatives. It belongs exclusively to the Speaker of the House of
Representatives. As for me--the less I see of The McTavish, the surer I
am that she is rather beautiful, and very amusing, and good."

"Are these the matters on which you are so eager to meet her?" asked
Miss MacNish. She stood with her back to a clump of dark blue larkspur
taller than herself--a lovely picture, in her severe black housekeeper's
dress that by contrast made her face and dark red hair all the more
vivacious and flowery. Her eyes at the moment were just the color of
the larkspur.

McTavish smiled his enigmatic smile. "They are," he said.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Miss MacNish.

"When I meet her--" McTavish began, and abruptly paused.

"What?" Miss MacNish asked with some eagerness.

"Oh, nothing; _I'm_ so full of it that I almost betrayed my own

"I hope that you aren't implying that I might prove indiscreet."

"Oh, dear no!" said McTavish.

"It had a look of it, then," said Miss MacNish tartly.

"Oh," said McTavish, "if I've hurt your feelings--why, I'll go on with
what I began, and take the consequences, shall I?"

"I think," said Miss MacNish primly, "that it would tend to restore
confidence between us."

"When I meet her, then," said McTavish, "I shall first tell her that she
is beautiful, and amusing, and good. And then," it came from him in a
kind of eager, boyish outburst, "I shall ask her to marry me."

Miss MacNish gasped and stepped backward into the fine and deep soil
that gave the larkspur its inches. The color left her cheeks and
returned upon the instant tenfold. And it was many moments before she
could find a word to speak. Then she said in an injured and astonished
tone: "_Why?_"

"The Scotch Scot," said McTavish, "is shrewd, but cautious. The American
Scot is shrewd, but daring. Caution, you'll admit, is a pitiful measure
in an affair of the heart."

Miss MacNish was by this time somewhat recovered from her
consternation. "Well," said she, "what then? When you have come upon The
McTavish unawares somewhere in the shrubbery, and asked her to marry
you, and she has boxed your ears for you--what then?"

"Then," said McTavish with a kind of anticipatory expression of
pleasure, "I shall kiss her. Even if she hated it," he said ruefully,
"she couldn't help but be surprised and flattered."

Miss MacNish took a step forward with a sudden hilarious brightening in
her eyes. "Are you quizzing me," she said, "or are you outlining your
honest and mad intentions? And if the latter, won't you tell me why?
Why, in heaven's name, should you ask The McTavish to marry you--at
first sight?"

"I can't explain it," said McTavish. "But even if I never have seen
her--I love her."

"I have heard of love at first sight--" began Miss MacNish.

But he interrupted eagerly. "You haven't ever experienced it, have you?"

"Of course, I haven't," she exclaimed indignantly. "I've heard of
it--_often_. But I have never heard of love without any sight at all."

"Love is blind," said McTavish.

"Now, who's quibbling?"

"Just because," he said, "you've never heard of a thing, away off here
in your wild Highlands, is a mighty poor proof that it doesn't exist. I
suppose you don't believe in predestination. I've always known," he said
grandly, "that I should marry my cousin--even against her will and
better judgment. You don't more than half believe me, do you?"

"Well, not more than half," Miss MacNish smiled.

"It's the truth," he said; "I will bet you ten pounds it's the truth."

Miss MacNish looked at him indignantly, and in the midst of the look she
sighed. "I don't bet," said she.

McTavish lowered his glance until it rested upon his own highly polished
brown boots.

"Why are you looking at your boots?" asked Miss MacNish.

"Because," he said simply, "considering that I am in love with my
cousin, I don't think I ought to look at you any more. I'm afraid I got
the habit by looking at your sister; but then, as she has a husband, it
couldn't matter so much."

Miss MacNish, I'm afraid, mantled with pleasure. "My sister said
something in her letter about your wishing to see the house of your
ancestors. Miss McTavish is out now--would you like to look about
a little?"

"Dearly," said McTavish.


Miss McTavish sent for Mr. Traquair. He went to her with a heavy
conscience, for as yet he had done nothing toward raising the ten
pounds. At her first words his conscience became still more laden.

"Traquair," she said, "you mustn't tell him yet."

It was all Traquair could do to keep countenance. "Then it's fortunate I
haven't," said he, "for you gave me a free hand."

"Consider it tied behind your back for the present, for a wonderful
thing is going to happen."

"Indeed," said Traquair.

"You wouldn't believe me when I tell you that the silly man is going to
fall in love with me, and ask me to marry him!"

"Although you haven't offered me a chair, my dear," said Traquair, "I
will take one."

All in a burst then, half laughing, half in a grave kind of excitement,
she told her old friend how she had played housekeeper first at Brig
O'Dread and later at Beem-Tay. And how, on the latter occasion, McTavish
had displayed his admiration so openly that there could be but the
one climax.

"And after all," she concluded, "if he thinks I'm just a housekeeper,
and falls in love with me and asks me to marry him--I'd know the man
was sincere--wouldn't I, Traquair?"

"It seems to me," said Traquair, "that I have never seen you so
thoroughly delighted with yourself."

"That is unkind. It is a wonderful thing when a girl of position, and
hedged in as I have been, finds that she is loved for herself alone and
not for her houses and lands, and her almost royal debts."

"Verra flattering," said Traquair, "na doot. And what answer will you

"Traquair," she said, "I'm not a profane girl; but I'm hanged if I

"He is a very wealthy man, and I have no doubt a very kind and honest

"He is a very cheeky man," smiled Miss McTavish.

"No doubt--no doubt," said Traquair; "and it would leave you to the
honest enjoyment of your houses and lands, which otherwise you propose
to hand over to him. Still, it is well for a Scot to be cautious."

"For a Scotch Scot," said Miss McTavish. "I should be an American Scot
if I married him. He tells me they are noted for their daring."

While they were thus animatedly conversing, word came that Mr. McTavish
had called in the hope of seeing Miss MacNish.

"There," said Miss McTavish, "you see! Go down to him, Traquair, and be
pleasant, until I come. Then vanish."

Traquair found McTavish smoking a thick London cigarette upon the steps
of the side entrance, and gazing happily into a little garden of dark
yew and vivid scarlet geraniums with daring edgings of brightest
blue lobelia.

"Will you be making any changes," asked Traquair, "when you come into
your own?"

McTavish looked up with a smile and handed his open cigarette case to
the older man.

"Mr. Traquair," he said, "I'm young and a stranger. I wish you could
find it in your heart to be an uncle to me."

Traquair accepted a cigarette and sat down, first assuring himself that
the stone steps were dry.

"If I were your nephew," said McTavish, "and came to you all out of
breath, and told you that I wished to marry Miss McTavish's housekeeper,
what would you say?"

"I would say," said Traquair, "that she was the daughter of a grand
family that had fallen from their high estate. I would say, 'Charge,
nephew, charge!'"

"Do you mean it!" exclaimed McTavish.

"There's no more lovely lass in the United Kingdom," said Traquair,
"than Miss--Miss--"

"MacNish," McTavish helped him; "and she would be mistress where she
had been servant. That's a curious twist of fate."

"You have made up your mind, then," said Traquair, "to claim your own?"

"By no means--yet," said McTavish. "I was only speculating. It's all in
the air. Suppose uncle, that Miss MacNish throws me down!"

"Throws you down!" Traquair was shocked.

"Well," said McTavish humbly, "you told me to charge."

"To charge," said Traquair testily, "but not to grapple."

"In my country," said McTavish, "when a girl refuses to marry a man they
call it throwing him down, giving him the sack, or handing him a lemon."

"Yours is an exceptional country," said Traquair.

Miss MacNish appeared in the doorway behind them. "I'm sorry to have
been so long," she said; "I had to give out the linen for luncheon."

McTavish flung away his cigarette, and sprang to his feet as if some one
had stuck a pin into him. Traquair, according to the schedule, vanished.

"It seemed very, very long," said McTavish.

"Miss McTavish," said Miss MacNish, "has consented to see you."

"Good Heavens!--when?"


"But I don't want to see her _now_."

"But you told me"--Miss MacNish looked thoroughly puzzled--"you told me
just what you were going to say to her. You said it was all

"Miss MacNish, it was not Miss McTavish I was thinking of--I'm sure it
wasn't. It was you."

"Are you proposing to me?" she asked.

"Of course, I am. Come into the garden--I can't talk on these steps,
right on top of a gravel walk with a distant vista of three gardeners
and a cartful of sand."

"I must say," said Miss MacNish, "that this is the suddenest thing that
ever happened to me."

"But you said you believed in love at first sight," McTavish explained.
"You knew yesterday what had happened to me--don't say you didn't,
because I saw you smiling to yourself. You might come into the garden
and let me say my say."

She didn't budge.

"Very well then. I will make a scene--right here--a terrible scene." He
caught her two hands in his, and drew her toward him so that the keys at
her belt jangled and clashed.

"This is preposterous!" she exclaimed.

"Not so preposterous as you think. But what's your first name?"

"I think I haven't any at the moment."

"Don't be ridiculous. There--there--"

She tore her hands from him and struck at him wildly. But he ducked
like a trained boxer.

"With everybody looking!" she cried, crimson with mortification.

"I had a cable," he said, "calling me back to America. That is why I
have to hurry over the preliminaries."

"The preliminaries," she cried, almost in tears. "Do you know who I am
that you treat me like a barmaid?"

"Ladies," said McTavish, "who masquerade as housekeepers ought to know
what to expect."

Her face was a blank of astonishment. "Traquair told," she said
indignantly. "Wait till I--"

"No," said McTavish; "the porter at Brig O'Dread told. He said that you
yourself would show me the chapel. He said not to be surprised if you
pretended to be some one else. He said you had done that kind of thing
before. He seemed nettled about something."

In spite of herself Miss McTavish laughed. "I told him," she said, "that
if you crossed my hand with silver, I would give it to him; but if you
crossed my hand with gold, I would keep it for myself. That made him
furious, and he slammed the door when he left. So you knew all along?"

"Yes--Mrs. Nevis MacNish McTavish, I did; and when you had the faint
spell in the chapel, I almost proposed then. I tell you, your voice and
your face, and the way you walked--oh, they did for this young man on
the spot! Do you know how much hunger and longing and loving can be
crowded into a few days? I do. You think I am in a hurry? It seems to me
as if there'd been millions of years of slow waiting."

"I have certainly played the fool," said Miss McTavish, "and I suppose I
have let myself in for this." Her voice was gentler. "Do you know, too,
why I turned white in the chapel?"

"Yes," he said, "I know that."

"Traquair told you."


"And if you hadn't liked me this way, would you have turned me out of
house and home?"

He drew her hand through his arm, and they crossed the gravel path into
the garden. "What do _you_ think?" he asked.

"I think--no," said she.

"Thank you," said he. "Do you read Tennyson?"

"No," said she, "Burns."

McTavish sighed helplessly. Then a light of mischief came into his eye.
"As _Burns_ says," said he:

"'If you are not the heiress born,
And I,' said he, 'the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare,'"

"I love every word Burns wrote," she said enthusiastically, and
McTavish, though successful, was ashamed.

"McTavish," she said, "the other day, when I felt that I had to get here
before you, I promised my driver ten pounds if he beat your car,"

"Yes," said McTavish, "I guessed what was up, and told my man to go
slower. It wasn't the psychological moment for either of us to break our
necks, was it?"

"No; but I promised the man ten pound, McTavish--and I hay'na got it."

"Ten pounds ought to have a certain purchasing power," said he.

"Then shut your eyes," she commanded.

"And after all," she said, "you'll be _The_ McTavish, won't you?"

"I will not," he said. "Do you think I'm going to take you back to
America with me Saturday, and have all my friends in New York point
their fingers at me, and call me--_The_?"


He had been so buffeted by fortune, through various climates and various
applications of his many-sidedness, that when I first met Leslie it was
difficult to believe him a fellow countryman. His speech had been welded
by the influence of alien languages to a choice cosmopolitanism. His
skin, thick and brown from blazing sunshines, puckered monkey-like about
his blue, blinking eyes. He never hurried. He was going to Hong-Kong to
build part of a dry-dock for the English Government, he said, but his
ambitions had dwindled to owning a farm somewhere in New York State and
having a regular menagerie of birds and animals.

His most enthusiastic moments of conversation were in arguing and
anecdotalizing the virtues and ratiocinations of animals and birds. The
monkey, he said, was next to man the most clever, but was inferior to
the elephant in that he had no sense of right or wrong. Furthermore,
monkeys were immodest. Next came certain breeds of dogs. Very low in the
scale he placed horses; very high, parrots.

"Concerning parrots," he said, "people are under erroneous impressions,
but copying and imitation are not unreasonable processes. Your parrot,
under his bright cynical feathers, is a modest fowl that grasps at every
opportunity of education from the best source--man. In a native state
his intelligence remains closed: the desire to be like a woodpecker or a
humming-bird does not pick at the cover. Just as a boy born in an
Indiana village and observing the houses of his neighbors might not wish
to become an architect, but if he were transported to Paris or Vienna,
to a confrontation of what is excellent in proportion, it might be that
art would stir in his spirit and, after years of imitation, would come
forth in a stately and exquisite procession of buildings. So in his
native woods the parrot recognizes nothing but color that is worthy of
his imitation. But in the habitations of man, surrounded by taste, which
is the most precious of all gifts, his ambition begins to grow, his
ignorance becomes a shame. He places his foot on the first rung of the
educational ladder. His bright colors fade, perhaps; the eyes of his
mind are turned toward brighter and more ornamental things. What
creature but a parrot devotes such long hours to the acquirement of
perfection in each trivial stage of progress? What creature remembers so
faithfully and so well? We know not what we are, you and I and the rest
of us; but if we had had the application, patience, and ambition of the
average parrot, we should be greater men. But some people say that
parrots are mean, self-centred, and malignant. They have, I admit, a
crust of cynicism which might lead to that impression, and not unjustly,
but underneath the parrot's crotchets there beats a great and benevolent
heart. Let me give you an instance:

"In '88 my luck was down, and as a first step to raising it I shipped
before the mast in an English bottom outward bound from Hong-Kong to
Java. Jaffray was the cook, a big negro who owned a savage gray
parrot--a mighty clever bird but to all intents and purposes of a most
unscrupulous and cruel nature. Many a time her cleverness at provoking a
laugh was all that saved her from sudden death. She bit whom she could;
she stole what she could. She treated us like dogs. Only Jaffray could
handle her without a weapon. Him she loved and made love to with a
sheepish and resolute abandon. From him she endured the rapid
alternations of whippings and caressings with the most stoical fortitude
and self-restraint. When he whipped her she would close her eyes and
say: 'I could bite him, but I won't. Polly's a bad girl. Hit her again,'
When the whipping was over she would say: 'Polly's sore. Poor Polly! How
I pity that poor girl!' Love-making usually succeeded a whipping in
short order, and then she was at her best. She would turn her head to
one side, cast the most laughably provoking glances, hold one claw
before her face, perhaps, like a skeleton fan, and say: 'Don't come
fooling round me. Go away, you bad man,'

"I tried my best to be friends with her. But only to prove that the
knack that I am supposed to have with birds and beasts has its
limitations. With one long day following another and opportunity
constantly at hand, I failed utterly in obtaining her friendship.
Indeed, she was so lacking in breeding as to make public mockings of my
efforts. There was no man before the mast but stood higher in her graces
than I. My only success was in keeping my temper. But it was fated that
we should be friends and comrades, drawn together by the bonds of a
common suffering.

"I will tell you the story of the wreck another time. In some ways it
was peculiar. I will only tell you now that I swam for a long time
(there was an opaque fog) and bumped my head against one of the ship's
boats. I seized the gunwale and said, 'Steady her, please, while I climb
in,' but had no answer. The boat, apparently, had torn loose from her
davits and gone voyaging alone. But as I made to climb in I was fiercely
attacked in the face by the wings, beak, and claws of Jaffray's
graceless parrot. In the first surprise and discomfiture I let go and
sank. Coming up, choking with brine and fury, I overcame resistance with
a backhanded blow, and tumbled over the gunwale into the boat. And
presently I was aware that violence had succeeded where patience had
failed. Polly sat in the stern sheets timidly cooing and offering to
shake hands. At another time I should have burst laughing at her--she
was so coy, so anxious to please. But I had just arrived from seeing my
captain's head broken to pieces by a falling spar, and a good friend of
mine stabbed by another good friend of mine, and I was nearer to tears.

"It was cold for that part of the world, and rain fell heavily from time
to time. Polly complained bitterly all night and said that she would
take her death o' cold, but in the morning (I had fallen asleep) she
waked me in her pleasantest and most satisfied voice, saying, 'Tumble up
for breakfast.' I pulled myself out of the rain-water into which I had
slipped, and sat up. The sky and sea were clear from one horizon to the
other and the sun was beginning to scorch.

"'Bully and warm, ain't it?' said Polly.

"'Right you are, old girl,' said I.

"She perched on my shoulder and began to oil and arrange her draggled

"'What a hell of a wreck that was!' she said suddenly, and, after a
pause: 'Where's my nigger?'

"'He's forsaken you, old girl,' said I, 'for Mother Carey's chickens.'

"'Poor Polly,' said she; 'how I pity that poor girl!'

"Now I don't advance for a moment the theory that she understood all
that she said, nor even a part of what I said. But her statements and
answers were often wonderfully apt. Have you ever known one of those
tremendously clever deaf people whom you may talk with for a long time
before discovering that they are deaf? Talking with poor Jaffray's
parrot was like that. It was only occasionally--not often, mind--that
her phrases argued an utter lack of reasoning power. She had been
educated to what I suppose to be a point very close to the limit of a
parrot's powers. At a fair count she had memorized a hundred and fifty
sentences, a dozen songs, and twenty or thirty tunes to whistle. Many
savages have not larger vocabularies; many highborn ladies have a less
gentle and cultivated enunciation. Let me tell you that had I been alone
in that boat, a young man, as I then was, who saw his ambitions and
energies doomed to a watery and abrupt finish, with a brief interval of
starvation to face, I might easily have gone mad. But I was saved from
that because I had somebody to talk to. And to receive confidence and
complaint the parrot was better fitted than a human being, better fitted
than a woman, for she placed no bar of reticence, and I could despair as
I pleased and on my own terms.

"My clothes dried during the first day, and at night she would creep
under my coat to sleep. At first I was afraid that during
unconsciousness I should roll on her. But she was too wary for that. If
I showed a tendency to sprawl or turn over, she would wake and pierce my
ears with a sharp 'Take your time! Take your time!'

"At sunrise every day she would wake me with a hearty 'Tumble up for

"Unfortunately there was never any breakfast to be had, but the
rain-water in the bottom of the boat, warm as it was and tasting of
rotting wood, saved us from more frightful trial.

"Here is a curious fact: After the second night I realized and counted
every hour in all its misery of hunger and duration, yet I cannot, to
save my soul, remember how many days and nights passed between the wreck
and that singular argument for a parrot's power of reasoning that was to
be advanced to me. It suffices to know that many days and nights went by
before we began to die of hunger.

"In what remained of the rain-water (with the slow oscillations of the
boat it swashed about and left deposits of slime on her boards) I caught
from time to time glimpses of my face as affected by starvation. And it
may interest you to know that it was not the leanness of my face that
appalled me but the wickedness of it. All the sins I had ever sinned,
all the lies I had told, all the meannesses I had done, the drunks I
had been on, the lusts I had sated, came back to me from the
bilge-water. And I knew that if I died then and there I should go
straight to hell if there was one. I made divers trials at repentance
but was not able to concentrate my mind upon them. I could see but one
hope of salvation--to die as I had not lived--like a gentleman. It was
not a voluminous duty, owing to the limits set upon conduct by the
situation, but it was obvious. Whatever pangs I should experience in the
stages of dissolution, I must spare Polly.

"In view of what occurred it is sufficiently obvious that I read my duty
wrongly. For, when I was encouraging myself to spare the bird I should
rather have been planning to save her. She, too, must have been
suffering frightfully from the long-continued lack of her customary
diet, but it seems that while enduring it she was scheming to save me.

"She had been sitting disconsolately on the gunwale when the means
struck suddenly into her tortuously working mind and acted upon her
demeanor like a sight of sunflower seeds, of which she was prodigiously
fond. If I follow her reasoning correctly it was this. The man who has
been so nice to me needs food. He can't find it for himself; therefore I
must find it for him. Thus far she reasoned. And then, unfortunately,
trusting too much to a generous instinct, and disregarding the most
obvious and simple calculation, she omitted the act of turning around,
and instead of laying the egg that was to save me in the boat, she laid
it in the ocean. It sank."

* * * * *

Long voyages make for dulness. I had listened to the above narrative
with so much interest as to lose for a moment my sense of what was
patent. In the same absurd way that one man says to another whom he
knows perfectly well, "What--is this you?" I said to Leslie very
eagerly, "Were you saved?" And he answered, "No; we were both drowned."



Last winter was socially the most disgusting that I remember ever having
known, because everybody lost money, except Sally's father and mine. We
didn't, of course, mind how much money our friends lost--they always had
plenty left; but we hated to have them talk about it, and complain all
the time, and say that it was the President's fault, or poor John
Rockefeller's, or Senator So-and-so's, or the life insurance people's.
When a man loses money it is, as a matter of fact, almost always his own
fault. I said so at the beginning of last winter, and I say so still.
And Sally, who is too lazy to think up original remarks, copied it from
me and made no bones about saying it to all the people she knew who she
thought needed that kind of comfort. But perhaps, now that I think of
it, Sally and I may have contributed to making the winter socially
disgusting. Be that as it may, we were the greatest sufferers.

We moved to Idle Island in September. And we were so delighted with what
the architects, and landscape-gardeners, and mosquito doctors had done
to make it habitable; with the house itself, and the grape-house, and
greenhouses, and gardens, and pergolas, and marble columns from Athens,
and terraces, and in-and-out door tennis-courts, and swimming-pools, and
boat-houses, and golf links, and all the other country-place
necessities, and particularly with a line of the most comfortable
lounging-chairs and divans in the world, that we decided to spend the
winter there. Sally telephoned to my father's secretary and asked him to
spend the winter with us, and make out lists for week-end parties, and
to be generally civil and useful. The secretary said that he would be
delighted to come if he could persuade my father and mother to go abroad
for the winter; and later he called Sally up, and said that he had
persuaded them.

Well, from the first our week-end parties were failures. On the first
Friday in October the President of the United States said that he hated
cheats and liars (only he mentioned names) and the stock-market went to
smash. Saturday it was still in a messy state, and the people who came
out Saturday afternoon couldn't or wouldn't talk about anything else.
They came by the 4:30 to Stepping-Stone, and were ferried over to the
island in the motor boat. Sally and I rode down to the pier in the
jinrikishas that my father's secretary had had imported for us for a
wedding present; and, I give you my word, the motor-boat as it slowed
into the pier looked like an excursion steamer out to view the beauties
of the Hudson. Everybody on board was hidden behind a newspaper.

"Fong," said Sally to her jinrikisha man, "take me back to the house."

He turned and trotted off with her, and they disappeared under the elms.

"Just because your guests aren't interested in you," I called after her,
"is no reason why you shouldn't be interested in them."

But she didn't answer, and I was afraid I'd hurt her feelings; so I said
to my man, or horse, or horse-man--it's hard to know what to call them:

"Long Lee, you go back to the house, clip-step."

Clip-step soon overtook Sally, and I asked her what she was mad about.

"I'm mad," she said, "because none of those people have ever seen this
beautiful island before, and they wouldn't look up from their dirty old
newspapers. What's the matter with them?"

"They're worried about the market," said I, "and each one wants the
others to think that he's more worried than they are. That's all."

"But the women!" said Sally. "There we sat waving to them, and not so
much as a look for our pains. My arm is all numb from waving

"Never mind," I said. "I'll--I'll--ask your maid to rub it for you. And
then we'll send the motor-boat for the very latest edition of the
papers, and we'll have Blenheim and Windermere fold them like ships and
cocked hats, the way they do the napkins, and put them at each person's
place at dinner. That will be the tactful way of showing them what _we_
think about it."

Sally, naturally enough, was delighted at this idea, and forgot all
about her poor, numb arm. But the scheme sounded better than it worked.
Because when we went in to dinner the guests, instead of being put to
shame by the sight of the newspapers, actually sputtered with pleasure,
and fell on them and unfolded them and opened them at the financial
pages. And then the men began to shout, and argue, and perspire, and
fling quotations about the table, and the women got very shrill, and
said they didn't know what they would do if the wretched market kept up,
or rather if it didn't keep up. And nobody admired the new furniture or
the pictures, or the old Fiffield plate, or Sally's gown, or said
anything pleasant and agreeable.

"Sam," said Tony Marshall to me, "I'm glad that you can empty your new
swimming-pool in three-quarters of an hour, but if you don't watch out
you may be so poor before the winter's over that you won't be able to
buy water enough to fill it."

"If you're not careful," I said, "I'll fill it with champagne and make
you people swim in it till you're more sprightly and agreeable. I never
saw such a lot of oafs. I--"

"I tell you, Sam," bellowed Billoo, "that the financial status of this
country, owing to that infernal lunatic in the White House--"

"If you must tell me again--" I began.

"Oh," he said disgustedly, "_you_ can't be serious about anything.
You're so da--a--ah--urn--rich that you never give a thought to the
suffering of the consumer."

"Don't I?" said I. "Did you happen to see me the morning after the
Clarion's ball last winter?--I thought about the consumer then, I can
tell you."

Billoo turned his back on me very rudely. I looked across the table to
Sally. She smiled feebly. She had drawn back her chair so that Tombs and
Randall could fight it out across her plate without hitting her in the
nose. They were frantically shaking their fists at each other, and they
kept saying very loud, and both at once:

"I tell _you!_" and they made that beginning over and over, and never
got any further.

At two o'clock the next morning Mrs. Giddings turned to Sally and said:

"And now, my dear, I can't wait another moment. You must show me all
over your lovely new house. I can think of nothing else."

"Can't you?" said Sally. "I can. It's two o'clock. But I'll show you to
your own lovely room, if you like."

In the morning I sent for Blenheim, and told him to take all the Sunday
papers as soon as they arrived and throw them overboard. All I meant to
be was tactful. But it wouldn't do. The first thing the men asked for
was the papers; and the second thing. And finally they made such a fuss
and threw out so many hints that I had to send the motor-boat over to
the main-land. This made me rather sore at the moment, and I wished that
the motor-boat was at the bottom of the Sound; but it wasn't, and had
to be sent.

Later in the day I was struck with an idea. It was one of the few that
ever struck me without outside help, and I will keep it dark for the
present. But when I got Sally alone I said to her:

"Now, Sally, answer prettily: do you or do you not know what plausible
weather is?"

"I do not," she said promptly.

"Of course, you do not," I said, "you miserable little ignoramus. It has
to do with an idea."

"No, Sam!" cried Sally.

"One of mine," I said.

"Oh, Sam!" she said. "Can I help?"

"You can."


"You can pray for it."

"For the idea?" she asked.

"No, you silly little goat," I said. "For the plausible weather."

"Must I?" she asked.

"You must," I said. "If you have marrow-bones, prepare to use them now."

Sally looked really shocked.

"Knees," I explained. "They're the same thing. But now that I think of
it, you needn't use yours. If anybody were looking, it would be
different, of course. But nobody is, and you may use mine."

So Sally used my knees for the moment, and I explained the idea to her
briefly, and some other things at greater length; and then we both
laughed and prayed aloud for plausible weather.

But it was months coming.


Think, if you can, of a whole winter passing in Westchester County
without its storming one or more times on any single solitary Saturday
or Sunday or holiday! Christmas Day, even, some of the men played tennis
out-of-doors. The balls were cold and didn't bounce very high, and all
the men who played wanted to sit in the bar and talk stocks, but
otherwise it made a pretty good game. Often, because our guests were so
disagreeable about the money they had lost or were losing, we decided
not to give any more parties, but when we thought that fresh air was
good for our friends, whether they liked it or not, of course we had to
keep on asking them. And, besides, we were very much set on the idea
that I have referred to, and there was always a chance of
plausible weather.

It did not come till May. But then it "came good," as Sally said. It
"came good" and it came opportunely. Everything was right. We had the
right guests; we had the right situation in Wall Street, and the weather
was right. It came out of the north-east, darkly blowing (this was
Saturday, just after the usual motor-boat load and their afternoon
editions had been landed), and at first it made the Sound, and even the
sheltered narrows between the island and the main-land, look pancake-flat
and oily. Then it turned the Sound into a kind of incoming gray, striped
with white; and then into clean white, wonderfully bright and staring
under the dark clouds. I never saw a finer storm come up finer. But
nobody would go out to the point to see it come. The Stock Exchange had
closed on the verge of panic (that was its chronic Saturday closing last
winter) and you couldn't get the men or women away from the thought of
what _might_ happen Monday. "Good heavens," said Billoo, "think of poor
Sharply on his way home from Europe! Can't get to Wall Street before
Wednesday, and God knows what he'll find when he gets there."

"What good would it do him to get there before?" I asked. "Wouldn't he
sail right in and do the wrong thing, just as everybody has done
all winter?"

"You don't understand, Sam," said Billoo, very lugubriously; and then he
annihilated me by banging his fist on a table and saying, "_At least
he'd be on the spot, wouldn't he_?"

"Oh," I said, "if you put it that way, I admit that that's just where he
would be. Will anybody come and have a look at the fine young storm that
I'm having served?"

"Not now, Sam--not now," said Billoo, as if the storm would always stay
just where, and as, it was; and nobody else said anything. The men
wanted to shout and get angry and make dismal prophecies, and the women
wanted to stay and hear them, and egg them on, and decide what they
would buy or sell on Monday.

"All right, Billoo-on-the-spot," I said. "Sally--?"

Sally was glad to come. And first we went out on the point and had a
good look at the storm. The waves at our feet were breaking big and
wild, the wind was groaning and howling as if it had a mortal
stomach-ache, and about a mile out was a kind of thick curtain of
perpendicular lines, with dark, squally shadows at its base.

"Sam!" cried Sally, "it's snow--snow," and she began to jump up and

In a minute or two flakes began to hit us wet slaps in the face, and we
took hands and danced, and then ran (there must have been something
intoxicating about that storm) all the way to the pier. And there was
the captain of the motor-boat just stepping ashore.

"The man himself," said Sally.

"Captain," said I, "how are we off for boats?"

By good-luck there were in commission only the motor-boat, and the
row-boat that she towed behind, and a canoe in the loft of the

"Captain," I said, "take the _Hobo_ (that was the name of the
motor-boat) and her tender to City Island, and don't come back till
Wednesday morning, in time for the Wall Street special."

"When you get to City Island," said Sally, "try to look crippled."

"Not you," I said, "but the _Hobo_."

"Tell them," said Sally, "if they ask questions, that you were blown
from your moorings, and that you couldn't get back in the teeth of the
gale because--because--"

"Because," said I, "your cylinders slipped, and your clutch missed
fire, and your carbureter was full of prunes."

"In other words," said Sally, "if anybody ever asks you anything about

We gave him a lot more instructions, and some eloquent money, and he
said, "Very good, ma'am," to me, and "Very good, miss," to Sally, and
pretty soon he, and the _Hobo_, and the engineer, and the _Hobo's_ crew
of one, and the tender were neatly blown from their moorings, and
drifted helplessly toward City Island at the rate of twenty-two miles an
hour. Then Sally and I (it was snowing hard, now) climbed into the loft
of the boat-house, and _fixed_ the canoe.

"There," said Sally, putting down her little hatchet, "I don't believe
the most God-fearing banker in this world would put to sea in that!
Well, Sam, we've done it now."

"We have," said I.

"Will Monday never come?" said Sally.

"Stop," said I; "the telephone."

Idle Island was moored to the mainland by a telephone cable. It took us
nearly an hour to find where this slipped into the water. And we were
tired and hungry and wet and cold, but we simply had to persevere. It
was frightful. At length we found the thing--it looked like a slimy
black snake--and we cut it, where the water was a foot deep--the water
bit my wrists and ankles as sharply as if it had been sharks--and went
back to the house through the storm.

It was as black as night (the weather, not the house), snowing furiously
and howling. We crept into the house like a couple of sneak-thieves, and
heard Billoo at his very loudest shouting:

"I had Morgan on the wire all right--and the fool operator cut me off!"

Sally snipped her wet fingers in my face.

"Hello, fool operator," she said.

"Hello, yourself," said I. "But oh, Sally, listen to that wind, and tell
me how it sounds to you. A wet hug if you guess the answer."

"To me," said Sally, "it sounds plausible." And she got herself hugged.


I don't believe that anybody slept much Saturday night. You never heard
such a storm in your life. It seemed to Sally and me, who would have
been the chief sufferers if it _had_ blown down, that our comfortable,
brand-new marble house flapped like a flag. Every now and then there
came a tremendous crack from one part of the island or another; and
each time Sally would say, "There goes my favorite elm," or I would say,
"There goes that elm again."

Most of the men came down to breakfast Sunday morning. What with the
storm and the worry about stocks keeping them awake most of the night,
they were without exception nervous and cross, particularly Billoo. He
looked like an owl that had been first stuffed and then boiled. Blenheim
told me later that at various times during the night he had carried four
several pints of champagne to Billoo's room; and at 7 A.M., bicarbonate
of soda and aromatic spirits of ammonia.

"I tell you, Sam," said Billoo crossly, "I've been awake all night
thinking what it would mean to some of us--yes, me!--if this storm
should wreck that ferry-boat of yours."

A lot of wet snow and wind hit the dining-room windows a series of
rattling slaps.

"She's a good boat, Sam, but smallish to ride out such a storm as this."

"What a goat you are, Sam," said Tombs, also crossly, "not to keep two
ferry-boats, so that if one breaks down you have the other."

"When we made up our minds to spend the winter here," I said, "I ordered
another; in fact, two. But they're still building; and besides, what if
the _Hobo_ does break down? There's plenty to eat and drink, I hope.
Nobody would suffer much."

"No," said Billoo, "it would be no suffering for a business man to be
storm-bound here during a probable panic in Wall Street!

"I'm tired," I said, "of hearing you refer to yourself or any of these
gentlemen as business men. You always gamble; and when you're in
good-luck you gambol, and when you aren't, you don't. What makes me
sickest about you all is that you're so nauseatingly conceited and
self-important. You all think that your beastly old Stock Exchange is
the axle about which the wheel of the world revolves, and each of you
thinks, privately, that he's the particular grease that makes it revolve

"Well," said Billoo, "you know that the presence on the floor of one
steady, conservative man may often avert a panic."

"Show me the man," I said. "Has any one here ever caused a panic or
averted one? But you all lose money just as often because you're on the
spot, as make it. Wouldn't you all be the richer for an absence now
and then?"

"Of course," said Randall, "there are times when it doesn't matter one
way or the other. But when--well, when the market's in the state it is
now, it's life or death, almost, to be on the spot."

"I don't understand," I said. "When the market looks fussy, why not
sell out, and wait for better times?"

"We _can't_ sell out," said Billoo. "We're loaded up to the muzzle."

"You look as if you had been," I said courteously; but Billoo brushed
the remark aside as if it had been a fly.

"If we _try_ to unload," he said, "the market begins to collapse. We
_can't_ unload, except a little at a time, and still prices get lower
and lower and margins thinner and thinner. Now, I happen to _know_"--he
looked about him importantly--"that to-morrow will hear the failure of a
_very well-known_ house, and after that's announced--God knows."

"How true that is!" I said. "But tell me: suppose you gentlemen
deliberately absented yourselves for a few days--wouldn't it restore
confidence? Wouldn't the other brokers say: 'Billoo, Randall, Tombs,
Marshall, Bedlo, etc., don't seem to think there's much doing. None of
'em's here--what's the use of _me_ being scared?'"

"It would have the contrary effect, Sam," said Tombs solemnly. "They
would think that we had decamped in a body for Canada."

"I don't know," said I, "but it would be a better thing for the country
if you all did ship to Canada--I don't think there's much doing
out-doors to-day. Hear that wind!"

"If I can get rid of all my holdings," said Billoo, "I'll sit tight.
We'll see lower prices before we see higher."

"Well," said I, "I'll bet you we don't."

"Young man," said Billoo, and he looked almost well and happy, "just
name your sum."

"I'll bet you a thousand," I said.

"Sammy," said Tombs very sweetly, "have you got another thousand up your

"Sure," I said.

"Done with you," said Tombs.

In about five minutes I had bet with everybody present.

"But mind," I said, "there mustn't be any dirty work. You people mustn't
go to town to-morrow with the idea of forming a strong coalition and
_putting_ prices down."

"It wouldn't be worth while," said Billoo. "As a matter of fact, we'd
like nothing better than to see you win your bet, but as you can't,

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