Blow The Man Down. Holman Day
was asserting himself.
He looked at her then as she stood in the gloomy companionway, a radiant and rosy picture of healthy maidenhood. But the expression on her face was not comfortingly filial.
“Father, I must say it again. I can't help saying it. I am so unhappy. You are misjudging me so cruelly.”
“I done it because I thought it was right to do it. I haven't been tending and watching the way a father ought to tend and watch. I never seemed to be able to ketch up with you. Maybe I ain't right. Maybe I be! At any rate, I'm going to stand on this tack, in your case, for a while longer.”
“You have taken me away from my real home for this? This is no place for a girl! You are not the same as you are when you are on shore. I didn't know you could be so rough—and—wicked!”
“Hold on there, daughter! Snub cable right there! I'm an honest, God-fearing, hard-working man—paying a hundred cents on the dollar, and you know it.”
“But what did you just shout—right out where everybody could hear you?”
“That—that was only passing the compliments of the day as compared with what I can do when I get started proper. Do you think I'm going to let any snub-snooted wart-hog of a lime-duster sing—”
“Father!”
“What's a girl know about the things a father has to put up with when he goes to sea and earns money for her?”
“I am willing to work for myself. You took me right out of my good position in the millinery-store. You have made me leave all my young friends. Oh, I am so homesick!” Her self-reliance departed suddenly. She choked. She tucked her head into the hook of her arm and sobbed.
“Don't do that!” he pleaded, softening suddenly. “Please don't, Polly!”
She looked up and smiled—a pleading, wan little smile. “I didn't mean to give way to it, popsy dear. I don't intend to do anything to make you angry or sorry. I have tried to be a good girl. I am a good girl. But it breaks my heart when you don't trust me.”
“They were courting you,” he stammered. “Them shore dudes was hanging around you. I ain't doubting you, Polly. But you 'ain't got no mother. I was afraid. I know I've been a fool about it. But I was afraid!” Tears sprinkled his bronzed cheeks. “I haven't been much of a father because I've had to go sailing and earn money. But I thought I'd take you away till-till I could sort of plan on something.”
She gazed at him, softening visibly.
“Oh, Polly,” he said, his voice breaking, “you don't know how pretty you are-you don't know how afraid I am!”
“But you can trust me, father,” she promised, after a pause, with simple dignity. “I know I am only a country girl, not wise, perhaps, but I know what is right and what is wrong. Can't you understand how terribly you have hurt my pride and my self-respect by forcing me to come and be penned up here as if I were a shameless girl who could not take care of herself?”
“I reckon I have done wrong, Polly. But I don't know much-not about women folk. I was trying to do right-because you're all I have in this world.”
“I hope you will think it all over,” she advised, earnestly. “You will understand after a time, father, I'm sure. Then you will let me go back and you will trust me-as your own daughter should be trusted. That's the right way to make girls good-let them know that they can be trusted.”
“You are probably right,” he admitted. “I will think it all over. As soon as we get in and anchored I'll sit down and give it a good overhauling in my mind. Maybe-”
She took advantage of his pause. “We are going into a harbor, are we, father?”
“Yes. Right ahead of us.”
“I wish you would put me ashore and send me back. I shall lose my position in the store if I stay away too long.”
His obstinacy showed again, promptly. “I don't want you in that millinery-shop. I'm told that dude drummers pester girls in stores.”
“They do not trouble me, father. Haven't you any confidence in your own daughter?”
“Yes, I have,” he said, firmly, and then added, “but I keep thinking of the dudes and then I get afraid.”
She gave him quick a glance, plainly tempted to make an impatient retort, and then turned and went down into the cabin.
“Don't be mad with me, Polly,” he called after her. “I guess, maybe, I'm all wrong. I'm going to think it over; I ain't promising nothing sure, but it won't be none surprising if I set you ashore here and send you back home. Don't cry, little girl.” There were tears in his voice as well as in his eyes.
The lime-schooner vocalist felt an impulse to voice another verse:
“Ow-w-w, here comes the Polly in the middle of the road, Towed by a mule and paving-blocks her load. Devil is a-waiting and the devil may as well, 'Cause he'll never get them paving-blocks to finish paving hell.”
Captain Candage left his wheel and strode to the rail. All the softness was gone from his face and his voice.
“You horn-jawed, muck-faced jezebo of a sea-sculpin, you dare to yap out any more of that sculch and I'll come aboard you after we anchor and jump down your gullet and gallop the etarnal innards out of ye! Don't you know that I've got ladies aboard here?”
“It don't sound like it,” returned the songster.
“Well, you hear what I sound like! Half-hitch them jaw taakuls of yours!”
Captain Candage's meditations were not disturbed after that.
With the assistance of his one helper aboard ship, “Oakum Otie,” a gray and whiskered individual who combined in one person the various offices of first mate, second mate, A-1 seaman, and hand before the mast-as well as the skipper's boon companion-the Polly was manoeuvered to her anchorage in Saturday Cove and was snugged for the night. Smoke began to curl in blue wreaths from her galley funnel, and there were occasional glimpses of the cook, a sallow-complexioned, one-eyed youth whose chief and everlasting decoration provided him with the nickname of “Smut-nosed Dolph.”
Then came some of the ocean aristocrats to join the humbler guests in that tavern of the seas.
Avant couriers of a metropolitan yacht club, on its annual cruise, arrived, jockeying in with billowing mountains of snowy canvas spread to catch the last whispers of the breeze. Later arrivals, after the breeze failed, were towed in by the smart motor craft of the fleet. One by one, as the anchors splashed, brass cannons barked salute and were answered by the commodore's gun.
Captain Candage sat on the edge of the Polly's house and snapped an involuntary and wrathful wink every time a cannon banged. In that hill-bound harbor, where the fog had massed, every noise was magnified as by a sounding-board. There were cheery hails, yachtsmen bawled over the mist-gemmed brass rails interchange of the day's experiences, and frisking yacht tenders, barking staccato exhausts, began to carry men to and fro on errands of sociability. In the silences Captain Candage could hear the popping of champagne corks.
“Them fellers certainly live high and sleep in the garret,” observed Oakum Otie. He was seated cross-legged on the top of the house and was hammering down the lumps in a freshly twisted eye-splice with the end of a marlinespike.
“It has always been a wonder to me,” growled Captain Candage, “how dudes who don't seem to have no more wit than them fellows haw-hawing over there, and swigging liquor by the cart-load, ever make money the way they do so as to afford all this.”
On that point Captain Candage might have found Mate McGaw of the Olenia willing to engage in profitable discussion and amicable understanding!
“They don't make it-they don't know enough to make it,” stated Otie, with the conviction of a man