The Maker of Opportunities. Gibbs George
happened to him, Geltman? That a blow he had received in falling had turned his mind, and that his soul had migrated to the body of the hated Fehrenbach? And if so, did the soul of Fehrenbach occupy his body? Fehrenbach, sitting in his office, directing his business with the shoddy methods of the Fehrenbachs, driving his horses, and perhaps – could it be that he was at this moment marrying Juliet Hazard in his place? The thought of it made him sick. He was dimly conscious of some science which dealt with these things. He had once read a story of a happening of this kind at a German university. He looked at these strangers before him and found himself returning in kind their mysterious glances. Was he mad? Or were they? Or were they all mad together? He glanced aloft at the swaying masts. And the yacht, too? Was it real or was that, too, some fantasy of a diseased imagination? The Fliegende Holländer flitted playfully into his mind. Just forward of the cabin a group of sailors were standing looking at him and whispering. It was uncanny. Were they, too, in the same state as the others? It could not be. The vessel was real. Geltman or Fehrenbach – he, himself, was real. There must be some one aboard the accursed craft who would listen to him and understand. Bewildered, he walked forward. As he did so the group of sailor-men dissolved and each one hurried about some self-appointed task. He walked over to a man who was coiling a rope.
“I say, my man,” he said, “are you from New York?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, but he looked over his shoulder to right and left as though seeking a mode of escape.
“Did you ever happen to drink any of Geltman’s beer?”
The man gave the brewer one fleeting look, then dropped his coil and disappeared down the fo’c’s’le hatch.
The brewer watched the retreating figure with some dismay. He walked toward another man who was shining some bright work around the galley stovepipe. But the man saw him coming and vanished as the other had done. An old man with a gray beard sat on a ditty box at the lee rail, sewing a pair of breeches. He was chewing tobacco and scowling, but did not move as the landsman approached.
“I say, my man,” began the brewer again, “did you ever drink any of Geltman’s beer?”
The old man eyed him from head to foot before he answered. But there was no fear in his face – only pity – naked and undisguised.
“Naw,” he replied, spitting to leeward. “There ain’t no beer in N’ York fer me but Otto Fehrenbach’s.”
Geltman looked at him a moment and then turned despairingly aft. The yacht was bewitched and they were all bewitched with her.
CHAPTER III
“It’s lucky Ollie Farquhar’s fat,” said Mortimer Crabb when Geltman was out of earshot. “It was neat, Jepson, beautifully neat. Did you ever see fish take the bait better? But he’ll be coming to in a minute.”
Captain Jepson was watching the bewildered brewer. “He won’t get much information there,” he grinned.
“It can’t last much longer, though,” said Crabb. “How much of a run is it to the coast?”
“About an hour, sir.”
“Well, keep her on her course until eight bells. Then if he insists we’ll run in and land him on the beach somewhere.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“It will soon be over now. He can’t get in until to-morrow and then” – Crabb beamed with satisfaction – “and then it’ll be too late. Stow your smile, Jepson. He’s coming back.”
Not even this complete chain of circumstantial evidence could long avail against the brisk air and sunlight. In the broad expanse between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand Geltman noted the blue of some youthful tattooing. As he saw the familiar letters doubt took flight. He was himself. There was no doubt of that. As he went aft again he smiled triumphantly.
“Let’s be done with nonsense, Dr. Woolf,” he growled. “Look at that,” holding his hand before Crabb’s eyes. “If I’m Otto Fehrenbach how is it that the letters C. G. are marked in my hand?”
Crabb, his arms akimbo, stood looking him steadily in the eyes.
“So,” he said calmly, “you’re awake at last!”
He looked at Crabb and the Captain with eyes which saw not. What he had thought of saying and doing remained unsaid and undone. With no other word he lurched heavily forward and down the companion.
“There’ll be a hurricane in that quarter, Jepson, or I’m not weather wise,” laughed Crabb. “We’d better run in now. There isn’t much sea and the wind is offshore. We’ll land him at Quogue or Westhampton. In the meanwhile, keep the tarpaulin over the for’ard boat so that he can’t see the name on her. We’ll use the gig. If he tries to peep over the stern we’ll clap him in the stateroom. It will mean five years at least for me if he learns the name of the Blue Wing. So look sharp, Jepson, and keep an eye on him.”
“Never fear,” said the Captain with a grin, and walked forward.
Crabb walked the deck in high jubilation. He looked at his watch. Three o’clock! If McFee had followed his instructions Dicky Bowles and Juliet Hazard were man and wife. He had nicely figured his chances. To Geltman he was Dr. Woolf. To his crew he was Mr. Crabb taking an unfortunate relative for an airing; to Dicky Bowles he was the rescuer of forlorn damsels and the trump of good fellows.
Crabb was fully prepared to carry the villainy through to the end. Of one thing he was certain, the sooner his guest was off the Blue Wing and safely landed the better.
And so, when at last Geltman came on deck with the watchful Weckerly at his heels, Crabb noted the chastened expression upon the brewer’s face with singular satisfaction.
“I’ll go ashore, if you please,” he said, quietly.
Crabb affected disappointed surprise.
“Here? Now?” he said. “We’re pretty far down the coast. That’s Quogue in there. I can’t very well run back to New York, but – ”
“Put me ashore, sir,” said Geltman sulkily.
When the gig was lowered, Crabb bowed the brewer over the side, his evening clothes tied in a paper package.
“Good-by,” said Crabb. “When you’re done with the flannels, Mr. Geltman, send ’em to Fehrenbach.”
But Geltman had no reply. He had folded his arms and was gazing stolidly toward the shore. The last glimpse Crabb had of him was when the Blue Wing drew offshore leaving him gesticulating wildly upon the beach in the glow of the setting sun.
When the figure was but a speck in the distance Mortimer Crabb turned away and threw himself wearily in his wicker chair.
“Where to now, sir?” asked Jepson.
“Oh, anywhere you like.”
“Sandy Hook, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” he sighed, “as well go there as anywhere else. New York, Jepson.”
Poor Crabb! In twenty-four hours he was, if anything, more bored than ever. The sight of the joyous faces of Dicky Bowles and his bride had done something to relieve the tedium vitæ, but he knew that their joy was of themselves and not of him, and so he gave them a “God bless you” and his country place on Long Island for a few weeks of honeymooning. He had even had the presumption to offer them the Blue Wing, but Dicky, whose new responsibilities had developed a vein of prudence, refused point blank. Crabb shrugged his shoulders.
“Suit yourselves,” he laughed. “It’s yours if you want it.”
“And have Geltman putting you in jail?”
“Oh, he won’t trouble me.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve made some inquiries. He’s dropped the thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. He’s not so thick-skinned