The Happy Venture | Page 4

cobblestones. Ken liked to
walk there, even on such a dreary March day as this, when the horses
splashed through puddles, and the funnels of the steamers dripped
sootily black. He had left Felicia in the garden, investigating the first
promise of green under the leaf-coverlet of the perennial bed. Kirk was
with her, questing joyously down the brick path, and breathing the
warm, wet smell of the waking earth.
Ken struck down to the docks; even before he reached the last dingy
street he could see the tall masts of a sailing-ship rising above the
warehouse roofs. It was with a quickened beat of the heart that he ran
the last few steps, and saw her in all her quiet dignity--the Celestine,
four-masted schooner. It was not often that sailing vessels came into
this port. Most of the shipping consisted of tugs with their barges, high
black freighters, rust-streaked; and casual tramp steamers battered by
every wind from St. John's to Torres Straits. The Celestine was, herself,
far from being a pleasure yacht. Her bluff bows were salt-rimed and her
decks bleached and weather-bitten. But she towered above her
steam-driven companions with such stalwart grace, such simple
perfection, that Ken caught his breath, looking at her.
The gang-plank was out, for she lay warped in to one of the wharves,
and Ken went aboard and leaned at the rail beside a square man in a
black jersey, who chewed tobacco and squinted observantly at the dock.
From this person, at first inclined to be taciturn, Ken learned that the
Celestine was sailing the next night, bound for Rio de Janeiro, "and
mebbe further." Rio de Janeiro! And here she lay quietly at the slimy
wharf, beyond which the gray northern town rose in a smoky huddle of
chimney-pots.
Behind Ken, some of the crew began hoisting the foresail to dry. He
heard the rhythmic squeak of the halliards through the sheaves, and the
scrape of the gaff going up.
"Go 'n lend 'em a hand, boy, since yer so gone on it," the jerseyed one
recommended quite understandingly. So Ken went and hauled at a rope,
and watched the great expanse of sodden gray canvas rise and shiver
and straighten into a dark square against the sky. He imagined himself

one of the crew of the Celestine, hoisting the foresail in a South
American port.
"I'd love to roll to Rio Some day before I'm old..."
The sail rose steadily to the unsung chorus. Ken was quite happy.
He walked all the way home--it was a long walk--with his head full of
plans for a seafaring life, and his nostrils still filled with the strange,
fascinating, composite smell of the docks.
Felicia met him at the gate. She looked quite done for, he thought, and
she caught his sleeve.
"Where have you been?" she said, with a queer little excited hitch in
her voice. "I've been almost wild, waiting for you. Mother's headache is
horribly worse; she's gone to bed. A letter came this morning, I don't
know what, but I think it has something to do with her being so ill. She
simply cries and cries--a frightening sort of crying--and says, 'I
can't--can't!' and wants Father to tell her what to do."
They were in the hall by this time.
"Wants Father!" Ken said gravely. "Have you got the doctor, Phil?"
"Not yet; I wanted to ask you."
"Get him--quick."
Ken ran upstairs. Halfway, he tumbled over something crouched beside
the banisters. It was Kirk, quite wretched. He caught Ken's ankle.
"Mother's crying," he said; "I can hear her. Oh, do something, Ken!"
"I'm going to," said his brother. "Don't sit here in the dark and make
yourself miserable."
He recollected that the landing was no darker for Kirk than any other
place, and added: "You're apt to be stepped on here--I nearly smashed

you. Hop along and tell Maggie that I'm as hungry as an ostrich." But
however hungry Ken may have been as he trudged home from the
docks, he was not so now. A cold terror seized him as he leaned above
his mother, who could not, indeed, stop her tears, nor tell him more
than that she could not bear it, she could not. Ken had never before felt
quite so helpless. He wished, as much as she, that his father were there
to tell them what to do--his tall, quiet father, who had always counseled
so well. He breathed a great thankful sigh when the doctor came in,
with Felicia, white faced, peeping beside his shoulder. Ken said, "I'm
glad you'll take charge, sir," and slipped out.
He and Felicia stood in Kirk's room, silently, and after what seemed an
eternity, the doctor came out, tapping the back of his hand with his
glasses. He