The Log of the Jolly Polly | Page 7

"They told you to think it over," he persisted. "Very well, then, think it
over at Fairharbor! For the next three weeks the Farrells will be at Cape
May. The coast is clear. Go to Fairharbor as somebody else and be your
own detective. Find out if what they tell you is true. Get inside
information. Get inside Harbor Castle. Count the eighteen bedrooms
and try the beds. Never mind the art gallery, but make sure there is a
wine cellar.
You can't start too soon, and I WILL GO WITH YOU!"
I told him where he could go.
We then tossed to see who should pay for the lunch and who should tip
the head waiter. I lost and had to tip the head waiter. We separated, and
as I walked down the Avenue, it seemed as though to the proprietor of
every shop I passed I owed money. Owing them the money I did not so
much mind; what most distressed me was that they were so polite about
it. I had always wanted to reward their patience. A favorite dream of
mine was to be able to walk down Fifth Avenue, my pockets stuffed
with yellow bills, paying off my debts. Compared with my steadily
decreasing income, how enormous my debts appeared; but when
compared with the income of a man worth-- say-five million dollars,
how ridiculous! I had no more than reached my apartment, than a
messenger-boy arrived with an envelope. It contained a ticket for a
round trip on the New Bedford Line boat leaving that afternoon, a
ticket for a stateroom, and a note from Curtis Spencer. The latter read:
"The boat leaves at six to-night. You arrive at New Bedford seven
to-morrow morning. New Bedford and Fairharbor are connected by a
bridge. CROSS IT!"
I tore the note in tiny fragments, and tossed them through the open
window. I was exceedingly angry. As I stood at the window adding to
the name of Curtis Spencer insulting aliases, the street below sent up
hot, stifling odors: the smoke of taxicabs, the gases of an open subway,
the stale reek of thousands of perspiring, unwashed bodies. From that

one side street seemed to rise the heat and smells of all New York. For
relief I turned to my work-table where lay the opening chapters of my
new novel, "The White Plume of Savoy." But now, in the light of
Spencer's open scorn, I saw it was impudently false, childish,
sentimental. My head ached, the humidity sapped my strength, at heart
I felt sick, sore, discouraged. I was down and out. And seeing this,
Temptation, like an obsequious floorwalker, came hurrying forward.
"And what may I show you to-day?" asked Temptation. He showed me
the upper deck of the New Bedford boat feeling her way between the
green banks of the Sound. A cool wind swept past me bearing clean,
salty odors; on the saloon deck a band played, and from the darkness
the lighthouses winked at me, and in friendly greeting the stars smiled.
Temptation won. In five minutes I was feverishly packing, and at
five-thirty I was on board. I assured myself I had not listened to
Temptation, that I had no interest in Fairharbor. was taking the trip
solely because it would give me a night's sleep on the Sound. I
promised myself that on the morrow I would not even LOOK toward
Harbor Castle; but on the evening following on the same boat, return to
New York. Temptation did not stop to argue, but hastened after another
victim.
I turned in at nine o'clock and the coolness, and the salt air, blessed me
with the first sleep I had known in weeks. And when I woke we were
made fast to the company's wharf at New Bedford, and the sun was
well up. I rose refreshed in body and spirit. No longer was I
discouraged. Even "The White Plume of Savoy" seemed a perfectly
good tale of romance and adventure. And the Farrells were a joke. Even
if I were at Fairlharbor, I was there only on a lark, and at the expense of
Curtis Spencer, who had paid for the tickets. Distinctly the joke was on
Curtis Spencer. I lowered the window screen, and looked across the
harbor. It was a beautiful harbor. At ancient stone wharfs Jay ancient
whalers with drooping davits and squared yards, at anchor
white-breasted yachts flashed in the sun, a gray man-of-war's man
flaunted the week's laundry, a four-masted schooner dried her canvas,
and over the smiling surface of the harbor innumerable fishing boats
darted. With delight I sniffed the odors of salt water, sun-dried herring,
of oakum and tar. The shore opposite was a graceful promontory
crowned with trees and decorous gray-shingled cottages set in tiny

gardens