The Log of the Jolly Polly | Page 9

silent that I
raised them. To my surprise, I found on her face an expression of alarm
and distress. With reluctance, and yet within her voice a certain
hopefulness, she said, "Fifty dollars."
Fifty dollars was a death blow. I had planned to keep the young lady
selling books throughout the entire morning, but at fifty dollars a book,
I would soon be owing her money. I attempted to gain time.
"It must be very rare!" I said. I was afraid to look at her lest my

admiration should give offense, so I pretended to admire the book.
"It is the only one in existence," said the young lady. "At least, it is the
only one for sale! "
We were interrupted by the approach of a tall man who, from his
playing the polite host and from his not wearing a hat, I guessed was
Mr. Hatchardson himself. He looked from the book in my hand to the
lovely lady and said smiling, "Have you lost it?"
The girl did not smile. To her, apparently, it was no laughing matter. "I
don't know--yet," she said. Her voice was charming, and genuinely
troubled.
Mr. Hatchardson, for later I learned it was he, took the book and
showed me the title-page.
"This was privately printed in 1830," he said, "by Captain Noah Briggs.
He distributed a hundred presentation copies among his family and
friends here in New Bedford. It is a most interesting volume."
I did not find it so. For even as he spoke the young girl, still with a
troubled countenance, glided away. Inwardly I cursed Captain Briggs
and associated with him in my curse the polite Mr. Hatchardson. But, at
his next words my interest returned. Still smiling, he lowered his voice.
"Miss Briggs, the young lady who just left us," he said, is the
granddaughter of Captain Briggs, and she does not want the book to go
out of the family; she wants it for herself." I interrupted eagerly.
"But it is for sale?" Mr. Hatchardson reluctantly assented.
"Then I will take it," I said.
Fifty dollars is a great deal of money, but the face of the young lady
had been very sad. Besides being sad, had it been aged, plain, and
ill-tempered, that I still would have bought the book, is a question I
have never determined.
To Mr. Hatchardson, of my purpose to give the book to Miss Briggs, I
said nothing. Instead I planned to send it to her anonymously by mail.
She would receive it the next morning when I was arriving in New
York, and, as she did not know my name, she could not possibly return
it. At the post-office I addressed the "Log" to "Miss Briggs, care of
Hatchardson's Bookstore," and then I returned to the store. I felt I had
earned that pleasure. This time, Miss Briggs was in charge of the
post-card counter, and as now a post-card was the only thing I could
afford to buy, at seeing her there I was doubly pleased. But she was not

pleased to see me. Evidently Mr. Hatchardson had told her I had
purchased the "Log" and at her loss her very lovely face still showed
disappointment. Toward me her manner was distinctly aggrieved.
But of the "Log" I said nothing, and began recklessly purchasing
post-cards that pictured the show places of New Bedford. Almost the
first one I picked up was labelled "Harbor Castle. Residence of Fletcher
Farrell." I need not say that I studied it intently. According to the
post-card, Harbor Castle stood on a rocky point with water on both
sides. It was an enormous, wide-spreading structure, as large as a fort.
It exuded prosperity, opulence, extravagance, great wealth. I felt
suddenly a filial impulse to visit the home of my would-be forefathers.
"Is this place near here?" I asked.
Miss Briggs told me that in order to reach it I should take the ferry to
Fairbarbor, and then cross that town to the Buzzards Bay side.
"You can't miss it," she said. "It's a big stone house, with red and white
awnings. If you see anything like a jail in ruffles, that's it."
It was evident that with the home I had rejected Miss Briggs was
unimpressed; but seeing me add the post-card to my collection, she
offered me another.
"This," she explained, "is Harbor Castle from the bay. That is their
yacht in the foreground."
The post-card showed a very beautiful yacht of not less than two
thousand tons. Beneath it was printed "HARBOR LIGHTS; steam
yacht owned by Fletcher Farrell." I always had dreamed of owning a
steam yacht, and seeing it stated in cold type that one was owned by
"Fletcher Farrell," even though I was not that Fletcher Farrell, gave me
a thrill