The Man on the Box | Page 7

remorse
besides. He was brother to a girl almost as beautiful as yonder one (to
my mind far more beautiful!) and he recalled that in two years he had
not seen her nor made strenuous efforts to keep up the correspondence.
Another good point added to the score of love! And, alas! he might
never see this charming girl again, this daughter so full of filial love
and care. He had sought the captain, but that hale and hearty old
sea-dog had politely rebuffed him.
"My dear young man," he said, "I do all I possibly can for the
entertainment and comfort of my passengers, but in this case I must
refuse your request."
"And pray, why, sir?" demanded Mr. Robert, with dignity.
"For the one and simple reason that Colonel Annesley expressed the
desire to be the recipient of no ship introductions."
"What the deuce is he, a billionaire?"
"You have me there, sir. I confess that I know nothing whatever about
him. This is the first time he has ever sailed on my deck."
All of which perfectly accounts for Mr. Robert's sighs in what
musicians call the doloroso. If only he knew some one who knew the
colonel! How simple it would be! Certainly, a West Point graduate

would find some consideration. But the colonel spoke to no one save
his daughter, and his daughter to none but her parent, her maid, and the
stewardess. Would they remain in New York, or would they seek their
far-off southern home? Oh, the thousands of questions which surged
through his brain! From time to time he glanced sympathetically at the
colonel, whose fingers drummed and drummed and drummed.
"Poor wretch! his stomach must be in bad shape. Or maybe he has the
palsy." Warburton mused upon the curious incertitude of the human
anatomy.
But Colonel Annesley did not have the palsy. What he had is at once
the greatest blessing and the greatest curse of God--remembrance, or
conscience, if you will.
What a beautiful color her hair was, dappled with sunshine and
shadow! ... Pshaw! Mr. Robert threw aside his shawl and book (it is of
no real importance, but I may as well add that he never completed the
reading of that summer's most popular novel) and sought the
smoking-room, where, with the aid of a fat perfecto and a liberal stack
of blues, he proceeded to divert himself till the boat reached quarantine.
I shall not say that he left any of his patrimony at the mahogany table
with its green-baize covering and its little brass disks for cigar ashes,
but I am certain that he did not make one of those stupendous winnings
we often read about and never witness. This much, however: he made
the acquaintance of a very important personage, who was presently to
add no insignificant weight on the scales of Mr. Robert's destiny.
He was a Russian, young, handsome, suave, of what the newspapers
insist on calling distinguished bearing. He spoke English pleasantly but
imperfectly. He possessed a capital fund of anecdote, and Warburton,
being an Army man, loved a good droll story. It was a revelation to see
the way he dipped the end of his cigar into his coffee, a stimulant
which he drank with Balzacian frequency and relish. Besides these
accomplishments, he played a very smooth hand at the great American
game. While Mr. Robert's admiration was not aroused, it was surely
awakened.

My hero had no trouble with the customs officials. A brace of old
French dueling pistols and a Turkish simitar were the only articles
which might possibly have been dutiable. The inspector looked hard,
but he was finally convinced that Mr. Robert was not a professional
curio-collector. Warburton, never having returned from abroad before,
found a deal of amusement and food for thought in the ensuing scenes.
There was one man, a prim, irascible old fellow, who was not allowed
to pass in two dozen fine German razors. There was a time of it, angry
words, threats, protestations. The inspector stood firm. The old
gentleman, in a fine burst of passion, tossed the razors into the water.
Then they were going to arrest him for smuggling. A friend extricated
him. The old gentleman went away, saying something about the tariff
and an unreasonably warm place which has as many synonyms as an
octopus has tentacles.
Another man, his mouth covered by an enormous black mustache
which must have received a bath every morning in coffee or something
stronger, came forward pompously. I don't know to this day what
magic word he said, but the inspectors took never a peep into his
belongings. Doubtless they knew him, and that his word was as good as
his bond.
Here a woman wept because the necklace she brought trustingly from
Rotterdam