The Turtles of Tasman

The Turtles of Tasman

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Title: The Turtles of Tasman
Author: Jack London
Release Date: July 10, 2005 [EBook #16257]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE TURTLES OF TASMAN
BY
JACK LONDON

AUTHOR OF THE CALL OF THE WILD, TERRY, ADVENTURE,
ETC.
NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1916. Reprinted
October, November, 1916; February, 1917, December, 1919.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN
THE ETERNITY OF FORMS
TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD
THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY
THE PRODIGAL FATHER
THE FIRST POET
FINIS
THE END OF THE STORY

THE TURTLES OF TASMAN

BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN
I
Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was the

strong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power with
wisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and the
lines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left its
wholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told the
same story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair, light
brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straight
across above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed
man, and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alert
years, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise the
possessor of numerous millions of dollars and property.
For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited
outside for him under the porte-cochère was sober black. It was the
most expensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its
price or horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also was
mostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacific
breakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the far
summits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud.
A rustle of skirts caused him to look over his shoulder. Just the faintest
hint of irritation showed in his manner. Not that his daughter was the
object, however. Whatever it was, it seemed to lie on the desk before
him.
"What is that outlandish name again?" she asked. "I know I shall never
remember it. See, I've brought a pad to write it down."
Her voice was low and cool, and she was a tall, well-formed,
clear-skinned young woman. In her voice and complacence she, too,
showed the drill-marks of order and restraint.
Frederick Travers scanned the signature of one of two letters on the
desk. "Bronislawa Plaskoweitzkaia Travers," he read; then spelled the
difficult first portion, letter by letter, while his daughter wrote it down.
"Now, Mary," he added, "remember Tom was always harum scarum,
and you must make allowances for this daughter of his. Her very name
is--ah--disconcerting. I haven't seen him for years, and as for her...." A

shrug epitomised his apprehension. He smiled with an effort at wit.
"Just the same, they're as much your family as mine. If he is my brother,
he is your uncle. And if she's my niece, you're both cousins."
Mary nodded. "Don't worry, father. I'll be nice to her, poor thing. What
nationality was her mother?--to get such an awful name."
"I don't know. Russian, or Polish, or Spanish, or something. It was just
like Tom. She was an actress or singer--I don't remember. They met in
Buenos Ayres. It was an elopement. Her husband--"
"Then she was already married!"
Mary's dismay was unfeigned and spontaneous, and her father's
irritation grew more pronounced. He had not meant that. It had slipped
out.
"There was a divorce afterward, of course. I never knew the details.
Her mother died out in China--no; in Tasmania. It was in China that
Tom--" His lips shut with almost a snap. He was not going to make any
more slips. Mary waited, then turned to the door, where she paused.
"I've given her the rooms over the rose court," she said. "And I'm going
now to take a last look."
Frederick Travers turned back to the desk, as if to put the letters away,
changed his mind, and slowly and ponderingly reread them.
"Dear Fred:
"It's been a long