The Turtles of Tasman | Page 2

time since I was so near to the old home, and I'd like to
take a run up. Unfortunately, I played ducks and drakes with my
Yucatan project--I think I wrote about it--and I'm broke as usual. Could
you advance me funds for the run? I'd like to arrive first class. Polly is
with me, you know. I wonder how you two will get along.
"Tom.
"P.S. If it doesn't bother you too much, send it along next mail."

_"Dear Uncle Fred":_
the other letter ran, in what seemed to him a strange, foreign-taught, yet
distinctly feminine hand.
"Dad doesn't know I am writing this. He told me what he said to you. It
is not true. He is coming home to die. He doesn't know it, but I've
talked with the doctors. And he'll have to come home, for we have no
money. We're in a stuffy little boarding house, and it is not the place for
Dad. He's helped other persons all his life, and now is the time to help
him. He didn't play ducks and drakes in Yucatan. I was with him, and I
know. He dropped all he had there, and he was robbed. He can't play
the business game against New Yorkers. That explains it all, and I am
proud he can't.
"He always laughs and says I'll never be able to get along with you. But
I don't agree with him. Besides, I've never seen a really, truly blood
relative in my life, and there's your daughter. Think of it!--a real live
cousin!
"In anticipation, "Your niece, "BRONISLAWA
PLASKOWEITZKAIA TRAVERS.
"P.S. You'd better telegraph the money, or you won't see Dad at all. He
doesn't know how sick he is, and if he meets any of his old friends he'll
be off and away on some wild goose chase. He's beginning to talk
Alaska. Says it will get the fever out of his bones. Please know that we
must pay the boarding house, or else we'll arrive without luggage.
"B.P.T."
Frederick Travers opened the door of a large, built-in safe and
methodically put the letters away in a compartment labelled "Thomas
Travers."
"Poor Tom! Poor Tom!" he sighed aloud.
II

The big motor car waited at the station, and Frederick Travers thrilled
as he always thrilled to the distant locomotive whistle of the train
plunging down the valley of Isaac Travers River. First of all westering
white-men, had Isaac Travers gazed on that splendid valley, its
salmon-laden waters, its rich bottoms, and its virgin forest slopes.
Having seen, he had grasped and never let go. "Land-poor," they had
called him in the mid-settler period. But that had been in the days when
the placers petered out, when there were no wagon roads nor tugs to
draw in sailing vessels across the perilous bar, and when his lonely
grist mill had been run under armed guards to keep the marauding
Klamaths off while wheat was ground. Like father, like son, and what
Isaac Travers had grasped, Frederick Travers had held. It had been the
same tenacity of hold. Both had been far-visioned. Both had foreseen
the transformation of the utter West, the coming of the railroad, and the
building of the new empire on the Pacific shore.
Frederick Travers thrilled, too, at the locomotive whistle, because,
more than any man's, it was his railroad. His father had died still
striving to bring the railroad in across the mountains that averaged a
hundred thousand dollars to the mile. He, Frederick, had brought it in.
He had sat up nights over that railroad; bought newspapers, entered
politics, and subsidised party machines; and he had made pilgrimages,
more than once, at his own expense, to the railroad chiefs of the East.
While all the county knew how many miles of his land were crossed by
the right of way, none of the county guessed nor dreamed the number
of his dollars which had gone into guaranties and railroad bonds. He
had done much for his county, and the railroad was his last and greatest
achievement, the capstone of the Travers' effort, the momentous and
marvellous thing that had been brought about just yesterday. It had
been running two years, and, highest proof of all of his judgment,
dividends were in sight. And farther reaching reward was in sight. It
was written in the books that the next Governor of California was to be
spelled, Frederick A. Travers.
Twenty years had passed since he had seen his elder brother, and then it
had been after a gap of ten years. He remembered that night well. Tom
was the only man who dared run the bar in the dark, and that last time,

between nightfall and the dawn, with a southeaster breezing up, he had
sailed his schooner in and out again.