The Turtles of Tasman | Page 9

world
still called to him, and strange men came from time to time with its
messages. Never had there been such visitors to the Travers home.
Some came with the reminiscent roll of the sea in their gait. Others
were black-browed ruffians; still others were fever-burnt and sallow;
and about all of them was something bizarre and outlandish. Their talk
was likewise bizarre and outlandish, of things to Frederick unguessed
and undreamed, though he recognised the men for what they
were--soldiers of fortune, adventurers, free lances of the world. But the
big patent thing was the love and loyalty they bore their leader. They
named him variously?--Black Tom, Blondine, Husky Travers,
Malemute Tom, Swiftwater Tom--but most of all he was Captain Tom.
Their projects and propositions were equally various, from the South
Sea trader with the discovery of a new guano island and the
Latin-American with a nascent revolution on his hands, on through
Siberian gold chases and the prospecting of the placer benches of the
upper Kuskokeem, to darker things that were mentioned only in
whispers. And Captain Tom regretted the temporary indisposition that

prevented immediate departure with them, and continued to sit and
drowse more and more in the big chair. It was Polly, with a
camaraderie distasteful to her uncle, who got these men aside and broke
the news that Captain Tom would never go out on the shining ways
again. But not all of them came with projects. Many made love-calls on
their leader of old and unforgetable days, and Frederick sometimes was
a witness to their meeting, and he marvelled anew at the mysterious
charm in his brother that drew all men to him.
"By the turtles of Tasman!" cried one, "when I heard you was in
California, Captain Tom, I just had to come and shake hands. I reckon
you ain't forgot Tasman, eh?--nor the scrap at Thursday Island.
Say--old Tasman was killed by his niggers only last year up German
New Guinea way. Remember his cook-boy?--Ngani-Ngani? He was the
ringleader. Tasman swore by him, but Ngani-Ngani hatcheted him just
the same."
"Shake hands with Captain Carlsen, Fred," was Tom's introduction of
his brother to another visitor. "He pulled me out of a tight place on the
West Coast once. I'd have cashed in, Carlsen, if you hadn't happened
along."
Captain Carlsen was a giant hulk of a man, with gimlet eyes of palest
blue, a slash-scarred mouth that a blazing red beard could not quite hide,
and a grip in his hand that made Frederick squirm.
A few minutes later, Tom had his brother aside.
"Say, Fred, do you think it will bother to advance me a thousand?"
"Of course," Frederick answered splendidly. "You know half of that I
have is yours, Tom."
And when Captain Carlsen departed, Frederick was morally certain that
the thousand dollars departed with him.
Small wonder Tom had made a failure of life--and come home to die.
Frederick sat at his own orderly desk taking stock of the difference

between him and his brother. Yes, and if it hadn't been for him, there
would have been no home for Tom to die in.
Frederick cast back for solace through their joint history. It was he who
had always been the mainstay, the dependable one. Tom had laughed
and rollicked, played hooky from school, disobeyed Isaac's
commandments. To the mountains or the sea, or in hot water with the
neighbours and the town authorities--it was all the same; he was
everywhere save where the dull plod of work obtained. And work was
work in those backwoods days, and he, Frederick, had done the work.
Early and late and all days he had been at it. He remembered the season
when Isaac's wide plans had taken one of their smashes, when food had
been scarce on the table of a man who owned a hundred thousand acres,
when there had been no money to hire harvesters for the hay, and when
Isaac would not let go his grip on a single one of his acres. He,
Frederick, had pitched the hay, while Isaac mowed and raked. Tom had
lain in bed and run up a doctor bill with a broken leg, gained by falling
off the ridge-pole of the barn--which place was the last in the world to
which any one would expect to go to pitch hay. About the only work
Tom had ever done, it seemed to him, was to fetch in venison and
bear-oil, to break colts, and to raise a din in the valley pastures and
wooded canyons with his bear-hounds.
Tom was the elder, yet when Isaac died, the estate, with all its vast
possibilities would have gone to ruin, had not he, Frederick, buckled
down to it and put the burden on his back. Work! He