The Captain of the Kansas — Reading Companion

ITEMS NOT IN THE MANIFEST CHAPTER II. WHEREIN THE CAPTAIN KEEPS TO HIS OWN QUARTERS CHAPTER III. WHEREIN THE CAPTAIN REAPPEARS CHAPTER IV. ELSIE GOES ON DECK CHAPTER V. THE KANSAS SUSTAINS A CHECK CHAPTER VI. —BUT GOES ON AGAIN INTO THE UNKNOWN CHAPTER VII. UNTIL THE DAWN CHAPTER VIII. IN A WILD HAVEN CHAPTER IX. A PROFESSOR OF WITCHCRAFT CHAPTER X. “MISSING AT LLOYDS” CHAPTER XI. CONFIDENCES CHAPTER XII. ENLIGHTENMENT CHAPTER XIII. THE FIGHT CHAPTER XIV. THE FIRST WATCH CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS CHAPTER XVI. CHRISTOBAL’S TEMPTATION CHAPTER XVII. A MAN’S METHOD—AND A WOMAN’S CHAPTER XVIII. A FULL NIGHT CHAPTER XIX. WHEREIN THE _KANSAS_ RESUMES HER VOYAGE

_The Captain of the Kansas_

CHAPTER I. ITEMS NOT IN THE MANIFEST

“I think I shall enjoy this trip,” purred Isobel Baring, nestling comfortably among the cushions of her deck chair. A steward was arranging tea for two at a small table. The _Kansas_, with placid hum of engines, was speeding evenly through an azure sea.

“I agree with that opinion most heartily, though, to be sure, so much depends on the weather,” replied her friend, Elsie Maxwell, rising to pour out the tea. Already the brisk sea-breeze had kissed the Chilean pallor from Elsie’s face, which had regained its English peach-bloom. Isobel Baring’s complexion was tinged with the warmth of a pomegranate. At sea, even in the blue Pacific, she carried with her the suggestion of a tropical garden.

“I never gave a thought to the weather,” purred Isobel again, as she subsided more deeply into the cushions.

“Let us hope such a blissful state of mind may be justified. But you know, dear, we may run into a dreadful gale before we reach the Straits.”

“All the better!” she cried. “People tell me I am a most fascinating invalid. I look like a creamy orchid. And what luck to have a chum so disinterested as you where a lot of nice men are concerned! What have I done to deserve it? Because you are really charming, you know.”

“Does that mean that you have already discovered a lot of nice men on board?”

Elsie handed her friend a cup of tea and a plate of toast.

“Naturally. While you were mooning over the lights and tints of the Andes, I kept an eye, both eyes in fact, on our compulsory acquaintances of the next three weeks. To begin with, there’s the captain.”

“He is good-looking, certainly. Somewhat reserved, I fancied.”

“Reserved!” Isobel showed all her fine teeth in a smile. Incidentally, she took a satisfactory bite out of a square of toast. “I’ll soon shake the reserve out of him. He is mine. You will see him play pet dog long before we meet that terrible gale of yours.”

“Isobel, you promised your father—”

“To look after my health during the voyage. Do you think that I intend only to sleep, eat, and read novels all the way to London? Then, indeed, I should be ill. But there is a French Comte on the ship. He is mine, too.”

“You mean to find safety in numbers?”

“Oh, there are others. Of course, I am sure of my little Count. He twisted his mustache with such an air when I skidded past him in the companionway.”

Elsie bent forward to give the chatterer another cup of tea.

“And you promised to read Molière at least two hours daily!” she sighed good-humoredly. Even the most sensible people, and Elsie was very sensible, begin a long voyage with idiotic programs of work to be done.

“I mean to substitute a live Frenchman for a dead one—that is all. And I am sure Monsieur le Comte Edouard de Poincilit will do our French far more good than ‘Les Fourberies de Scapin.’”

“Am I to be included in the lessons? And you actually know the man’s name already?”

“Read it on his luggage, dear girl. He has such a lot. See if he doesn’t wear three different colored shirts for breakfast, lunch, and tea. And, if _you_ refuse to help, who is to take care of le p’tit Edouard while I give the captain a trot round. Don’t look cross, there’s a darling, though you _do_ remind me, when you open your eyes that way, of a delightful little American schoolma’am I met in Lima. She had drifted that far on her holidays, and I believe she was horrified with me.”

“Perhaps she thought you were really the dreadful person you made yourself out to be. Now, Isobel, that does not matter a bit in Valparaiso, where you are known, but in Paris and London—”

“Where I mean to be equally well known, it is a passport to smart society to be _un peu risqué_. Steward! Give my compliments to Captain Courtenay, and say that Miss Maxwell and Miss Baring hope he will favor them with his company to tea.”

Elsie’s bright, eager face flushed slightly. She leaned forward, with a certain squaring of the shoulders, being a determined young person in some respects.

“For once, I shall let you off,” she said in a low voice. “So I give you fair warning, Isobel, I must not be included in impromptu invitations of that kind. Next time I shall correct your statement most emphatically.”

“Good gracious! I only meant to be polite. Tut, tut! as dad says when he can’t swear before ladies, I shan’t make the running for you any more.”

Elsie drummed an impatient foot on the deck. There was a little pause. Isobel closed her eyes lazily, but she opened them again when she heard her friend say:

“I am sorry if I seem crotchety, dear. Indeed, it is no pretense on my part. You cannot imagine how that man Ventana persecuted me. The mere suggestion of any one’s paying me compliments and trying to be fascinating is so repellent that I cringe at the thought. And even our sailor-like captain will think it necessary to play the society clown, I suppose, seeing that we are young and passably good-looking.”

Isobel Baring raised her head from the cushions.

“Ventana was a determined wooer, then? What did he do?” she asked.

“He—he pestered me with his attentions. Oh, I should have liked to flog him with a whip!”

“He was always that sort of person—too serious,” and the head dropped again.

The steward returned. He was a half-caste; his English was to the point.

“De captin say he busy, he no come,” was his message.

Elsie’s display of irritation vanished in a merry laugh. Isobel bounced up from the depths of the chair; her dark eyes blazed wrathfully.

“Tell him—” she began.

Then she mastered her annoyance sufficiently to ascertain what it was that Captain Courtenay had actually said, and she received a courteous explanation in Spanish that the commander could not leave the chart-house until the _Kansas_ had rounded the low-lying, red-hued Cape Caraumilla, which still barred the ship’s path to the south—the first stage of the long voyage from Valparaiso to London.

But pertinacity was a marked trait of the Baring family; otherwise, Isobel’s father, a bluff, church-warden type of man, would not have won his way to the chief place in the firm of Baring, Thompson, Miguel & Co., Mining and Export Agents, the leading house in Chile’s principal port. Notwithstanding Elsie’s previous outburst, the steward was sent back to ask if the ladies might visit the bridge later. Meanwhile, would Captain Courtenay like a cup of tea? All things considered, there was only one possible answer; Captain Courtenay would be charmed if they favored him with both the tea and their company.

“I thought so,” cried Isobel, triumphantly. “Come on, Elsie! Let us climb the ladder of conquest. The steward will bring the tea-things. The chart-house is just splendid. It will provide a refuge when the Count becomes too pressing.”

There was a tightening of Elsie’s lips to which Isobel paid no heed. The imminent protest was left unspoken, for Courtenay’s voice came to them:

“Please hold on by the rail. If a foot were to slip on one of those brass treads the remainder of the day would be a compound of tears and sticking-plaster.”

“I think you said ‘reserved,’” whispered Isobel to her companion with a wicked little laugh. To Courtenay, peering through a hatch in the hurricane deck, she cried:

“Is the brass rail more dependable than you, captain?”

“It will serve your present purpose, Miss Baring,” said he, not taking the hint.

Gathering her skirts daintily in her left hand, Isobel tripped up the steep stairs. Elsie followed. Courtenay, who had the manner and semblance of the first lieutenant of a warship, stood outside a haven of plate glass, shining mahogany, and white paint. The woodwork of the deck was scrubbed until it had the color of new bread. An officer paced the bridge; a sailor, within the chart-house, held the small wheel of the steam steering-gear. Somewhat to Isobel’s surprise, neither man seemed to be aware of her presence.

“So this is your den?” she said, throwing her bird-like glance over the bright interior, before she gave the commander a look which was designed to bewitch him instantly. “Surely you don’t sleep here, too?”

“Oh, no. This room is the brain of the ship, Miss Baring. We are always wide-awake here. My quarters are farther aft. I think I can find a chair for you if you care to sit down while I have my tea.”

The captain led the way to a spacious cabin behind the chart-house.

“I hope you don’t mind the chairs being secured to the deck,” he said, taking off his hat. “So far above sea line, you know, everything that is loose comes to grief when the ship rolls.”

“Then what becomes of your photographs?” demanded Isobel, promptly, her quick eyes having discovered the pictures of two ladies in silver frames on a writing-table.

“I take care to put them away. There is always plenty of warning. No ordinary sea can trouble a big hulk like the _Kansas_.”

“Is that your mother, the dear old lady in the lace cap?”

“Yes, and the other is my sister.”

“Oh, really! Is she married?”

“No. Like me, she is wedded to her profession.”

“Will you think it rude if I ask what that is?”

“She is a hospital nurse; the matron, indeed, of a public institution in the suburbs of London.”

“How wonderful! I do admire hospital nurses so much. They are so clever and self-sacrificing, and they always have a smile on their sweet faces. Only dad wouldn’t hear of such a thing, I should love to be a nurse myself.”

And Isobel sighed, dropped her long eyelashes, and examined the toe of a smart brown shoe with a wistful resignation. Courtenay was politely incredulous, but the arrival of the steward with the replenished tea-tray created a diversion.

“Do let me pour your tea,” cried Isobel. “I make lovely tea, don’t I, Elsie?”

Elsie laughed so cheerfully that Isobel flashed an interrogatory glance at her. Certainly, the notion of Isobel Baring claiming the domestic virtues was amusing. But Elsie answered at once:

“I know few things that you cannot do admirably, dear.”

So Isobel filled a cup, asked if Captain Courtenay took milk and sugar, and said demurely, with a sip of a spoonful:

“Let me see if I can guess your tastes.”

Elsie’s blue eyes assumed a deeper shade. Men might like that kind of thing, but she felt that her face and neck would be poppy red in another moment. Thus far she had not addressed a word to Courtenay, though by his manner he had included her in the conversation. She now resolved to break in on the attack which Isobel was beginning with the adroitness of a skilled campaigner. And she, too, could use her eyes to advantage when she chose.

“What a curious library you have, Captain Courtenay,” she said, looking, not at him, but at a row of books fitting closely into a small case over the writing-table. Instantly the sailor was interested.

“Why ‘curious,’ Miss Maxwell?” he asked.

“First, in their assortment; secondly, in the similarity of their binding. I have never before seen the Bible, Walt Whitman, and Dumas in covers exactly alike.”

“That is easily explained. They are bound to order. My real trouble was to secure editions of equal size—an essential, you see—otherwise they would not pack into their shelf.”

“But what a gathering! Shakespeare, the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, Montaigne’s Essays, Herbert Spencer, _Goethe’s Life_, by Lewes, Marcus Aurelius, Martial, Wordsworth, _The Egoist_, Thoreau, Hazlitt, and Mitford’s _Tales of Old Japan_! Where have I heard or read of that particular galaxy of stars before?”

“Go on. You are on the right track,” cried Courtenay, setting down the teacup and hastening to Elsie’s side. She was leaning on the table, reading the titles of the books. The motive of her exclamation was merged now in the fine ardor of the book-lover. She had an unconscious trick of placing the forefinger of her right hand on her lips when deeply engaged in thought. Elegant as Isobel Baring might be in her studied poses, Elsie need fear no comparison as she examined the contents of the bookcase with eager attention.

“Why the _Vicomte de Bragelonne_ only, and not the _Three Musketeers_?” she mused aloud. “And if the _Life of Goethe_, why not his poems, his essays, _Werther_?—Ah, I know—‘the crowning offence of _Werther_.’ A Stevenson library! Each volume he recommends in ‘Books which have influenced men,’ I suppose? What a charming idea! I shall never forgive myself for not having thought of it long ago.”

Courtenay laughed and blushed like any schoolgirl. Elsie’s appreciation had a downright, honest ring in it that went far beyond the platitudes. She accorded him the ready comradeship of a kin soul.

“Many people have been surprised by my collection; you are the first to discover its inspiration,” he said.

“That is not strange. There are so few who read. Reading means discerning, interpreting. I am a worshiper of R. L. S., but I have been shocked to find that for a hundred who can talk glibly of his novels there is hardly one who has communed with him in his essays.”

“We have actually hit upon a topic that should prove inexhaustible. Believe me, Miss Maxwell, that is my pet subject. More than once, needing a listener, I have even lectured my long-suffering terrier, Joey, on the point.”

Isobel laughed softly. The two standing in front of the bookcase started apart, with a sudden consciousness that they were speaking unguardedly, for Isobel’s mirth had mockery in it—“there was a laughing devil in her sneer.”

“By the way, where is Joey?” she asked.

The dog answered her question by appearing, with a stretch and a yawn, from beneath a bunk. He had heard his name in Courtenay’s voice. That sufficed for Joey at any time.

“What a strange animal!” went on Isobel. “I should have thought that he would bark, or peep out at us, at the least, when we came in.”

“Joey had a disturbed night,” said Courtenay. “We passed the evening in the Hotel Colon, and he regards South American hotels as the natural dwelling-place of cats, and other bad characters. Here, he is at home, and he knew that I was present.”

“Otherwise, he would have classified us as suspicious?”

“He is far too discriminating. What do you say, pup?”

Joey looked up at his master. Apparently, he found the conversation trivial; he yawned again, capaciously.

“You darling! You must have slept with one eye open,” said Elsie, stooping to pat him.

“Oh, take care!” cried Isobel. “He may bite you.”

“Not he! When you see that wistful look in a dog’s eyes, have no fear. He wants to speak then. You won’t bite me, will you, dear?” And Elsie sank on one knee, to stroke Joey’s white coat; whereupon Joey tried to lick her face.

“Between the Stevenson Library and the captain’s dog you are installed as a prime favorite on board the _Kansas_,” commented Isobel. The other girl rose hurriedly. She had caught the touch of malice in the smooth voice.

“Captain Courtenay is too polite to remind us that we are intruders,” she said lightly. “We forget that he is busy. Joey, candidly canine, did not try to hide his feelings.”

Isobel swung her chair round to face the door.

“This is quite the best place in the ship,” she said. “I am very comfortable, thank you. Please don’t send us away, captain.”

Before Courtenay could answer, the officer of the watch looked in.

“Cape Caraumilla bearing sou’west of the Buei Rock, sir,” he announced, and vanished again.

“Don’t hurry,” said Courtenay, taking up his cap. “I must leave you for a few minutes.”

He was gone, with Joey at his heels, and there was a brief silence.

“Really, Isobel, we should go back on deck,” urged Elsie, uneasily. Already she half regretted the impulse which led her to intervene in her friend’s special hobby.

“I like that. I didn’t credit you with such guile, Elsie Maxwell. You snap up my nice captain beneath my very nose, and coolly propose that I should vacate the battlefield. Oh dear, no! I can’t talk literature, but I _can_ flirt, and I have not finished with Arthur yet by a long chalk.”

“Isobel, if you knew how you hurt me—”

Miss Baring crossed her pretty feet, folded her arms, and gave her companion a smiling glance.

“So artful, too. ‘Love me, love my dog,’ eh? You actually took my breath away.”

“It may amaze you to learn that I meant to achieve that much, at any rate,” was Elsie’s quiet retort as she turned to select a volume from the queer miscellany in the bookcase.

“Oh, don’t be cruel. Leave me my Frenchman! Say you won’t wheedle Edouard by quoting the classics of his native tongue! Poor me! Here have I been warming a serpent in my bosom.”

With a _moue_ of make-believe anguish Isobel leaned back in her chair. She was insolently conscious of her superior attractions. Was she not the richest heiress in Valparaiso? Had not her father chartered this ship? And was not Elsie even now flying from an unwelcome suitor? She knew full well that her friend would resent the slightest semblance of love-making on the part of any man on board. Already her astonishment at Elsie’s unlooked-for vivacity was yielding to the humor of meeting such a rival. The Count might serve as a foil, but the real quarry now was the captain. That very night there would be a moon. And the sea was calm as a sheltered lake. Isobel’s lips parted in a delighted smile as she tried to imagine Courtenay deserting her to discuss those celebrities whom Elsie had made the most of. And how she would play off the Count against the captain! They ought to be at daggers drawn long before the Straits of Magellan were reached. Certainly she never expected such sport on board such a humdrum ship as the _Kansas_.

Suddenly they both heard an excited bark from the dog, and the quick rush of feet along the deck; Courtenay’s voice reached them with a new and startling note in it.

“Stop that!” he shouted.

There was an instant’s pause. Their alert ears caught the sounds of a distant scuffle. Then a pistol shot jarred the peaceful drone of the ship.

“Sheer off, there!” roared Courtenay again. “Next time I shoot to kill!”—

With terror in their eyes, with blanched cheeks, they rushed to the door and peeped out. Courtenay was not to be seen, but the officer of the watch was swinging himself over the canvas shield of the bridge. He disappeared. Joey, barking furiously, trotted into view and ran back again. Creeping forward, they saw the stolid sailor within the chart-house squint at the compass and give the wheel a slight turn. That was reassuring. Yet another timorous pace, and through the curving window they could discern Courtenay, holding a revolver in his right hand, but behind his back.

Even in their alarm they realized that nothing very terrible would happen now. But why had the shot been fired, and what had given that tense ring to Courtenay’s threat?