Part 9

They obeyed him, and drew away. Of course, they did not know. I ran aft to the companion. Dunbar and Lance were just at the upper step. Dunbar was speaking, quietly, softly, yet intensely upon the matter in hand--the absolute necessity of their both dying. He had one hand on Lance's throat, the other upon his hair, and he was dragging him bodily out of the companion.

"Dunbar!" I shouted, "stop this. You are insane. Put him in irons and take time to think. Then you will not want to do this. Think, Dunbar."

He did not answer. His grim, determined face did not change nor soften. He was the master of the other and was using his power. Slowly, while Lance struggled and shrieked for help, he dragged him over toward the rail.

"Drop your wheel," I said to the helmsman, "and help me to stop this murder and suicide."

"Can't leave the wheel, sir," the man answered. "Get some of the other fellows."

The other fellows were under control of the mate, careful of his job. I was in despair, and in my despair I threw myself upon Dunbar, demanding that he desist. He struck me down with a blow, and while I was in a half-comatose condition, I saw a white-clad figure emerge from the companion, and approach the contestants. It was Ella, in her night robe, pale and weak, but determined.

"John," she said, as she laid her hand on the shoulder of Dunbar, "John Dunbar. Stop. If you do this I will die, too. Do you want to kill me? Stop, or you _will_ kill me. Stop, John Dunbar, and think of me, the woman you say you loved."

Dunbar released his hold on Lance, and while the terror-stricken scoundrel rushed to the companion, he turned toward the girl, his face twisting with the conflicting emotions of his brain. I staggered to my feet, reached her side and supported her.

"John Dunbar," she continued, "you are too big, and strong, and brave, to do this thing--to kill yourself so that you may kill another. Live, so that I may live, too. God will care for him."

Dunbar shook like a man with the ague, and it was some time before he could control his voice in answer.

"I _can_ live," he stammered, "for you. But, is it possible? You love him."

"I do not. He killed my child--his child."

Dunbar stiffened up and looked around.

"Mr. Wright," he called to the first mate. "Put the owner in irons and lock him in his room."

"Aye, aye, sir," answered the officer.

And so, with the help of four husky, able seamen, Mr. George Lance, owner of the yacht _Sylph_, was ironed and confined by order of his sailing-master, charged with the crime of murder.

We returned to New York. Ella, collapsing in my arms after her declaration to Dunbar, was put to bed by my wife, and slowly recovered her strength. Dunbar, somewhat changed by what she had said, grew tranquil, but non-committal. My wife recovered her equanimity, and expressed hope for the future, in which hope I joined her; but Lance, with his wrists linked by handcuffs, and his soul tortured by deadly fear, reviled us all whenever his opened stateroom door gave him opportunity.

There is little more to this story. We anchored, handed Lance over to the harbor police, and went home to await the trial. Dunbar, whose testimony was not needed, secured command of a ship and went to sea. Ella remained in seclusion and was not dragged into the trial when it came off; for Lance, on the evidence furnished by the man at the wheel, my wife and myself, was easily convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. But there were the usual appeals and retrials, and, pending the final disposal of the case, and with regard to Ella's future, I moved my goods and chattels to a far-away city, there to build up a new practice in a community that knew nothing of the trial.

But John Dunbar followed us, and, considering the preliminary reference to astrology that appeared in this story, it is but fitting to close with the statement that on the day Dunbar married Ella Madison, Lance entered the penitentiary, there to remain for the rest of his life.

THE EQUATION

Captain Bill Flanders walked down East Twenty-third Street toward the Yacht Club dock, tired, mentally and physically. Back and forth from the big steam yacht which he commanded, to ship chandler, boss carpenter, boss painter and boss rigger, he had traveled, night and day, for four weeks; but at last the work was done, and the yacht, shining like a piece of cabinet work, waited at anchor off the landing for the owner and his daughter, who, with other guests, were to make the Mediterranean cruise.

Bill had not slept for the last two nights, nor bathed nor shaved for the last four. He was irritable, cranky, and when he came upon a crowd of half-grown hoodlums egging a mongrel dog on to a small black kitten in the clutches of one, Bill gave way. He spared the dog, for the dog was palpably not in sympathy with the project, but he mercilessly punished the rest. First, he grabbed the kitten, and stowed the wee creature in his pocket, then he went for the gang, and, with fists and boots, so afflicted them that they fled, howling and swearing, from his vicinity. He sped them with stronger profanity, and when the last rowdy had disappeared around the corners or into saloons, Bill went his way with the kitten purring gratefully under his big but soft hand.

Bill felt better for the experience. Bill was a bachelor, whose life's experiences had been sadly devoid of sentiment. He was, or had been, a "bilge midshipman," as they say in the navy--that is, a student at Annapolis who had failed to pass the final examination, and had then gone to sea as he could, simply for the love of the sea. He had put in one voyage before the mast in a Yankee ship, and learned self-control; had sailed in English ships, and learned to eat anything edible not named in the Board of Trade allowance; had tried Norwegian, German, Italian, Scotch, and Russian craft, and learned the fundamentals of the Brotherhood of Man; and then, waking up, he had taken to American yachts, and soon risen to command. He was a blond giant, smooth-shaven and gentle of speech, except when aroused; then his face grew dark, and his voice took on the accents of a fireman's trumpet.

It was late in the evening; he hailed the anchor watch, and the dingey put off and took him aboard. He saw that all was well, and turned in, first feeding the kitten and stowing it in his berth. In the morning the little black mite was still with him, and he fed it again, then shut it in his room while he attended to business. And it may be mentioned here that, as the days went on, the kitten grew plump and playful and lovable, while Big Bill Flanders' big heart grew bigger as it infolded the pet.

But the business of that morning was the cleaning up of the yacht, and the taking aboard of the owner and guests. They came, at ten o'clock, and Captain Bill and the steward received them at the gangway. The owner was the conventional wealthy man, dignified and severe, who spoke sternly to his sailing-master, politely to his guests, and smiled only upon his daughter, a person who invited and demanded smiles. The abashed steward smiled, as he took her bundle of shawls from her; Big Bill smiled, as he sent forward a thundering order for men to lift the baggage out of the boat; and the cabin-boy smiled, as he opened the companion door for her. She was about twenty-one, with dark hair and eyes, and of medium height and build, beautiful, as men value beauty, but with the additional charm of presence that we cannot name except as personality. The friends of such people smile with them, laugh with them, frown with them, and suffer with them, and each thinks it emotion of his own. She had smiled upon Bill, and he went forward, smiling himself, and happier than he had been for years--for all the years since he had hoped for his commission, and failed to pass the test. He spared a few moments to the kitten, fondling, stroking, and caressing it, then tucking it snugly beneath his blanket against the time when he would come again.

In bringing this kitten aboard, Bill was guilty of disobedience; the owner had told him explicitly that the big yacht was to be kept clear of cats. But as the owner had given no reason for this embargo, he had considered it merely the whim of the moment, expressed by an irritable old man, and forgot it quickly.

Bill conned the big steam yacht down the river, through the Narrows, and out to sea by the Ambrose Channel; then, just a little tired, and able to enjoy a smoke, he was about to call the mate to the bridge, when Miss Mayhew appeared. She climbed the steps, rigged out in a hooded mackintosh--for there was a Scotch mist in the air--and with her was one of the guests--a tall, well-built, intellectual-looking fellow named Pearson, a lawyer, as Bill knew by the steward's gossip, and a devoted attendant on Miss Mayhew.

"You are the captain, aren't you?" ventured the girl. "Do you know, Captain Flanders, that I've never met a real captain in my life, until now, though I've read of so many? Have you ever led a cavalry charge?"

"What?" gasped Bill. "Why, Miss Mayhew! No, I'm a seafaring man, not a soldier."

"There are several kinds of captain, Miss Mayhew," interposed the lawyer, smiling. "There is the captain of a battleship, we'll say, or of a cruiser, a destroyer, or the captain of a merchant ship, a North River sloop, a mud scow, a tug, or a canal boat; then we have captains in the army, who might lead cavalry charges and we have captains of militia--tin soldiers, some call them--and captains of industry, captains in the Salvation Army, captains of police, and captains of boy soldiers in the parochial and industrial schools."

"And where, and how, do you classify me?" said Bill, his eyes opened wide, and his voice tense and restrained.

"You?" said the lawyer. "Why, under the rules of the New York Yacht Club, you are not a 'captain,' but a 'mister.' You are Mister Flanders, not Captain Flanders."

"I am?" stuttered Bill, in a suppressed fury of rage. "Yes, you're right. Under the rules of the club I am mister, while the owner is captain, but in the minds of my crew I am called captain of this ship, and away from soundings, under the law, I _am_ captain, with power, backed by the law, to put a recalcitrant guest in irons if he gets too fresh. Get off this bridge instantly, or I'll call my men; and if you resist, I'll have you in irons."

"You will?" asked the smiling Pearson. "Well, all right; put me in irons, and I will deprive you of your license."

"You will not!" stormed Bill. "We're off the three-mile limit, and on the high seas. Get off this bridge, or I will confine you for mutinous insubordination. Go, and go quickly, or I'll call the boatswain."

"Gentlemen, Captain Flanders, Mr. Pearson," interposed the girl, anxiety and apprehension in her face. "Please do not quarrel. Why should you?"

She looked appealingly at Bill, and his rage left him. Yet it took a moment or two before he could speak sanely, then he said:

"Of course not. Mr. Pearson, I apologize for my share in this."

"And I apologize for mine," responded the lawyer; "but I think it best, Miss Mayhew, that we go down now. Good afternoon, Mister Flanders."

He smiled sweetly as he spoke, and turned his back; the girl smiled, too, but from a different motive, as Bill could readily perceive. There was trouble in her face--embarrassment, shame, and sympathy--and something else which Bill could not analyze.

"Don't mind," she whispered, then followed her escort down the steps.

Bill called his first mate, gave him the course, and went to his room abaft the pilot house. Here he lit his pipe, and lay down--all standing--in his berth; but not to sleep, only to think of the bright face peeping out of the mackintosh hood, and the troubled smile, and the whispered admonition. He thought, too, of the blackness of lawyers, and dozed off profanely reviling them to be wakened by the purring and caresses of the kitten. Bill petted the small thing, and forgot Mr. Pearson, but remembered the troubled smile and the whispered words.

After that the girl came many times to the bridge, and always without escort of father or admirer. There were plenty of these, and Bill took the measure of all, as he glanced aft occasionally, and saw them dancing attendance upon her. There was a little slim fellow, named Arsdale, whom the steward described as an artist; a big, portly gentleman, named Muggins, who was a famed short-story writer--and Bill, as he looked at him, wondered why he himself could not write short stories and be famous--and a magazine editor on his vacation, a fine fellow, as men go, one who had especially commended himself to Bill by his tact, his appreciation of the big fellow's inborn qualities, and by his deprecation of his own. "I'm only an editor," he had said, "a critic of other men's work. I'd give my job if I could do something original, if I could write something, or do something, or paint something, or kill something. I have tried the last, but never succeeded; the authors I tried to kill got new life from other editors, so--what's the use?" This man's name was Elkins, and Bill liked him, until he saw Miss Mayhew smiling on him; then he classed him in with the rest. A man in love is not reasonable, and this was Big Bill's condition, as he was forced to remind himself when the gossipy steward informed him that, to the best of his understanding, Miss Mayhew was an adopted daughter, and in no way likely to inherit the vast wealth of the father--stocks and bonds, steamship lines, railroads, and such things. As a rich man's daughter, she was out of his reach, and, as an honorable man with a full supply of self-respect, he could not make an advance. But as a ward, a poor dependent, she was on his level, and the big soul of the big boy rejoiced. He loved her, and he would have her. So he told himself, joyously and courageously.

Another man among the guests worried Bill, until he learned that he was the family doctor; he worried him by his assiduous attentions to the girl, even against the presence of his own wife in the party, and it was the owner himself who set the matter right. Doctor Calkins, it transpired, had been a member of the family, practically, since the girl was born. So, with his rivals all placed and classified, Big Boy Bill grew tranquil. But he still kept his eye on Pearson.

And so the big yacht charged across the Atlantic, with Bill on the bridge or in his room with the kitten, the male contingent of the guests attending upon Miss Mayhew, and Miss Mayhew herself seemingly indifferent to their attentions, manifesting a strong desire for Bill's society on the bridge. She came, as often as she could, to talk with him, to scold him for imagined masculine peccadilloes, and to smile upon him. And Bill went under.

He knew, as all men know under such conditions, that the small, sweet girl loved him as the little kitten loved him, just because he was big, and strong, and protective. And while he could not, under the circumstances, manifest his response to the girl, he took it out of the kitten when off duty; he would grab the little thing, bring it up to his lips, kiss it, and fondle it, and hug it--all of which brought response from the cat in the shape of scratch marks on Bill's face; for cats are not psychologists; they know nothing of the workings of the male human mind.

But still the cat was fond of Bill, as manifested by purrings and kittenish advances, and Bill was no less fond of the cat, in spite of the scratches on his face. He gave the small creature the caresses that he would have given the girl that he loved, had he have been allowed to. Yet there came a moment when he was perilously near to being allowed to.

She joined him on the bridge, when his first mate was asleep, the guests aft in deck chairs, and the father and owner below in his room; she had brought her fancywork--mysterious to Bill, for he saw nothing but scissors, needles, and an expanse of white cloth, all of which he knew nothing about.

There was a half gale of wind blowing; the awning was furled, the weather cloths stretched along the bridge railing, and the deck chairs of the guests placed in snug positions under the lee of the houses; there was a lively sea rolling, which prevented any great activity of mind or body in the guests, and no one seemed to care that the owner's daughter came to the bridge. Bill brought her a chair from his room, and incidentally aroused the kitten from sleep; the kitten purred, and, receiving only one pat and stroke, followed her big master to the door of the room. There she stood, looking out on the stormy sea, and, no doubt, jealous of the other kittenish creature in the mackintosh, whom Bill was seating in the chair.

The small fluffy lump of darkness saw her lord and master apparently petting another creature, and came out on the bridge, shivering with cold, yet animated by a purpose of protest. She crept up to the pair, out of sight of the man at the wheel in the pilot house and sprang on to Bill's shoulders, purring contentedly, and giving him a tentative dig of admonition with her sharp claws. Bill reached up, to pet her and bring her down--possibly to introduce her to the girl. But this was not permitted. Miss Mayhew screamed, stood up, and backed away, her eyes wide open in terror and dismay; then Bill, dimly understanding that the cat was an interloper, took it down, and tossed it toward the door of his room. Then the girl, uttering incoherent little cries, of terror, flung herself into his arms and the big fellow infolded her, kissing and comforting her, and promising protection from danger which he did not sense or understand. The man at the wheel was busy, the guests more or less asleep; no one saw but the slighted kitten. Bill kissed the frightened little face again and again, and the outraged kitten acted. With one leap she reached Miss Mayhew's shoulders, and, spitting and purring her hatred and love, she separated the two. The girl, gasping and choking, shrank back, struck the small creature a blow that sent it flying three yards away, and went insane. She turned on Bill in a fury of rage, and, while she uttered no word that could not be printed in a modern novel, yet there was enough of invective, threat, and menace in her attitude to make the big man back away from her, shocked and horrified beyond conception. The girl followed him, waving her scissors, tightly clutched in her hand, her eyes blazing, her face distorted in furious rage, and her small body quivering with the emotions that racked it.

"You cowardly dog!" she screamed. "You dared to play this trick on me? If God will help me, I will kill you."

She lunged at Bill with the scissors, and he dodged. He could not speak in protest or argument; he was too surprised and shaken. All he could do was to run to the door of his room. She followed part way, and then paused, her eyes still blazing, and her face distorted; yet she seemed to be trying to control herself.

"Don't ever, while you live," she said calmly, "speak to me again, or attempt to."

"Very well, Miss Mayhew," answered Bill gravely. "I'm sorry, but I do not understand."

He turned into his room, as the best place for him, and noticed the black kitten darting out. Then he heard a scream from the girl, and turned to look. She was making for the bridge stairs, her scissors still tightly clutched, and the wee, black cause of the trouble chasing her. Bill caught his pet, and shut it in with him, while he smoked, and thought, and deduced, with the logic of a poor man, on the never-solved problem--the inscrutability of women.

In half an hour he was aroused by a shout, and went on deck. His men were tumbling out of the forecastle; stewards, cooks, and guests were scrambling forward, and a glance down from the head of the steps showed Bill the cause. Miss Mayhew lay prone on the deck, the scissors still gripped in her small hand, but the points driven into her side, and a pool of blood drifting down to the scuppers from the wound. Bill jumped clear of every step, and, landing beside her, picked her up. She was unconscious, and her eyes were closed. It took an effort of strength, but he drew the scissors out of the wound, and looked helplessly into the face of the doctor.

"What happened?" asked the latter. "Well, never mind what happened. She has fallen down the stairs and wounded herself with her scissors. Carry her aft. We must stop this effusion of blood. Heavens"--he looked at the deck--"she has bled a quart already. Aft with her quickly."

Bill carried the limp and bleeding form back to the cabin, and, having laid it gently on the bed in her stateroom, was moved to go. He was sailing master; the agonized father was there, the doctor, a member of the family and acting the part; the doctor's wife, a motherly and practical old lady, and a group of quiet, gentlemanly, and questioning rivals, whom Bill had no love for and who invited their own destruction by the looks they gave him. Bill went to the bridge, called his mate, then, capturing the steward on his way forward to the galley, ordered him to report, as he valued his life, on the condition of the sick girl. The steward promised, and Bill waited on the bridge.

The steward went aft, and Bill watched him come up on the run and race forward. Bill again cleared the bridge stairs at a jump, and met him.

"Dying, captain," gasped the steward. "Dying from loss of blood."

Bill went aft--he never remembered whether he walked or ran--and bolted down the stairs, shoving aside the small Arsdale, the big Muggins, the athletic Parsons, and even the gentlemanly Elkins, all of them white in the face, as they hovered near the stateroom door, and burst into the room, where the grief-stricken father, the anxious doctor, and the weeping Mrs. Calkins hovered over the quiet, unconscious form on the bed. The rivals followed him in, but did not attempt to get between him and the girl. The doctor looked around at them, while Bill leaned over and raised the girl's head in the palm of his hand. He choked, but did not speak.

"Nothing but transfusion of blood will save her," said Doctor Calkins. "Who will volunteer?"

"I will," stuttered young Arsdale.

"You won't do, young man," said the doctor, coldly. "You're not big enough, and need all the blood you have for yourself."

"Then I'm the man," said Muggins, the author. "Heavens, what an experience! What a story I can make of it!"

"You won't do, sir," repeated the doctor to this aspirant. "Your blood is impregnated with alcohol, and Lord knows what. I would as soon inoculate her with vitriol." Mr. Muggins left the room.

Mr. Pearson drew back, very pale in the face, evidently impressed with the thought that he was expected to offer himself to the sacrifice; but no one seemed to notice, and Mr. Elkins, the editor, faced the doctor.

"I have mentioned to the captain," he said, "my wish to do something, be something, make something, before I die. I am a healthy man, Doctor Calkins, and I offer myself."

The doctor looked him over approvingly.

"It will take a full quart of your blood. You may not survive."

"Take it," said Elkins firmly. "I will run the chance."

Bill looked up, dazed and shaking. He had dimly recognized the drift of the talk, but now grasped the fact in its entirety that a man--another than himself--was ready to die for this girl that he loved. It was preposterous, unthinkable, and impossible. He laid the girl's head back on the pillow, and motioned Mr. Elkins out of the room. Mr. Elkins went quickly and quietly. There was that in Bill's face that induced him to obey the gesture.

Pearson and Arsdale followed as quickly, stumbling somewhat in their haste, and even the stern old father drew away from Bill.

"Does she need my blood?" asked Bill grimly. "I've plenty to spare. Take it all."

"You are needed to command this boat," said the doctor.