Marston rolled the plugging cigar to a corner of his mouth and inquired, "Now, young man, tell me what you mean by saluting a Bee line steamer with my whistle?"

"I did not salute the _Conomo_, sir."

"You gave her three whistles."

"Yes, but--"

"You're on a gentleman's yacht now, young man, and not on a fishing-steamer. Yachting etiquette doesn't allow a steam-whistle to be sounded in salute. Mr. Beveridge has just looked it up for me, and I know, and you need not a.s.sume any of your important knowledge." Marston seemed to be displaying much more irritation than a small matter warranted. But what he added afforded more light on the subject. "The manager of the Bee line was on board that steamer. You heard him hoot that siren at me!"

"I heard him give me cross-signals in defiance of the rules of the road, sir."

"Didn't you know that he whistled at me as an insult--as a sneer?"

"I heard only ordinary signals, sir."

"Everything is ordinary to a sailor's observation! You allowed him to crowd you off your course. You made a spectacle of my yacht, splashing it around like a frightened duck."

"I was avoiding collision, sir."

"You should have made your bigness with my yacht! You sneaked and dodged like a fishing-boat skipper. Was it on a fishing-boat you were trained to those tricks?"

"I have commanded a fishing-steamer, sir."

"On top of it all you gave him three whistles--regular fishing-boat manners, eh?"

Captain Mayo straightened and his face and eyes expressed the spirit of a Yankee skipper who knew that he was right.

"I say," insisted Marston, "that you saluted him."

"And I say, sir, that he cross-signaled, an offense that has lost masters their licenses. When I was pinched I gave him three whistles to say that my engines were going full speed astern. If Mr. Beveridge had looked farther in that book he might have found that rule, too!"

"When I looked up at the bridge, here, you were waving your hand to him--three whistles and a hand-wave! You can't deny that you were saluting!"

"I was shaking my fist at him, sir."

Within himself Captain Mayo was frankly wondering because the owner of the _Olenia_ was displaying all this heat. He remembered the taunt from the pilot-house of the _Conomo_ and understood vaguely that there were depths in the affair which he had not fathomed. But he was in no mood to atone vicariously for the offenders aboard the _Conomo_.

"If I could have found a New York captain who knew the short cuts along this coast I could have had some decency and dignity on board my yacht.

I'm even forgetting my own sense of what is proper--out here wasting words and time in this fashion. You're all of the same breed, you down-easters!"

"I am quite sure you can find a New York captain--" began Mayo.

"I don't want your opinion in regard to my business, young man. When I need suggestions from you I'll ask for them." He flung his soggy cigar over the rail and went down the ladder, and the fog closed immediately behind him.

Captain Mayo paced the bridge. He was alone there. A deck-hand had hooded the bra.s.s of the binnacle and search-light, listening while the owner had called the master to account. Mayo knew that the full report of that affair would be carried to the forecastle. His position aboard the yacht had become intolerable. He wondered how much Marston would say aft. His cheeks were hot and rancor rasped in his thoughts. In the hearing of the girl he adored his shortcomings would be the subject for a few moments of contemptuous discourse, even as the failings of cooks form a topic for idle chatter at the dinner-table.

Out of the blank silence of the wrapping fog came many sounds. Noises carried far and the voice of an unseen singer, who timed himself to the clank of an Apple-treer pump, brought to Mayo the words of an old shanty:

"Come all you young fellows that follow the sea, Now pray pay attention and lis-ten to me.

O blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!

Way-ay, blow the man down.

O blow the man down in Liverpool town!

Give me some time to blow the man down.

'Twas aboard a Black-Bailer I first served my time, And in that Black-Bailer I wasted my prime.

'Tis larboard and starboard on deck you will sprawl, For blowers and strikers command the Black Ball.

So, it's blow the man down, bullies--"

Alma Marston's voice interrupted his somber appreciation of the significance of that ditty. "Are you up there, Boyd?" she asked, in cautious tones.

He hurried to the head of the ladder and saw her at its foot, half hidden in the mists even at that short distance. He reached down his hand and she came up, grasping it.

She was studying his expression with both eagerness and apprehension. "I couldn't stay away from you any longer," she declared. "The fog is good to us! Father could not see me as I came forward. I must tell you, Boyd.

He has ordered me to stay aft."

He did not speak.

"Has he dared to say to you what he has been saying below about you?"

"I don't think it needed any especial daring on your father's part; I am only his servant," he said, with bitterness.

"And he--he insulted you like that?"

"I suppose your father did not look on what he said as insult. I repeat, I am a paid servant."

"But what you did was right! I know it must have been right, for you know everything about what is right to do on the sea."

"I understand my duties."

"And he blamed you for something?"

"It was a bit worse than that from my viewpoint." He smiled down at her, for her eyes were searching his face as if appealing for a bit of consolation.

"Boyd, don't mind him," she entreated. "Somebody who has been fighting him in business has been very naughty. I don't know just what it's all about. But he has so many matters to worry him. And he snaps at me just the same, every now and then."

"Yes, some men are cowards enough to abuse those who must look to them for the comforts of this world," he declared.

"We must make allowances."

"I'll not stay in a position where a man who hires me thinks he can talk to me as if I were a foremast hand. Alma, you would despise me if I allowed myself to be kicked around like a dog."

"I would love you all the more for being willing to sacrifice something for my sake. I want you here--here with all your love--here with me as long as these summer days last." She patted his cheek. "Why don't you tell me that you want to stay with me, Boyd? That you will die if we cannot be together? We can see each other here. I can bring Nan Burgess on the bridge with me. Father will not mind then. Let each day take care of itself!"

"I want to be what you want me to be--to do what you want me to do. But I wish you would tell me to go out into the world and make something of myself. Alma, tell me to go! And wait for me!"

She laid her face against his shoulder and reached for his fingers, endeavoring to pull one of his arms about her. But both of his hands were clutching the rail of the bridge. He resisted.

"Are you going to be like all the rest? Just money and trouble and worry?" She stretched up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his fog-wet cheek. "Are you asleep, my big boy? Yesterday you were awake."

"I think I am really awake to-day, and that I was dreaming yesterday.