Blow the Man Down by Holman Day (read the beginning after the end novel .TXT) 📖

the rest of this watch and the middle watch, Mr. McGaw," offered the captain. "I want to stay up to-night. I can't go to sleep."
The offer meant that Captain Mayo proposed to stay on duty until four o'clock in the morning.
Mate McGaw fiddled a gnarled finger under his nose and tried to find some words of protest. But Captain Mayo added a crisp command.
"Go below, Mr. McGaw, and take it easy. You can make it up to me some time when there is no moon!" He laughed.
When all the cabin lights were out and he realized that she must be asleep, he walked the bridge, exulting because her safety was in his hands, but supremely exultant because she loved him and had told him so.
Obedience had been in the line of his training.
She had commanded him to live and love in the present, allowing the future to take care of itself, and it afforded him a sense of sweet companionship to obey her slightest wish when he was apart from her. Therefore, he put aside all thoughts of Julius Marston and his millions--Julius Marston, his master, owner of the yacht which swept on under the moon--that frigid, silent man with the narrow strip of frosty beard pointing his chin.
Mayo walked the bridge and lived and loved.


II ~ THEN CAPTAIN MAYO SEES SHOALS
There's naught upon the stern, there's naught upon the lee,
Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we.
But there's a lofty ship to windward,
And she's sailing fast and free,
Sailing down along the coast of the high Barbaree.
--Ancient Shanty.
The skipper of the _Olenia_ found himself dabbling in guesses and wonderment more than is good for a man who is expected to obey without asking the reason why.
That cruise seemed to be a series of spasmodic alternations between leisurely loafing and hustling haste.
There were days when he was ordered to amble along at half speed offshore. Then for hours together Julius Marston and his two especial and close companions, men of affairs, plainly, men of his kind, bunched themselves close together in their hammock chairs under the poop awning and talked interminably. Alma Marston and her young friends, chaperoned by an amiable aunt--so Captain Mayo understood her status in the party--remained considerately away from the earnest group of three. Arthur Beveridge attached himself to the young folks.
From the bridge the captain caught glimpses of all this shipboard routine. The yacht's saunterings offshore seemed a part of the summer vacation.
But the occasional hurryings into harbors, the conferences below with men who came and went with more or less attempt at secrecy, did not fit with the vacation side of the cruise.
These conferences were often followed by orders to the captain to thread inner reaches of the coast and to visit unfrequented harbors.
Captain Mayo had been prepared for these trips, although he had not been informed of the reason. It was his first season on the yacht _Olenia_. The shipping broker who had hired him had been searching in his inquiries as to Mayo's knowledge of the byways of the coast. The young man who had captained fishermen and coasters ever since he was seventeen years old had found it easy to convince the shipping broker, and the shipping broker had sent him on board the yacht without the formality of an interview with the owner.
Mayo was informed curtly that there was no need of an interview. He was told that Julius Marston never bothered with details.
When Julius Marston had come on board with his party he merely nodded grim acknowledgment of the salute of his yacht's master, who stood at the gangway, cap in hand.
The owner had never shown any interest in the management of the yacht; he had remained abaft the main gangway; he had never called the captain into conference regarding any movements of the _Olenia_.
Captain Mayo, pacing the bridge in the forenoon watch, trying to grasp the full measure of his fortune after troubled dreams of his master's daughter, recollected that he had never heard the sound of Julius Marston's voice. So far as personal contact was concerned, the yacht's skipper was evidently as much a matter of indifference to the owner as the yacht's funnel.
Orders were always brought forward by a pale young man who was taciturn even to rudeness, and by that trait seemed to commend himself to Marston as a safe secretary.
At first, Alma Marston had brought her friends to the bridge. But after the novelty was gone they seemed to prefer the comfort of chairs astern or the saloon couches.
For a time the attentive Beveridge had followed her when she came forward; and then Beveridge discovered that she quite disregarded him in her quest for information from the tall young man in uniform. She came alone.
And after that what had happened happened.
She came alone that forenoon. He saw her coming. He had stolen a glance aft every time he turned in his walk at the end of the bridge. He leaned low and reached down his hand to assist her up the ladder.
"I have been nigh crazy all morning. But I had to wait a decent time and listen to their gossip after breakfast," she told him, her face close to his as she came up the ladder. "And, besides, my father is snappy to-day. He scolded me last night for neglecting my guests. Just as if I were called on to sit all day and listen to Nan Burgess appraise her lovers or to sing a song every time Wally Dalton has his relapse of lovesickness. He has come away to forget her, you know." She chuckled, uttering her funny little gurgle of a laugh which stirred in him, always, a desire to smother it with kisses.
They went to the end of the bridge, apart from the man at the wheel.
"I hurried to go to sleep last night so that I could dream of you, my own big boy."
"I walked the bridge until after daylight. I wanted to stay awake. I could not bear to let sleep take away my thoughts."
"What is there like love to make this world full of happiness? How bright the sun is! How the waves sparkle! Those folks sitting back there are looking at the same things we are--or they can look, though they don't seem to have sense enough. And about all they notice is that it's daylight instead of night. My father and those men are talking about money--just money--that's all. And Wally has a headache from drinking too much Scotch. And Nan Burgess doesn't love anybody who loves her, But for us--oh, this glorious world!"
She put out her arms toward the sun and stared boldly at that blazing orb, as though she were not satisfied with what her eyes could behold, but desired to grasp and feel some of the glory of outdoors. If Captain Mayo had been as well versed in psychology as he was in navigation he might have drawn a few disquieting deductions from this frank and unconscious expression of the mood of the materialist. She emphasized that mood by word.
"I'll show you my little clasp-book some day, big boy. It's where I write my verses. I don't show them to anybody. You see, I'm telling you my secrets! We must tell each other our secrets, you and I! I have put my philosophy of living into four lines. Listen!
"The future? Why perplex the soul? The past? Forget its woe and strife! Let's thread each day, a perfect whole, Upon our rosary of Life."
"It's beautiful," he told her.
"Isn't it good philosophy?"
"Yes," he admitted, not daring to doubt the high priestess of the new cult to which he had been commandeered.
"It saves all this foolish worry. Most of the folks I know are always talking about the bad things which have happened to them or are peering forward and hoping that good things will happen, and they never once look down and admire a golden moment which Fate has dropped into their hands. You see, I'm poetical this morning. Why shouldn't I be? We love each other."
"I don't know how to talk," he stammered. "I'm only a sailor. I never said a word about love to any girl in my life."
"Are you sure you have never loved anybody? Remember, we must tell each other our secrets."
"Never," he declared with convincing firmness.
She surveyed him, showing the satisfaction a gold-seeker would exhibit in appraising a nugget of virgin ore. "But you are so big and fine! And you must have met so many pretty girls!"
He was not restive under this quizzing. "I have told you the truth, Miss Marston."
"For shame, big boy! 'Miss Marston,' indeed! I am Alma--Alma to you. Say it! Say it nicely!"
He flushed. He stole a shamefaced glance at the-wheelsman and made a quick and apprehensive survey of the sacred regions aft.
"Are you afraid, after all I have said to you?"
"No, but it seems--I can hardly believe--"
"Say it."
"Alma," he gulped. "Alma, I love you."
"You need some lessons, big boy. You are so awkward I think you are telling me the truth about the other girls."
He did not dare to ask her whether she had loved any one else. With all the passionate jealousy of his soul he wanted to ask her. She, who was so sure that she could instruct him, must have loved somebody. He tried to comfort himself by the thought that her knowledge arose from the efforts either men had made to win her.
"We have our To-day," she murmured. "Golden hours till the moon comes up--and then perhaps a few silver ones! I don't care what Arthur guesses. My father is too busy talking money with those men to guess. I'm going to be with you all I can. I can arrange it. I'm studying navigation."
She snuggled against the rail, luxuriating in the sunshine.
"Who are you?" she asked, bluntly.
That question, coming after the pledging of their affection, astonished him like the loom of a ledge in mid-channel.
"It's enough for me that you are just as you are, boy! But you're not a prince in disguise, are you?"
"I'm only a Yankee sailor," he told her. "But if you won't think that I'm trying to trade on what my folks have been before me, I'll say that my grandfather was Gamaliel Mayo of Mayoport."
"That sounds good, but I never heard of him. With all my philosophy, I'm a poor student of history, sweetheart." Her tone and the name she gave him took the sting out of her confession.
"I don't believe he played a great part in history. But he built sixteen ships in his day, and our house flag circled the world many times. Sixteen big ships, and the last one was the _Harvest Home_, the China clipper that paid for herself three times before an Indian Ocean monsoon swallowed her."
"Well, if he made all that money, are you going to sea for the fun of it?"
"There are no more Yankee wooden ships on the sea. My poor father thought he was wise when the wooden ships were crowded off. He put his money into railroads--and you know what has happened to most of the folks who have put their money into new railroads."
"I'm afraid I don't know much about business."
"The hawks caught the doves. It was a game that