Over the border

by Morgan Robertson

"But the bravest thing he did was when the seminary caught fire at night. He was asleep when the alarm sounded and he rushed to the fire half clothed. The whole lower story was afire, and above were the dormitories with over a hundred girls fast asleep; but he went up, right through the flames coming from the windows, and wakened everybody. Then he pulled up ladders with a rope, and helped the girls down. He was the last to come out, and just in time, for the walls fell in a moment later."

"You have a fine brother," I responded, joining the girl in her enthusiasm, and willing to do him justice. "I never thought he had courage at all, but he certainly has proved it."

"Oh, he has," she rejoined. And then, with sisterly single-mindedness, she gave me this: "He isn't afraid of you any more, and says he is going to thrash you."

"Me—why?" I asked in amazement. "What for?"

"Oh, papa says the same, too. They say that a man of your age ought to be thrashed for talking to a girl of twelve. But I don't see why. I like to talk to you."

The disparity in our ages had not influenced me when younger, and as it was growing less each day that we lived I had not given it a thought. But this new attitude of her father and brother compelled me to, and in helpless anger and chagrin—for I was either the same bad boy of the village, or, still worse, a man playing the boy—I forswore her society and went back to my third term at the academy, resolved not to seek her again until she was of age. And with me on the train, as it pulled out of town, was George Morton, bound for college, but we did not speak.

I manfully held to my resolution until I had finished my course at the academy and my two years of sea service. Then I graduated, a commissioned officer of the United States Navy, and with this backing, and the heart hunger strong upon me, I returned to my old home, bound to see my boyhood divinity at any cost. But I did not see her; instead, I saw her brother at the door, and the stormy scene that followed assured me that conventional social relations with her were impossible. So, convinced that he had nursed the old antagonism through the years, I fumed and sulked while waiting for sea orders, and even half-heartedly planned unconventional relations—I sought to meet her outside her home. But before I had met with any success, orders came from Washington, sending me, not to a seagoing ship, but into retirement until possible war should make my services of value to my country.

With my career ended in the navy, and without friends, money, or influence, I did the next best thing in the way of a livelihood. I went to sea in the merchant service, beginning as third mate, and learned real seafaring, which is good for sulks and heartaches. In three years I was first mate, with the confidence of my skipper and owners, and the prospect of a command; which attainment, and my assured education and social position as a graduate of Annapolis, might give me hope and courage to again approach my goddess. But, gradually and imperceptibly—unknown to myself because there was none to tell me—the little niceties and refinements of speech, manner, and dress acquired at the academy, and which make a naval officer eligible to any society in the world, had worn away from me under the harder work and rougher associations of the merchant service; so that, when paid off at Philadelphia in my twenty-sixth year, I was as hardy a specimen of the typical "Yankee mate" as could be found on the water front. I shaved for comfort, not appearance, and wore my clothes for utility rather than beauty.

Thus arrayed and conditioned I killed time while waiting for word to join my ship, and one day ran over to Asbury Park, finding the huge resort half deserted, as it was in October; but there was enough of life there to suit me, the air was clean and salt as that at sea, and I decided to remain a few days.

I remained too long for my peace of mind and immediate welfare. The quiet and solitude brought back the old morbid melancholy, and in this mood I wandered about the beach and through the streets lined with deserted cottages, fighting with myself and reviling the fates that had made sport of my life and ideals. In this mood I was ripe for any adventure, and spying, late at night, a figure slinking by me in the darkness, that reminded me of George Morton, I softly followed, keeping him in sight, but not letting him see me. He entered a dark, two-story house in a row of other dark cottages, and I mechanically walked on, halting before the house, with a hazy idea that perhaps it was George Morton, and that his family lived there. No light appeared from within, however, and I slowly retraced my steps, pausing at the next street lamp to fire up my pipe.