I tore the note in tiny fragments, and tossed them through the open window. I was exceedingly angry. As I stood at the window adding to the name of Curtis Spencer insulting aliases, the street below sent up hot, stifling odors: the smoke of taxicabs, the gases of an open subway, the stale reek of thousands of perspiring, unwashed bodies. From that one side street seemed to rise the heat and smells of all New York. For relief I turned to my work-table where lay the opening chapters of my new novel, “The White Plume of Savoy.” But now, in the light of Spencer's open scorn, I saw it was impudently false, childish, sentimental. My head ached, the humidity sapped my strength, at heart I felt sick, sore, discouraged. I was down and out. And seeing this, Temptation, like an obsequious floorwalker, came hurrying forward.
“And what may I show you to-day?” asked Temptation. He showed me the upper deck of the New Bedford boat feeling her way between the green banks of the Sound. A cool wind swept past me bearing clean, salty odors; on the saloon deck a band played, and from the darkness the lighthouses winked at me, and in friendly greeting the stars smiled. Temptation won. In five minutes I was feverishly packing, and at five-thirty I was on board. I assured myself I had not listened to Temptation, that I had no interest in Fairharbor. I was taking the trip solely because it would give me a night's sleep on the Sound. I promised myself that on the morrow I would not even LOOK toward Harbor Castle; but on the evening following on the same boat, return to New York. Temptation did not stop to argue, but hastened after another victim.
I turned in at nine o'clock and the coolness, and the salt air, blessed me with the first sleep I had known in weeks. And when I woke we were made fast to the company's wharf at New Bedford, and the sun was well up. I rose refreshed in body and spirit. No longer was I discouraged. Even “The White Plume of Savoy” seemed a perfectly good tale of romance and adventure. And the Farrells were a joke. Even if I were at Fairharbor, I was there only on a lark, and at the expense of Curtis Spencer, who had paid for the tickets. Distinctly the joke was on Curtis Spencer. I lowered the window screen, and looked across the harbor. It was a beautiful harbor. At ancient stone wharfs Jay ancient whalers with drooping davits and squared yards, at anchor white-breasted yachts flashed in the sun, a gray man-of-war's man flaunted the week's laundry, a four-masted schooner dried her canvas, and over the smiling surface of the harbor innumerable fishing boats darted. With delight I sniffed the odors of salt water, sun-dried herring, of oakum and tar. The shore opposite was a graceful promontory crowned with trees and decorous gray-shingled cottages set in tiny gardens that reached to the very edge of the harbor. The second officer was passing my window and I asked what the promontory was called.
“Fairharbor,” he said. He answered with such proprietary pride and smiled upon Fairharbor with such approval that I ventured to guess it was his home.
“That's right,” he said; “I used to live at the New York end of the run-in a flat. But never again! No place for the boy to play but in the street. I found I could rent one of those old cottages over there for the same money I paid for the flat. So I cut out New York. My boy lives in a bathing suit now, and he can handle a catboat same as me. We have a kitchen garden, and hens, and the fishermen here will give you all the fish you can carry away—fish right out of the water. I guess I've smashed the high cost of living problem all right. I wouldn't go back to living in New York now—not if they gave me the PILGRIM.”
As though trying to prod my memory, I frowned. It was my conception of the part of a detective. “Hasn't Fletcher Farrell,” I asked, “a house in Fairharbor?”
“Harbor Castle,” said the mate promptly. “It's on the other side of the point I'd as soon live in a jail!”
“Why?” I exclaimed.
But he was no longer listening. He pointed at the shore opposite.
“See that flag running up the staff in that garden?” he cried. “That's my boy signalling. I got to get to the boat deck and wave back!”