The Trimming of Mr. Dunn
Mrs. Dunn sat under the awning stretched over the quarter-deck of the yacht Sayonara lying in the stream, off the government coal-dock, at Key West. It was winter, but the air was warm, and white linen duck was the most comfortable clothing. Even the six men who composed the crew of the trim little schooner showed nothing but white in their garments, save the black silk ties knotted rakishly, drawing together their wide sailor-collars. Phenix Dunn was a broker, a gambler in the productions of others, and because of this he was wealthy. He had bought and sold certain commodities known as stocks, and they had proved profitable—so profitable that he had decided to take a few months away from the excitement of the game and buy a yacht and cruise.
Mrs. Dunn was something of a beauty. That is, many men thought so. Some women differed in opinions, especially those women whom she counted as her friends. Anyhow, she possessed a dashing air, a figure beyond criticism, and clothes that made Phenix say many bad words when the bills came in. Also she had a disposition the gentle side of which had not been overdeveloped. She was not quarrelsome. Far from it. She had plenty of tact and ability, but the absence of children and household cares had given her more time than necessary for the contemplation of self, and this had not been satisfying. She worked it off by dint of much outdoor exercise.
Dunn joined her at the taffrail and flung himself into a chair with a show of wrath. Something had gone wrong, as it always does upon yachts of any size where the owner is not used to the sea or its peculiar people.
"The steward is gone, the cook is going, and here we are a thousand miles from anywhere at all—anywhere at all, I say; and the commandant of the yard will be aboard to-morrow with not less than twenty officers and their wives. What'll we do about it?" he rapped out.
"Why do you ask me?—I'm not good at riddles," answered his wife lazily.
"Well, we've got to take on a couple of blacks—niggers they call 'em here—and I don't like the idea of it. I've no use for 'em. What I want is Japanese servants. Japanese are good. Good fighters make good servants. You don't want a servant to think, and a good fighter never thinks. If he did he would see something else besides glory in walking up to a man with a gun. The Japs do that—and they are good servants. I don't want any of these black people aboard this vessel."
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"