The Argosy, September 1915 — page 48: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

262 He crawled aft, put down the oil- can and sat for several minutes, motionless, considering carefully the fruits of his eavesdropping. “So they’ve got their eye on the islands, have they?” he thought. “Interesting, that. I wonder—” He laughed softly. “Why not?” he asked himself after another period of thought. “ It may not be a bit of use to Uncle Sam, but it just might happen to make his humble namesake real happy.” He stepped out on the wharf and went up the gangway, at the head of which he stood listening and watching for a moment until he was assured that the arrivals in the second launch were safely out of the way. Then he returned to his craft, lighted the lan- ern, and squatted beside it on the floor. From a small locker at his hand he took Hamersly’s “ Social Register ”’ and tore out a fly-leaf. A stub of lead-pencil appeared from one of his pockets. Using the book as a desk, the boatman began to write. He paused occasionally in this oc- cupation, squinting his eyes and frowning as if puzzled over a thought or a phrase. When he had come nearly to the end of his sheet of paper he stopped writing, read his composi- tion carefully by the dim light, and nodded an approval. Now he climbed back to the float again and crossed to where the second launch lay. It was a trim, well-kept little craft, a fact that he noted with an involuntary sigh when he thought of his own. There was a canvas cover that fitted neatly over the engine; this had been put in place carefully. He stepped into the cockpit, lifted one side of the canvas and thrust his note underneath it. ‘They can’t miss that,” he _ re- marked, as he retreated to his own craft. Immediately following, he loosed his mooring, started his engine, and backed out into the river. THE ARGOSY. It was late when the dingy launch rested once more in the rock-bound cove and the boatman walked up to his cabin. He was whistling gently and cheerfully, a lantern swinging in his hand. Entering the cabin and closing the door behind him, he drew the chair up to the table, fished the Social Register out of his pocket, and began another absorbed study of the Cs “That’s some family, believe me,” he commented. “ Strong on the May- flower stuff, I notice. Been here ever since there was a New York. Pipe the old man’s club-list! Not so big, maybe, but class—whew! And the missus—oh, yes; she’s a Daughter, all right—three or four kinds of a Daughter. Fifth Avenue, Newport, Narragansett — uh-hun. That’s the 3 stuff ! “Mentions the yacht, too. I won- der how many limousines. I suppose the master mechanic takes care of those. “ And—well, well, look who’s here! Brother C. Alfred. Fell down a bit on brother’s name, it strikes me. ‘ Al- fred’ doesn’t quite class up. Ought to be either very flossy or very plain; that’s the way most of ’em seem to run. But I notice Alfred is there with the Harvard thing. And all of papa’s clubs, too. ; ‘“‘ And here’s grandfather, and great- grandfather, and the rest of ’em back of that. And mother — she’s a Van Arsdale. That’s nice; that’s bully! She kicks iti with some considerable ancient lineage herself.” He grinned at the Chalmers page. “ Ah! And now the Lady Rosalind! They don’t tell ages in this book, do they? Don’t put the price-tags on, either. Rosalind—well, she just can’t help it when you come to study the dope-sheet. On form, I’d back the Lady Rosalind to be a front runner in any company. Ow! Nothing like class—and nothing to it but class!” The boatman bethought himself of the telegram stowed away in his pock- CORMICLOOOKS (C©@)