Blow The Man Down: A Romance Of The Coast

BLOW THE MAN DOWN A ROMANCE OF THE COAST By Holman Day Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers TO MY GOOD FRIEND Captain John W. Christie BRITISH MASTER MARINER WHO HAS SUNG ALL THE SHANTIES AND HAS SAILED ALL THE SEAS “_O, blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down! Way-ay, blow the man down. O, blow the man down in Liverpool town! Give me some time to blow the man down.” --Old Shanty of the Atlantic Packet Ships._ CONTENTS: I ~ CAPTAIN BOYD MAYO GETS OUT OF SOUNDINGS II ~ THEN CAPTAIN MAYO SEES SHOALS III ~ THE TAVERN OF THE SEAS IV ~ OVER THE “POLLY'S” RAIL V ~ ON THE BRIDGE OF YACHT “OLENIA” VI ~ AND WE SAILED VII ~ INTO THE MESS FROM EASTWARD VIII ~ LIKE BUGS UNDER A THIMBLE IX ~ A MAN'S JOB X ~ HOSPITALITY, PER JULIUS MARSTON XI ~ A VOICE FROM HUE AND CRY XII ~ NO PLACE POR THE SOLES OP THEIR FEET XIII ~ A CAPTAIN OP HUMAN FLOTSAM XIV ~ BEARINGS FOR A NEW COURSE XV ~ THE RULES OF THE ROAD XVI ~ MILLIONS AND A MITE XVII ~ “EXACTLY!” SAID MR. FOGG XVIII ~ HOW AN ANNUAL MEETING WAS HELD—ONCE! XIX ~ THE PRIZE PACKAGE FROM MR. FOGG XX ~ TESTING OUT A MAN XXI ~ BITTER PROOF BY MORNING LIGHT XXII ~ SPECIAL BUSINESS OF A PASSENGER XXIII ~ THE MONSTER THAT SLIPPED ITS LEASH XXIV ~ DOWN A GALLOPING SEA XXV ~ A GIRL AND HER DEBT OF HONOR XXVI ~ THE FANGS OF OLD RAZEE XXVII ~ THE TEMPEST TURNS ITS CARD XXVIII ~ GIRL'S HELP AND MAN'S WORK XXIX ~ THE TOILERS OF OLD RAZEE XXX ~ THE MATTER OP A MONOGRAM IN WAX XXXI ~ THE BIG FELLOW HIMSELF XXXII ~ A GIRL'S DEAR “BECAUSE!” BLOW THE MAN DOWN I ~ CAPTAIN BOYD MAYO GETS OUT OF SOUNDINGS When in safety or in doubt, Always keep a safe lookout; Strive to keep a level head, Mind your lights and mind your lead. --Pilot-house Ditty. For days he had been afraid of that incredible madness of his as a man fears a nameless monster. But he was sure of his strength even while admitting his weakness. He was confident that he had the thing securely in leash. Then all at once it happened! Without preface of word or look he whirled and faced her, swept her into his arms and kissed her. He did not attempt to absolve himself or mitigate his offense by telling her that he loved her. He was voiceless--he could not control his speech. He did not dare to show such presumption as talk of love must seem to be to her. He knew he must not speak of love; such proffer to her would be lunacy. But this greater presumption, this blind capture of her in his arms--this was something which he had not intended any more than a sane man considers flight to the moon. He did not understand; he had been himself--then, instantly, in time measured by a finger-snap, he had become this wretch who seemed to be somebody else. He had ceased, for an insane moment, to be master of all his senses. But he released her as suddenly as he had seized her, and staggered to the door of the chart-room, turning his back on her and groaning in supreme misery. In that moment of delirium he had insulted his own New England sense of decency and honor. He was afraid to look back at her. With an agony of apprehension he dreaded the sound of her voice. He knew well enough that she was striving to get command of herself, to recover from her utter amazement. He waited. The outrage must have incensed her beyond measure; the silence was prolonged. In the yacht's saloon below a violin sang its very soul out upon the summer night, weaving its plaint into the soft, adagio rippling of a piano's chords. He searched his soul. The music, that distant, mellow phrasing of the call of love, the music had unstrung him. While he paced the bridge before her coming that music had been melting the ice of his natural reserve. But he did not pardon himself because he had acted the fool. He stared at the night framed in the door of the chart-house. Little waves were racing toward him, straight from the moon, on the sea-line, like a flood of new silver pouring from the open door of plenty! But the appealing beauty of that night could not excuse the unconscionable insult he had just offered her. He knew it, and shivered. She had come and leaned close to him over the outspread chart, her breath on his cheek--so close to him that a roving tress of her hair flicked him. But because a sudden fire had leaped from the touch to his brain was no reason for the act by which he had just damned himself as a presumptuous brute. For he, Boyd Mayo, captain of her father's yacht, a hireling, had just paid the same insulting courtship to Alma Marston that a sailor would proffer to an ogling girl on the street. “I'll jump overboard,” he stammered at last. “I'll take myself out of your sight forever.” The ominous silence persisted. “I don't ask you to forgive me. It is not a thing which can be forgiven. Tell them I was insane--and jumped overboard. That will be the truth. I am a lunatic.” He lurched through the door. In that desperate moment, in the whirl of his emotions, there seemed to be no other way out of his horrible predicament. He had grown to love the girl with all the consuming passion of his soul, realizing fully his blind folly at the same time. He had built no false hopes. As to speaking of that love--even betraying it by a glance--he had sheathed himself in the armor of reserved constraint; he had been sure that he sooner would have gone down on his hands and knees and bayed that silver moon from the deck of the yacht _Olenia_ than do what he had just done. “Captain Mayo! Wait!” He waited without turning to look at her. Her voice was not steady, but he could not determine from the tone what her emotions were. “Come back here!” She was obliged to repeat the command with sharper authority before he obeyed. He lowered his eyes and stood before her, a voiceless suppliant. “Why did you do that?” she asked. It was not the contemptuous demand which he had been fearing. Her voice was so low that it was almost a whisper. “I don't know,” he confessed. The violin sang on; the moon shone in at the door; two strokes, like golden globules of sound, from the ship's bell signaled nine o'clock. Only the rhythm of the engines, as soothing as a cat's purring, and the slow roll of the yacht and the murmuring of the parted waves revealed that the _Olenia_ was on her way through the night. “I don't know,” he repeated. “It doesn't excuse me to say that I could not help it.” And he understood women so little that he did not realize that he was making the ages-old plea which has softened feminine rancor ever since the Sabine women were borne away in their captors' arms and forgave their captors. She stared at him, making once more a maiden's swift appraisal of this young man who had offered himself so humbly as a sacrifice. His brown hands were crossed in front of him and clutched convulsively his white cap. The cap and the linen above the collar of his uniform coat brought out to the full the hue of his manly tan. The red flush of his shocked contrition touched his cheeks, and, all in all, whatever the daughter of Julius Marston, Wall Street priest of high finance, may have thought of his effrontery, the melting look she gave him from under lowered eyelids indicated her appreciation of his outward excellencies. “I suppose you are thoroughly and properly ashamed of what you have done!” “I am ashamed--so ashamed that I shall never dare to raise my eyes to you again. I will do what I promised. I will jump overboard.” “Captain Mayo, look at me!” When he obeyed, with the demeanor of a whipped hound, his perturbation would not allow him to show as much appreciation of her as she had displayed in the secret study of him, which she now promptly concealed. He surveyed her wistfully, with fear. And a maiden, after she has understood that she has obtained mastery over brawn and soul, does not care to be looked at as if she were Medusa. She stole a side-glance at her face in one of the mirrors, and then tucked into place a vagrant lock of hair with a shapely finger, thereby suggesting, had there been a cynical observer present, that Miss Alma Marston never allowed any situation, no matter how crucial, to take her attention wholly from herself. There was no mistaking it--had that cynical observer been there, he would have noted that she pouted slightly when Mayo declared his unutterable shame. “You will never get over that shame, will you?” And Captain Mayo, feverishly anxious to show that he understood the enormity of his offense, and desiring to offer pledge for the future, declared that his shame would never lessen. Her dark eyes sparkled; whether there was mischief mingled with resentment, or whether the resentment quite supplanted all other emotions, might have been a difficult problem for the cynic. But when she tilted her chin and stared the offender full in the eyes, propping her plump little hands in the side-pockets of her white reefer, Captain Mayo, like a man hit by a cudgel, was struck with the sudden and bewildering knowledge that he did not know much about women, for she asked, with a quizzical drawl, “Just what is there about me, dear captain, to inspire that everlasting regret which seems to be troubling you so much?” Even then he did not grasp the full import of her provocative question. “It isn't you. I'm the one who is wholly to blame,” he stammered. “I have dared to--But no matter. I know my place. I'll show you I know it.” “You _dared_ to--What have you dared to do--besides what you just did?” “I cannot tell you, Miss Marston. I don't propose to insult you again.” “I command you to tell me, Captain Mayo.” He could not comprehend her mood in the least and his demeanor showed it. Her command had a funny little ripple in it--as of laughter suppressed. There were queer quirks at the corners of her full, red lips. “Now straighten up like your real self! I don't like to see you standing that way. You know I like to have all the folks on the yachts look at our captain when we go into a harbor! You didn't know it? Well, I do. Now what have you dared to do?” He did straighten then. “I have dared to fall in love with you, Miss Marston. So have a lot of other fools, I suppose. But I am the worst of all. I am only a sailor. How I lost control of myself I don't know!” “Not even now?” Still that unexplainable softness in her voice, that strange expression on her face. Being a sailor, he looked on this calm as being ominous presage of a storm. “I am willing to have you report me to your father, Miss Marston. I will take my punishment. I will never offend you again.” “You can control yourself after this, can you?” “Yes, Miss Marston, absolutely.” She hesitated; she smiled. She lowered her eyelids again and surveyed him with the satisfied tolerance a pretty woman can so easily extend when unconquerable ardor has prompted to rashness. “Oh, you funny, prim Yankee!” she murmured. “You don't understand even now just why you did it!” His face revealed that he did not in the least understand. “Come here,” she invited. He went three steps across the narrow cabin and stood in an attitude of respectful obedience before her. “What now, sir?” It was query even more provocative--a smile went with it. “I apologize. I have learned my lesson.” “You need to learn a lot--you are very ignorant,” she replied, with considerable tartness. “Yes,” he agreed, humbly. What happened then was so wholly outside his reckoning that the preceding events of the evening retired tamely into the background. It