Everybody's Magazine/Kidnapping Coline/Part 1

by Henry C. Rowland

 

CHAPTER I

The Conspiracy

ll of my morning had been spent in vain argument with Coline, whom I left in a mock-serious mood after expending all of my eloquence and the bulk of my patience. This latter would not have lasted long if I had not loved her so devotedly and had an instinctive feeling that underneath her attitude of indifference she really cared for me.

On leaving her I went straight to the office of Mr. Satterlie, Coline's father, a strong and kindly man of middle age who had amassed a considerable fortune in the South Sea trade and now directed his various affairs from San Francisco. I found him with his feet on the edge of his desk, a long cheroot between his even teeth, dictating to his stenographer. He sent the young man out after his first glance at my troubled face, and regarded me for a moment with sympathetic interest.

“Well, Jack,” said he, “I gather from your expression that the course of true love has got you pretty deep into the doldrums.”

“That precisely defines it,” I answered, wearily, taking the chair he indicated. “I could stand a bit of heavy weather, but this horrid calm is maddening.”

“What does she say?”

“She persists in her determination to marry that scoundrel Von Reibnitz as soon as she comes of age next month. I've talked my head off—and hers too, I fancy. She claims to be in honor bound by a promise given him; but between us, Mr. Satterlie, there is something more than that underneath the whole wretched business. The brute undoubtedly has some sort of fascination for her. I've told her things about that man—things that I can prove—that would have made her heave an inkstand at my head and call me all sorts of names if she cared for him. I did it on purpose to see how she really felt, and half expecting all of the time to have her jump up and tell me to go and say them to his face. But she didn't.”

Mr. Satterlie rolled his cheroot between his teeth and looked at me thoughtfully.

“What would you have done if she had?”

“I'd have gone and done it. In fact, I've about made up my mind to do it anyway. As he's a German and claims to be a man of birth, he'd probably challenge me. In that case I'd strain a point and take him on, trusting to Dieu el le Droit to shoot a hole in him. There doesn't seem to be much else to do.”

Mr. Satterlie's blue eyes kindled for an instant; then he shook his head and threw his cheroot into the fireplace.

“There's nothing in that, my boy,” said he. “I know all about this man, Von Reibnitz. I've looked him up, both in Germany and out in the Pacific. His title to nobility is right enough; he's the Count Konrad Von Reibnitz and his family is an old one. You've never seen him, have you?”

“No,” I answered.

“I have—and I tell you he's some man. If you were to do what you say he'd make you feel like a fool.”

“How?” I asked.

Mr. Satterlie shrugged. “He's so quiet and polite. He's more than quiet. He's a silent man. You can see his thoughts brimming up and swelling under you and around you—just like running out before a typhoon—but they never comb. There's never any water—any loose water—on deck, you understand. He gives you a sort of mental heave and then drops you into the trough. At least, that's the way he affected me. He's got insides to his head as well as to his body. He's a force to be reckoned with, my boy.”

“You seem to know a good deal about him,” I observed.

“I know all about him,” answered Mr. Satterlie. “On his father's side the family is of the older Bavarian nobility, and his mother was English: the Honorable Helen Maddock. He had to leave Europe for some woman scrape which was followed by a duel in which he killed the Baron Hartzmann, who was old enough to be his father. The popular sentiment was very strong against young Von Reibnitz, so he cleared out to the Pacific and got a position in the trading house of Muller and Lefferts, in Sydney. He made a number of voyages in their vessels, studied navigation, and finally got command of one of the company's schooners. About a year later they sacked him—for some reason which I haven't been able to learn—when he got a job with a rival concern. They soon got enough of him, too. One of my skippers, Captain Saltonstall, who is herein port now, tells me that Von Reibnitz has a very bad reputation for his behavior with natives. You've never met old Saltonstall, have you?”

“No,” I answered.

“Well, if you knew him you could appreciate what it means when he knocks anybody. He's about the kindest, gentlest old dear that ever lived. Rather reminds you of a faithful old high-bred Hambletonian horse—too tender-hearted to flick his tail at a fly. He's a gentleman. When I asked him about Von Reibnitz he hemmed and hawed and said he'd never seen the man but had heard that he was a smart skipper, a very successful trader. But when I told him that I was making these inquiries because my daughter had met the man in Honolulu and was determined to marry him, that fetched him and he opened up and told me some tales he'd heard of Von Reibnitz which, if true, would class him as about the biggest scoundrel unhung.”

“Have you told them to Coline?” I asked.

“Yes. I told her, too, about what you heard of him in Samoa—that ugly business of the missionary's daughter.”

“What did she say?”

Mr. Satterlie shrugged and pushed out his under lip.

“She seemed rather to enjoy hearing it all. When I'd got pumped out she asked for more. There's no accounting for the female point of view.”

We were both silent for a moment.

“You know, sometimes the best of women are often attracted by the worst men,” he went on; “sort of effort on the part of human nature to strike an average, I suppose. Otherwise society would be composed of angels and devils as the result of natural selection. However, I don't intend that my little girl shall sacrifice herself for the sake of the moral equilibrium of the world.”

“How are you going to prevent it?” I asked. “Coline swears that she's going to marry this brute. You know what a will she's got.”

Mr. Satterlie's eyes narrowed and he leaned back, chewing at the end of his cheroot.

“It's going to take some doing,” he admitted. “The worst of it is I've got to go east on the first.”

“Why not take her with you?”

HAD I GUESSED WHAT THE OLD INNOCENT WAS UP TO, THE EXPEDITION WOULD HAVE SEEN ITS FINISH THEN AND THERE.

“What's the use? Von Reibnitz would follow. Besides, I've got a better plan.” He looked at me thoughtfully, and although he did not actually smile, the lines of humor around his eyes showed that he was secretly amused at something which was passing in his mind. “I'm going to ship her off for a long cruise with old Saltonstall,” said he.

“What——?”

“Just so; and you must go too, my boy.”

“What in the dickens are you talking about?” I demanded.

Mr. Satterlie's grin found its way to the surface. It did not strike me that there was anything to grin about, but I had a lot of confidence in this sane and hearty ex-sailorman, so I merely sat tight and waited for him to explain himself.

“Don't look so scared, son,” said he, and his clear blue eyes twinkled at me. “Old Saltonstall and I have got the whole thing nicely framed up. I've doped out this game by quite a number of moves.” He leaned forward, dropping his big elbows on the rim of the desk and clasping his strong, muscular hands.

“Look here. Jack,” said he, “all of this business is going to take some doing, as I said before. Coline is really very fond of you, and I want you to marry her because I like you—oh, sit still—there's no use in arching your neck. I know that you love the little girl more than anybody in the world does, except myself. I can tell you, son, that the night she was born I cried more than she did—and it gave me the jolt of my life, because I didn't know what was happening to me. But let me tell you, son, that when I poked my little finger at that newborn kiddie and her little hand gripped it and clung to it—and she opened those little baby-blue eyes and blinked up at me, something happened——”

He jumped up and spat out his cheroot, then blew his nose—“She was red and raw, and looked like one of these little fledgling sparrows that you find on the sidewalk in the spring; but she looked all right to me. I liked her from the start—” he turned on me with a sort of savage violence—“and do you think now that Von Reibnitz is going to get her? Son, I'd slaughter him first.”

I gaped at him. This passion in his voice was like a squall out of a clear sky.

Then he laughed a bit and the tension relaxed.

“I've got twenty vessels at sea,” he said, “six schooners, five steam freighters, three iron sailing-ships, and half a dozen Sound coasters. The Sabbath Day has been fitting out as a yacht for the last three weeks, and I told the Union bunch that if the work wasn't finished in a month they could count on losing my trade. They wanted three months, but they gave in; and I tell you, son, you can't spit aboard her without hitting a workman. Coline and old Saltonstall and you are going off for a voyage of indefinite length.”

I considered this proposition for a few moments in silence while Satterlie watched me through a cloud of smoke. Presently I asked:

“Where are you going to send us?”

“To the South Seas. You may be gone six months—possibly a year.”

“But as soon as she comes of age, Coline will insist on being allowed to come home,” I objected.

“Then she will insist in vain,” Satterlie answered coolly. “Captain Saltonstall shall have orders to call at about fifty different islands scattered pretty well over the South Pacific, but none of them on any line of transportation. You ought to be able to get ashore every few days. Strictly speaking, it's kidnapping, I suppose—” he grinned—“but Coline would never go to the length of bringing a criminal suit against her father, and she is very fond of the skipper. Of course, she has no idea of how long she's going to be shipped off for. She thinks it's merely for a voyage out to Australia, and has probably made up her mind to give you the slip out there and come back on a liner.”

“Where is Von Reibnitz now?” I asked.

“In the East, I believe.”

“Has he got any money aside from what he earns?” I asked.

“I don't think so. That's the worst of it, because, you see, as soon as she comes of age Coline will inherit about a million from her mother's father, who died five years ago. Von Reibnitz knows this and it makes him all the keener. He also knows, as everybody does, that I've set my heart on seeing you and Coline married. Your father was my dearest friend, and you are just like him. You are the only man living to whom I would entrust my little girl, and I would trust her with you anywhere and under any circumstances.”

“Thank you, Mr. Satterlie,” I said, wondering a little at the peculiar intensity of his voice and the sudden piercing expression of his frosty blue eyes. He leaned over quickly, and dropped his strong hand on my shoulder.

“Just remember that always, whatever happens, Jack, my boy,” said he, in a more than usually resonant bass.

CHAPTER II

Captain Glass-of-Fashion

The following day Mr. Satterlie took me down to the Union Iron Works to look over the schooner and make the acquaintance of Captain Saltonstall.

“You'll find the skipper and the mate an amusing team. Jack,” said Mr. Satterlie as we were on our way. “The mate is a canny Scot named Whistler, who claims to be the laird of some few acres of gorse and stones in the 'Auld Countrie.' He owns a big ranch up in the Saskatchewan which is run by a younger brother, and I imagine he is very well off. He's a splendid seaman.”

When we reached the Iron Works we found the mate alone aboard the schooner, the skipper having gone off on some short errand. Mr. Whistler was a bony, muscular Scot with small, bright eyes which twinkled alertly from their deep recesses. Such of his face as was visible under his ginger-colored whiskers looked as if about to peel from sun burn. He was not pretty, yet looked safe and effective.

Mr. Satterlie introduced us, and the mate's first swift glance gave me the impression of having been thoroughly inspected.

“How do you do, sir?” said the mate. “You will be the young gentleman who owns the Sayonara, I am thinking.”

“Yes,” I answered; “do you know her?”

“Only a bowin' acquaintance, as one might say. She looks to be a good boat, though perhaps a bit too fine forward. Aweel, it is a pleasant thing to be able to have one's private yacht to sail about on. This one will no be so bad when these idlin' carpenters get through their wor-r-k.”

The Sabbath Day was a handsome, able-looking vessel of about two hundred tons. Her lines, so far as one could judge, did not promise any great speed, and she was light-drafted for her size and very broad of beam. I was looking over her roomy sweep of deck when, happening to glance at the wharf, I saw approaching a somewhat singular figure.

It was that of a man who looked to be about seven feet high, wonderfully dressed, and striding along with the pleased and jaunty self-consciousness of a fop of the seventeenth century. As he drew near I saw that his features were lofty and imposing, with a high-bridged, benevolent nose, very large and slightly protruding brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a mouth which was concealed by a big iron-gray mustache rakishly twisted up at the ends.

I guessed at once that this must be Captain Saltonstall, and I stared at him, absolutely fascinated. He had on a black cutaway coat, with a waistcoat of pearl gray, and a large puff necktie of a neutral green held by a pearl scarfpin. His trousers were rather light, bordering closely on being loud, but of good cut and material, freshly creased and hanging nicely about the gaitered tops of his patent-leather shoes. He had on a top hat, dazzling to the eyes, suède gloves to match his scarf, and swung a malacca stick in a debonair fashion as he strode briskly forward.

I turned to glance at Mr. Satterlie and caught the eye of the mate, which twinkled at me like a star on a frosty night, though with what significance I could not have told.

Mr. Satterlie was having a silent struggle with his risibles.

And yet there was really nothing to laugh at. Saltonstall was undoubtedly at that moment the best-groomed man in San Francisco, and there was not a single note in his costume that was not strictly correct. Moreover, one saw at a glance that his clothes had been turned out by a smart tailor, and were undoubtedly the best that money could buy. His beautiful raiment adorned his lean, big-boned frame like the plumage of a game-cock with feathers nicely pruned and not a pinion awry.

But this simile lost its aptness when one glanced at that big, beaming, benevolent face. It was not a red face, nor was there anything coarse or sensual about it. On the contrary, it held a sort of virtuous serenity. One did not need to be a student of physiognomy to see at a glance that here was one of society's grown-up, innocent, sweet-natured children.

When Whistler spoke I felt like hitting him; it seemed so unkind. Captain Saltonstall was sweeping aboard when he spoke—and he spoke in that particular sort of stage-whisper which carries farther than a shout.

“Look at him!” (his voice was rather like a saw which is shy a dozen or odd teeth.) “Look at his clothe'es! He is dressed without reference to taste or expense.”

“He looks all right to me,” I answered.

Whistler's bright, alert little eyes glittered at me out of their deep hollows. I wasn't very sure about Whistler and he wasn't very sure about me. We were taking each other's measure—though I must say that I think he had “my number” in about a second.

“He is not at his best,” Whistler observed. “The mon canna' drink wuskey. One drink, and all is off. His eyes are brown, as ye may have noticed. When a mon's eyes are brown he should not drink. Now the skipper has had his dram with the superintendent and that is what is making him so coltish. I can always tell. He lifts his feet higher and is too polite.”

Our conversation was interrupted by Captain Saltonstall, who came down the gangplank in the cautious manner of one unused to such contraptions. Or perhaps he was afraid of soiling his new suède gloves on the hand-rail, which bore imprints of the grimy paws of the workmen.

“Ha, Mr. Satterlie,” said he in a deep, amphoric bass, “how do you do to-day, sir?” He shook hands with Mr. Satterlie, then turned to me with a dip and swing to his long, lean frame. “And you, sir, Mr. Hamilton, I presume? Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir. And how do you find the work proceeding, Mr. Satterlie?”

“We were waiting for you to go over it with us.”

Mr. Satterlie had certainly spared no pains nor expense to make his daughter comfortable during her compulsory cruise. He told me that for some time he had been contemplating the conversion of the Sabbath Day into a yacht for his own private use, as she was the easiest sea-boat he had ever sailed aboard and quite smart enough for his requirements.

When our tour of inspection was finished, the captain asked us to step into his cabin, when, as none of us cared for stimulants, he ordered tea, which the steward brewed in the Chinese manner and served in the double cups. Whistler had gone off about some business, and as we were sipping the excellent tea I observed that the captain was studying me in a kindly and unobtrusive manner which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a careful and searching scrutiny.

This finally began to get on my nerves especially as nothing had yet been said directly of the object of our proposed voyage. So in the effort to get some idea of what was passing in his mind I presently asked:

“What are you going to say, Captain, when Miss Satterlie demands that she be allowed to go her own way—which she certainly will as soon as she discovers the real object of the voyage?”

He looked so distressed that I was almost sorry that I had put the question. His big brown eyes, which were slightly mottled with lighter hazel spots in the iris, bulged at me with a pained expression.

“Ah, Mr. Hamilton,” said he in a hollow and lugubrious bass, “you must be a mind-reader. In fact, I have been thinking of that very matter. Miss Satterlie is a very high-spirited as well as uncommonly charming young lady, and often I find myself wondering if my resolution will be sufficient to carry out the instructions of my employer and old friend, Mr. Satterlie. We can only hope that she may not be too severe upon us.”

“If I know anything about my daughter,” said Satterlie with rather a malicious grin, “she will make you feel like a yaller dog.”

Salstonstall groaned like a wind-broken horse.

“How about myself?” I asked.

“Oh, you'll wish you'd choked when you were a baby.”

“You're jolly encouraging,” I protested. “That's not the way you talked yesterday.”

“Well, it's up to you, son. If you can't manage to cut out Von Reibnitz when you've got her all to yourself” (he and the captain exchanged a swift, almost furtive, look), “then we're cooked, I suppose. Let's hope that Von Reibnitz may get himself jailed or hanged or something in the meanwhile.”

“From what I have heard of the man,” boomed Salstonstall, “that is quite possible.” He stared at me owlishly. “You must know, Mr. Hamilton, that it is extremely painful for me to lend myself to this performance, which after all is little better than kidnapping. It is only through the horror inspired by the thought of that exquisite and charming young lady sacrificing herself to such a ruffian as I know this Von Reibnitz to be that I have consented to carry out her father's wishes. Mr. Satterlie assures me that he would prefer to see his daughter drowned rather than married to Von Reibnitz.”

“OF CO URSE, AS YOU SAY, WE ALL KNOW THE REAL OBJECT OF THE VOYAGE, AND SO THERE IS NO USE TO MINCE MATTERS. PAPA WANTS TO FORCE ME UPON JACK.”

“Does Mr. Whistler know about the scheme?” I asked.

“He shares our confidence in full.”

“What does he think about it?”

“At first he flatly refused to have any part in the business on the ground that it was legally criminal. He has not yet actually consented and is inclined to be disagreeable when the subject is mentioned; but I am of the opinion that when the time comes for sailing he will serve, though under protest. I have told him that he must give me a positive answer by Monday, as in the event of his refusing I shall have to secure the services of another mate.”

“You don't need to do that,” I answered. “I hold a master's certificate and can act as mate. The fewer mixed up in the business the better.”

Again there passed between Mr. Satterlie and the captain that quick, furtive look which had already puzzled me.

“That would scarcely do, Jack,” said Mr. Satterlie. “There's no doubt of your ability, of course, but Captain Saltonstall would feel more at ease with a professional.”

“Oh, just as you like,” I answered, rather huffed.

We left shortly after, Mr. Satterlie going to the club to play billiards and I to call on Coline.

CHAPTER III

In Which Coline Laughs at the Cage

Until quite recently I had not seen Coline for five years, as I had spent three of these in Europe and the last two on my voyage around from England aboard the schooner yacht which I had bought there. During this time she had matured from a head strong child, with an impudent, pug-nosed face and a violent disposition, into a deliciously molded woman of tantalizingly seductive figure, and a face that troubled the dreams of all the young bucks in town—and a good many of the older ones.

I would not say that Coline was a flirt—she had too much heart for that; but barring the flirt's heartless indifference to the unhappiness she might cause, she came pretty near it. She glowed and vibrated in the warmth of admiration, and it was irresistible for her to entice.

That trait so rare in women, a strong sense of kindly humor (which she had inherited from her father, who loved her nearly to death), was the saving of many a man's peace of mind, because few men like to be amusing without any such intention on their part. Coline had laughed many an ardently foolish swain back into his senses.

Another saving grace was that while she might entice she never promised anything—and the man who takes things for granted with a pretty woman is always entitled to a slap of the foot. Coline loathed the methods of the modern “piazza squeezer.” She loved to kiss and pet her father, but nobody else had ever kissed her; and unless a man was a fool he knew that nobody ever could until it pleased her to give the richness of her nature in heaping handfuls.

Besides all of this, Coline had an unusual quantity of sound, sane common sense and a great supply of natural kindliness, and that wonderful quality of sympathetic interest in such lives as happened to touch hers. I don't think that she was possessed of much imagination (fortunate girl), but she had powerful instincts which scorned the effort of analysis.

However, these are not always to be depended upon too much, as we shall see.

When she greeted me she began to laugh. When Coline laughed she threw back her head and half-closed her eyes and gurgled in her creamy throat, then stopped suddenly and looked at one with a serious, surprised expression as if to say: “What in the world are you laughing at?” This time I said it for her.

“It's"so funny,” she explained, “dear old Dad boxing us up on the Sabbath Day—like a pair of canary birds that he is trying to mate. I'll peck you on the head, Jack.”

“You may start now, if you like,” I answered. “It doesn't need the Sabbath Day.”

“Perhaps I'd better,” she answered. “When are we going to sail?”

“Some few days before you come of age," I answered. “I'm not bothering much about the start so long as we manage to beat the pistol. It's the finish that's disturbing my repose.”

Coline laughed again, then said: “I like you, Jack. I'll make a small bet that I'll like you even better before we get back.”

“I'll raise you a stack of blues—and there's no doubt about my having them—that you'll hate me like the devil before we look at the Golden Gate from the westward,” I answered. “You are going to be kidnapped, Coline. It's only fair to warn you. Good old Saltonstall is having a fit about it.”

“The old dear,” said Coline. “Don't you love him?”

“None of that elixir to spare,” I answered, sadly.

“You're getting rather rakish yourself, Jack.” She gave me one of those intent looks which made her resemble her father so strongly. “How many Japanese sweethearts?”

“Ashamed to say. Besides, I didn't go there. Why Japanese girls, when there are always a lot of things to be done aboard?”

“What sort of things?”

“Necessary things—such as—” I hesitated.

“Such as what?”

“Well—entertaining, mostly. You see, I had a lot of letters—and a rattling good cook.”

“Did you entertain many ladies?” asked Coline demurely.

“Quite a number—but never en tête-à-tête.”

“Anchorite!”

“No, anchor light. You see, I never wanted to risk getting run down.”

“Old fraud. I'll bet you had some wilder nights on your yacht in port than you ever had at sea.”

“Well,” I admitted, “once when I gave a dinner party to some Russian officers we had to knock open the freeing ports. However, I did not get drunk myself.”

“Virtuous youth. Did you ever do anything that you were ashamed of, Jack?”

“Oh, yes. I was rather ashamed the other day when I rapped Von Reibnitz. Tell me, Coline, are you really in love with him?”

“Now there you go again,” said Coline, plaintively. “Why do you suppose I want to marry him? Because I hate him?”

“No; because he has infatuated you.”

“Then go ahead and infatuate me yourself, if you are so upset about it. You have my permission to try.”

“Everybody has that,” I answered, sadly.

“Von Reibnitz hadn't. I'd been warned against him.”

“No wonder he succeeded,” I answered with a sigh.

“I don't admit that he has,” Coline retorted, “but he's come nearer to it than any other man I ever met. You don't understand, Jack; Konrad is not such a gory pirate as you all seem to think. There's a lot in his nature that is really sweet and lovable. He's been wild, no doubt, but he's never done anything treacherous or cowardly.”

“How do you know?” I asked, rather vapidly.

“Because I understand his nature. Besides, a woman has an instinct about such things.” Coline looked at me and laughed. “Take my advice, Jack,” said she. “The next time you fancy yourself in love, sigh less and swear more.”

“Damn his soul—” I began, but Coline clapped her hand over my mouth.

“Oh, Jack,” she cried, in despair, “I'll never be able to make a successful lover of you, my dear. That's not at all the way to go about it. Put your heart in your work.”

“But I haven't any left to put in it.”

“Then pretend to have. Only pretend terribly well. If you are a good enough pretender you can get almost anything that you want, because, you see, you've got to be able to fool yourself before you can hope to fool anybody else.”

“But I don't want to fool anybody,” I answered, “not even myself. I'd rather go without.”

Coline looked at me thoughtfully. “Then if you were very much in love with a woman, you would never fool her for the sake of getting her, would you?” she asked.

I wriggled. Afterward when it was too late it occurred to me that the correct answer to this question would have been: “Perhaps, if I thought that she was fooling herself,” or something of the sort. Most of us have our normal allowance of that kind of slow-freight repartee. But at the moment, Coline's question struck me like an accusation.

“No,” I answered, with another squirm. “That is, it would depend on circumstances.”

She leaned back and laughed. “Good old Jack,” said she, and I felt even more of a fraud, being neither good nor old. “The sort of wife that you need—if you really do need one, which I am inclined to doubt—is a great big easy-going dear like yourself.”

She looked at me and laughed, and her eyes suddenly softened. “Don't look at me like that,” said she, “unless you want to make me cry.”

“I wish I could,” I answered.

“Well,” she answered, pensively, “perhaps you may, some day.”

I reached over and took her hand. Coline did not resist. I would have liked it better if she had, because that would have shown that she felt something. Instead, she let it lie in my paw a good deal as children sometimes do when you are trying to explain something which happens to interest them.

“Look here, Coline,” I said, “a man doesn't have to belong to the turtle breed because he happens to move slowly. I'll bet that I do more thinking in twenty-four hours than you do in a month——”

“'Thought is quicker than action,'” she interrupted, “but if you were to sit in a cave and think for a hundred years it wouldn't make as much impression on the surrounding landscape as a charge of dynamite. You think too much, Jack. You sit and smoke and think, and sail around on your yacht and think—and think—and think—but what have you ever actually done? I am telling you all this for your own good. Some day you will want something terribly badly. Just now you happen to think that you want me, but you really don't, deep down in the bottom of your heart——”

“That will do,” I answered. “You don't know any more about my heart than you do about your own. I came up here to tell you something, but now I'm not going to do it. You are quick-minded, Coline, but you really haven't got much grown-up sense.”

Coline nodded.

“I know it,” she answered. “And I like to hear you say so, Jack. What must I do to get it?”

“Get older,” I answered. “The trouble with you is that you were not born long enough ago. However, let us hope that time may remedy that.”

“A good time might help a lot,” said Coline. (She was always quick at that sort of tea-house talk which most men despise.) “Do you think that we shall have it when I am kidnapped, Jack?”

“I don't believe so,” I answered, “but you might get some of that action which you appear to crave.”

“Not with such gentle old dears as Saltonstall and Whistler and you, I'm afraid. Really, Jack, it's too absurd for Dad to ship me off like this. I have given Konrad my promise and I mean to keep it, and all that Dad can do is to delay the game a little. I'll take the first steamer back from Australia and marry Konrad the day that I land. Personally I don't object particularly to the voyage, as I like the sea, and my best chum, Evelyn Stall, lives in Sydney. I wish that I could make a match between you two,” she concluded pensively.

“Where is Von Reibnitz now?” I asked.

“In Chicago, I believe. I told him that he had better clear out until my coming of age, as it makes Dad nervous to have him standing off and on. He says it reminds him of a shark waiting for a boat to upset.” She laughed. “I suppose you think I'm horribly undutiful.”

“I think that you're pretty ungrateful,” I answered, wearily. “Think what a devoted father yours has been.”

“No girl ever had a sweeter. But he doesn't understand, Jack, and neither do you. You both regard Von Reibnitz as a sort of sea-going desperado, and he's nothing of the sort. He is a very polished and distinguished gentleman, and of noble blood on both sides of his family. If he's been wild, why, then so have lots of men. Anyhow, I'd rather catch one wild and tame him than have one that could never be anything but tame——”

“It's time for me to go,” I said, rising.

“Don't be sore, Jack; I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke.”

“You never do think of me. Au revoir, my dear.”

CHAPTER IV

The Reluctant Kidnappers

Mr. Satterlie left for the East a few days later; and after he had gone I spent my time rather aimlessly, lunching and dining frequently with Coline and her aunt, hang ing about the club, and drifting down quite often to the Union Iron Works for a chat with old Saltonstall. He seemed to take pleasure in my society, and we went out together a good deal.

On these occasions the captain played his rôle of elderly exquisite with a gusto which it was a delight to observe, and I was quick to discover that he liked to be considered a bit of a heart-breaker, though a more innocent old squire of dames, so far as actual behavior was concerned, it would have been impossible to find.

Another thing which I discovered to my amusement was that crabbed old Whistler, in his secret heart, was inordinately proud of his skipper, though he would have been roasted over a slow fire rather than acknowledge it. Whistler's father, I learned, had been a weaver of Aberdeen, and his brother a tailor of Edinburgh. Whistler knew good stuffs and advised carefully with the skipper in the selection of samples. It was a curious sight to watch the two, skipper and mate of a trading-schooner, sitting at the saloon-table, ankle deep in shavings, arguing over a litter of fashion-plates and samples.

My own advice was often anxiously sought and eagerly weighed, though Whistler would invariably end by disparaging it, this through so ill-concealed a jealousy as to have been amusing but for a certain pathos. He loved to watch us sally forth together, but would never accept any invitation of mine to accompany us.

“Y' are both too overdressed,” he would say. “I would only be callin' attentions to your defeeciencies o' quiet taste.”

“Oh, come, Mr. Whistler,” Saltonstall would expostulate, “what can possibly be out of taste in this granite-colored cutaway and dove-colored spats and tie and gloves? It seems to me to possess a quiet elegance quite removed from any attempt at an ultra effect. Don't you think so, Jack?”

“It looks all right to me,” I would answer, “but of course Mr. Whistler inherits a fine critical instinct from several generations of producers of fabrics. I think that we had better be guided by his judgment.”

Such a remark as that never failed to fetch him. He would stuff his short briar, light it, scowl at the heap of tailor's rubbish for a moment, and observe:

“I wouldna' go so far as to say ye have not both a deal to learn in the matter o' dress. For instance, that coat o' Mister Hamilton's is of uncommon poor stuff—considerin' always the price that he no doubt paid for it. And as for the skipper, this suit he is wearin' is quite in keepin' for a horse-race or a dog-fight or such places as no doubt the two of ye frequent when y' are off speerin' around the town. Well—let it pass. When a mon is most of his life at sea he is too prone to grow weed and barnacles. After all, we are creatures o' the land and have neither gills nor webby feet. But befor' ye go up town ye had better give your troosies to Hop Singh, as the fule has not ironed them directly on the crease.”

This is a sample of the sort of fun I had with these two men, who were both such children ashore and (as I found out later) such giants at sea.

None of us ever referred to the object of our cruise; no doubt each of us felt rather ashamed of it from his own particular point of view. Saltonstall hated the whole thing like poison and was doing his best to forget it until the time came to sail. Whistler hated it more on account of his Scotch caution and the idea that he might be drawn into some sort of legal controversy, than for anything else. I hated it because it impressed me more each day as futile and undignified.

As Coline said, there was something shamefully ridiculous in the idea of trying to mate a man and a woman as you might a pair of canary birds, by locking them up together in the same cage and then trusting to mere propinquity and natural instincts.

At any rate, I managed to get a good deal of comfort—and save my self-respect—out of the idea that I was going off on this voyage not as Coline's urgent suitor, but merely as a companion and protector. And I registered a quiet resolve not to say one single word of love to her until the cruise was over. In fact, I did rather intimate this to Saltonstall, who heartily approved my resolution.

“You are quite right, my dear fellow,” said he warmly, and his big eyes bulged at me fairly brimming with benevolence. “Lovely woman should never be coerced. If we can't win her heart by chivalrous and unselfish devotion, then so much the worse for us. In fact, it was not until Mr. Satterlie had repeatedly assured me of your own high standards of honor and delicacy that I consented to be a party to his project. I have now come fully to understand that his lofty estimates of your character were not exaggerated”—and he made me a quaint, old-fashioned bow.

“There is one particular feature about the business which sticks in my thrapple,” said I, dejectedly, “and that is the idea of Miss Satterlie being without any female companion. What if she should be ill?”

Saltonstall looked very much distressed. He nodded several times and tugged a bristle or two out of his enormous mustache.

“There is no doubt but that you are right,” said he, drawing down his bushy eyebrows, “though I must admit that—eh—hem—” (he seemed to be about to choke) “ha—quite so—but what the deuce are we to do about it? It is a very uncommon and unconventional situation—but, on the other hand, there would be the danger of this female companion making it highly embarrassing for all of us. Even granted that a man were justified in kidnapping his own daughter for the sake of preventing her from falling into the clutches of a scoundrel and ruining her life, he would hardly be justified in detaining against her will some outside person. The whole wretched affair is deplorably irregular. Well, well—this is an odd world we live in,” he finished with an embarrassed air, and flecked a shred of oakum from his immaculate trousers.

As our sailing day approached the poor skipper grew more and more restive, falling into moody silences from which he would emerge with a sudden “Ha—” and a violent tug at his mustache. Whistler had grudgingly consented to stick on, but appeared to be morose and fault-finding. The work on the vessel was finished and the appointments below decks were those of a comfortable, modern yacht.

Going down to the yard one day, I was astonished at the amount of stuff being loaded aboard; not only stores but bulky cases of what appeared to be general merchandise, among which was a big crate from a dealer in sporting goods. When I questioned the skipper about it he appeared so flustered that he was almost incoherent.

“Just a few things that we are taking out—ah, in the nature of a private commission—a few guns and—ah—equipments of various sorts, you understand—pardon me—” He thrust his reddened face over the hatch and called down in a voice quite different from his habitually genial tones—“Below there, look sharp now and get this dunnage stowed!”

I turned away with the idea that the worthy skipper had no doubt engaged in a little private trading venture of his own, which after all he might just as well have done, as there was plenty of hold space going to waste. Still, I did not see any reason for his being so embarrassed about it. Had I guessed what the old innocent was really up to, the expedition would have seen its finish then and there.

CHAPTER V

Two Betrayals and a Surprise

Coline's attitude rather surprised me also. “I'm really quite keen about it, Jack,” said she. “For one thing, it will give me a chance to rest up and regain the elasticity of youth, which is getting badly stretched in supper and theatre parties. For another, it will be fun to see how you wear as a shipmate. Dad always says that you never know a person until you've made a long voyage together or wintered it out together in the wilderness. Then, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, you know him too well, and in the hundredth you can never know him well enough. I wonder which it's going to be, Jack?”

“As a rather poor gambler,” I answered, “I'd advise you to play the long shot. It's so much more exciting when you win.”

“But if I lose?”

“Then marry Von Reibnitz—and play a whole lot longer one.”

“Are you going to make love to me every day?”

“No. But I'm going to love you every day.”

Coline looked a little disturbed. “I believe I'll change my mind and not go,” she said.

“I wish you would.”

“You do? Why?”

“Because I think that there's something fishy about all this. Oh, look here, Coline, I'm going to 'fess up. No doubt your father thinks that he is acting for your best interests, and all of that, but after all you're entitled to your rights as a free agent, as soon as you come of age.”

Coline's eyes opened very wide. No doubt my tone may have been a little brusk, for while talking to her I suddenly saw myself in the rôle of a deceitful sort of cad, and I didn't care for the picture. I loved Coline with all my heart, and as I sat there listening to her light-hearted banter I realized suddenly that I was absolutely incapable of carrying the deception any farther.

“This voyage is all a fake,” I said. “The scheme is to get you aboard the Sabbath Day for a supposed run to Sydney, then sail you around indefinitely, for the next six months perhaps, letting you go ashore only at places from which there is no regular communication with the outer world. In the meantime your father no doubt hopes to shelve Von Reibnitz in some way or trusts in your getting over your infatuation for him. So there you are. I've gone and blown the whole blooming conspiracy.”

For a moment or two Coline stared at me in utter amazement. Then she threw back her head and laughed as if I had just told her the funniest joke in the world.

But the next second she was on her feet in front of me, dropped her two hands on my shoulders, her eyes looking straight into mine with a curious mistiness in their blue depths.

“You are a dear, Jack,” she said, and I noticed that her lips were trembling. “And have you been going around all of this time with such a load on your conscience?”

“Yes,” I answered, “and so have Saltonstall and Whistler. Your father skipped out for the East and left us to squirm. Anyhow, he seemed to think it a bit of a joke.”

Coline dropped her hands from my shoulders, flung herself back into her chair, and laughed until I began to get a little peeved.

“It's the funniest thing I ever heard,” said she. “Isn't it just like Dad, the old darling? And it's just like you, too, Jack.”

“To lose my nerve?”

“No. Not to lose it. To lose me first.”

“You can't lose something you never had.”

“Perhaps. But you can lose something you'd hoped to have. Did you really think that in the end you might have got me, Jack?”

“No,” I answered. “I never even hoped it, after our talk the other day. All I hoped was that we might manage to keep you from marrying Von Reibnitz.”

“But what if I'd married somebody whom you and father and Captain Saltonstall approved?”

“In that case,” I answered, “there would have been a scramble among the three of us to wish you all happiness.”

Coline stared at me fixedly. I was watching her, too, and as I watched I saw a strange little contraction under the creamy skin of her throat and a fixed expression in her blue eyes. The next moment they filled with tears. I walked to the window.

“You—make me want to—cry—” said a tremulous voice behind me.

“Then go ahead and cry,” I answered, without turning.

Instead of acting on my advice she began to laugh again. But this did not last very long, and presently she asked:

“What are you thinking about, Jack?”

“Nothing much,” I answered.

“About me?” (Another nervous laugh.)

“No. I have started to break myself of that useless occupation. I am thinking about myself—wondering if I can get the yacht in commission and escape before your father returns.”

“Why? You are not afraid of Dad, are you?”

“Not very. But I might say things to hurt his feelings.”

“You couldn't do that. He likes you too much. You take too much for granted, Jack—or not enough.”

Our conversation was interrupted at this point by a maid who came into the room with a card. Coline glanced at it, smiled, and handed it to me. It bore the inscription:

Anthony Saltonstall, Master Mariner.

“Oh, Lord!” I complained.

“Leave it to me, Jack,” said Coline, and spoke to the maid. I looked out of the window until I heard a stately tread at the top of the stairs. Then I turned and watched Saltonstall as he presented Coline with a cluster of roses. She pinned them to her bodice.

“I hope that I am not intruding—?” he began.

“Angels often rush in,” said Coline, “to show fools how to tread”—she glanced at me and her eyelid fluttered. (She loved to make the men she liked feel as if they were mechanical toys.) “When are we going to sail?”

Captain Saltonstall's clothes looked suddenly too large for him. He seemed to draw back into them like a turtle. And you may be sure that none of this was lost on Coline. He cast me an appealing look, and I turned my back on them both and looked out of the window. But the captain did not falter.

“We are all ready for sea,” he answered, “and as soon as you wish to come aboard we shall get under way.”

“Really?” cried Coline, and clapped her hands. “Oh, I'm so glad! Then may I come aboard to-morrow night?” And she looked up into his suffering face like a child begging to be taken on his shoulder.

Saltonstall snorted like a staid old thoroughbred horse who finds it trying after years of faithful domestic service when one of the younger children makes use of his tail as a swing.

I turned quickly to put an end to the farce. Since she could no longer have any intention of going aboard the schooner, after my betrayal of the plot, it seemed cruel and unnecessary to bait the poor old skipper.

Wherefore, I turned to explain that I had turned traitor and that the whole voyage was off, at which information I knew that Saltonstall would fairly neigh with joy. But when my eyes met those of Coline the expression which I saw arrested me, it was so fiercely enjoining my silence. So, rather sulkily, I turned to the window again while Coline returned to her feline tormenting of the captain.

“Won't we have a jolly voyage!” said she. “It's so much nicer with just you and Jack and Mr. Whistler and myself than if there were a lot of silly guests to get on one's nerves. They always get quarreling on a long voyage, but we could never quarrel, could we?”

“I hope not, my dear Miss Satterlie,” answered Saltonstall, and the “hope” was dragged out into what resembled a moan.

“When do you think I may count on landing at Sydney?” Coline asked in a limpid voice. “My dearest chum lives there and I am dying to surprise her.”

“Ah—eh—that I am afraid will—ha—depend on various circumstances,” Saltonstall answered, miserably. “You must know that there are a few places where your father has directed me to call. Of course, the object of this voyage is known to us all, my dear young lady, so it is—hem—ha—hardly worth while to equivocate. Mr. Satterlie's hope is that the soft and fragrant breezes of the Pacific may—ha—blow away certain sentiments which you at present entertain and which he feels to be contrary to your best interests. Although somewhat beyond my instructions, I feel it only honorable to inform you that my orders from your father are that I am to make no haste in reaching Sydney unless you should—ha—do me the honor to assure me of a change of determination—or, at least a change of sentiment in regard to your attitude toward a certain person unnecessary to name. That is to say, you understand—” he maundered on—“that you no longer contemplate the bestowal of your hand upon this party whom your father feels to be most undesirable—hem—ha—” and the poor man mopped his forehead with a snowy and delicately scented handkerchief which bore his monogram embroidered on one corner.

I could have hugged the kind old fellow for what I knew he must have considered as a very dangerous lapse of duty to his employer. He was a man to whom the strict observance of instructions was firmly interwoven with his own personal honor. Yet here he was, practically warning the girl of what I had just told her in blunter language.

Coline must have appreciated this. Yet she merely wanted to put her power and his knightly nature to the test. To my surprise, however, she did not follow up her advantage, but merely said:

“Of course, as you say, we all know the real object of the voyage, and so there is no use to mince matters. Papa wants to force me upon Jack.”

“Not a bit of it,” I interrupted. “He wants to keep you away from Von Reibnitz.”

Saltonstall took advantage of this diversion to make his escape. Breathing rather hard and with one or two smothered “ha's,” he straightened his long legs in their beautifully ironed trousers and bowed.

“Then if you will permit me to wish you good-day, Miss Satterlie,” said he, “I shall return to the yard and see that all is in readiness for your reception to-morrow night.”

I looked expectantly at Coline.

“Very well, Captain. Then you may expect us aboard to-morrow evening. Mr. Hamilton will call for me and we will slip away like an eloping couple. Thank you for telling me what you have; it will make it much pleasanter for all of us.”

Astonished as I was at this declaration, its effect on Saltonstall was even more pronounced. His big face actually contracted as if from a violent angina. Even Coline looked surprised.

“What is the matter, Captain Saltonstall?” she exclaimed. “You are not ill?”

“Ha—h'm—a slight indisposition—nothing, I assure you—absolutely nothing. Permit me to wish you good afternoon—and you, my dear Jack.”

“What's the game?” I asked, as soon as the captain was out of earshot.

Coline glanced at me with an expression of mock surprise on her rosy, dimpling face.

“Game?” she asked, with a rising inflection.

“Yes,” I answered impatiently. “Why did you tell him that you were going?”

“For the simple reason that I am,” she answered briefly.

“After what I've just told you?” I asked incredulously.

“Certainly. To tell the truth, Jack, I rather suspected that Dad had some such card up his sleeve, the dear old fox!”

“But surely you don't want to be a prisoner at sea for the next six months, do you? What do you want to go for anyhow?”

“Oh, for a lot of reasons. In the first place, I promised Dad that I would. In the second, it doesn't seem sportsmanlike to take advantage of two such innocents as you and poor old Anthony. And in the third, I want to see what is going to come of it all,” said Coline.

CHAPTER VI

In Peril of Sharks

That same afternoon, before going down to the yard, I called at my solicitors' to sign some papers and give final instructions as to the regulation of certain affairs during my proposed absence. The firm had its offices in a modern building occupied principally by lawyers; and as I was leaving the premises of my own legal advisers I came face to face with Whistler, in the act of emerging from a door across the corridor which bore the name of an old shark notorious for his cleverness in escaping the penalties of the law. All was fish (often dead and distinctly putrid) which came to old Craven's net, though his specialty was in maritime cases—salvage claims, wrecking, insurance, barratry.

My eyebrows went up a little when I met Whistler coming out of his lair. But if I was surprised, then Whistler was violently embarrassed, and to such an extent that I took advantage of his confusion to ask him point-blank what he was doing in such a rotten shop.

The next instalment of “Kidnapping Coline” will appear in the October number.