Part 24

“Well, for that matter, it's got nothing in that respect on some of the other lines we're salting down in the merger,” suggested a member of the party, speaking for the first time.

“I'm afraid you said it then, Thompson! American bottoms seem to be turned into barnacle-gardens,” declared the man who had questioned the matter of Tucker's value.

“Gentlemen, just a moment!” Julius Marston leaned forward in his chair. His voice was low. His eyes narrowed. He dominated them by his earnestness. “You have followed me in a number of enterprises, and we have had good luck. But let me tell you that we have ahead of us the biggest thing yet, and we cannot afford to leave one loose end! Not one, gentlemen! That's why a fool like Tucker doesn't deserve any consideration when he gets in our way. Listen to me! The biggest thing that has ever happened in this world is going to happen. How do I know? I am not sure that I do know. But as I have just told you, the man who guesses right is the winner.” His thin nose was wrinkled, and the strip of beard on his chin bristled. Sometimes men called Marston “the fox of Wall Street.” He suggested the reason for his nickname as he sat there and squinted at his associates. “And there's an instinct that helps some men to guess right. Something is going to happen in this world before long that will make millionaires over and over out of men who have invested a few thousands in American bottoms.”

“What will happen?” bluntly inquired one of the men, after a silence.

“I am neither clairvoyant nor crystal-gazer,” said Marston, grimly. “But I have led you into some good things when my instinct has whispered. I say it's going to happen--and I say no more.”

“To make American bottoms worth while the whole of Europe will have to be busy doing something else with their ships.”

“All right! Then they'll be doing it,” returned Marston.

“It would have to be a war--a big war.”

“Very well! Maybe that's the answer.”

“But there never can be another big war. As a financier you know it.”

“I have made some money by adhering to the hard and fast rules of finance. But I have made the most of my money by turning my back on those rules and listening to my instinct,” was Marston's rejoinder. “I don't want to over-influence you, gentlemen. I don't care to discuss any further what you may consider to be dreams. I am not predicting a great war in Europe. Common sense argues the other way. But I am going into this ship-merger proposition with every ounce of brains and energy and capital I possess. The man who gets in my way is trying to keep these two hands of mine off millions!” He shook his clutched fists above his head. “And I'll walk over him, by the gods! whether it's Tucker or anybody else. We have had some good talks on the subject, first and last. I'm starting now to fight and smash opposition. What do you propose to do in the matter, gentlemen?”

They were silent for a time, looking at one another, querying without words. Then out of their knowledge of Julius Marston's uncanny abilities, remembering their past successes, came resolve.

“We're in with you to the last dollar,” they assured him, one after the other.

“Very well! You're wise!”

He unlocked a drawer of his desk and secured a code-book. He pressed a buzzer and the secretary came hurrying from his stateroom.

“We'll open action, gentlemen, with a little long-distance skirmish over the wire.”

He began to dictate his telegrams.

VI ~ AND WE SAILED

O Johnny's gone to Baltimore To dance upon that sanded floor. O Johnny's gone for evermore; I'll never see my John no more! O Johnny's gone! What shall I do? A-way you. H-e-e l-o-o-o! O Johnny's gone! What shall I do? Johnny's gone to Hilo. --Old Hauling Song.

The taciturn secretary fumbled his way forward and delivered to Captain Mayo a little packet securely bound with tape.

“Orders from Mr. Marston that you take these ashore, yourself. They are important telegrams and he wants them hurried.”

The master called his men to the dinghy, and they rowed him away through the fog. It was a touchy job, picking his way through that murk. He stood up, leaning forward holding to his taut tiller-ropes, and more by ears than his eyes directed his course. A few of the anchored craft, knowing that they were in the harbor roadway, clanged their bells lazily once in a while. Yacht tenders were making their rounds, carrying parties who were paying and returning calls, and these boats were avoiding each other by loud hails. Small objects loomed largely and little sounds were accentuated.

The far voice of an unseen joker announced that he could find his way through the fog all right, but was afraid he had not strength enough to push his boat through it.

But Mayo knew his waters in that harbor, and found his way to the wharf. His real difficulties confronted him at the village telegraph office. The visiting yachtsmen had flooded the place with messages, and the flustered young woman was in a condition nearly resembling hysteria. She was defiantly declaring that she would not accept any more telegrams. Instead of setting at work upon those already filed she was spending her time explaining her limitations to later arrivals.

Captain Mayo stood at one side and looked on for a few moments. A gentle nudge on his elbow called his attention to an elderly man with stringy whiskers, who thus solicited his notice. The man held a folded paper gingerly by one corner, exhibiting profound respect for his minute burden.

“You ain't one of these yachting dudes--you're a skipper, ain't you?” asked the man.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, I can talk to you, as one officer to another--and glad to meet one of my own breed. I'm first mate of the schooner Polly. Mr. Speed is my name.”