Part 3

I was greatly at a loss. Their offer was preposterous, but to them, it was apparently a perfectly possible arrangement. Nor were they acting on impulse. Mrs. Farrell had admitted that for six months she had had me “trailed.” How to say “No” and not give offense, I found difficult. They were deeply in earnest and I could see that Farrell, at least, was by instinct generous, human, and kind. It was, in fact, a most generous offer. But how was I to tell them tactfully I was not for sale, that I was not looking for “ready-to-wear” parents, and that if I were in the market, they were not the parents I would choose. I had a picture of life at Harbor Castle, dependent upon the charity of the Farrells. I imagined what my friends would say to me, and worse, what they would say behind my back. But I was not forced to a refusal.

Mr. Farrell rose.

“We don't want to hurry you,” he said. “We want you to think it over. Maybe if we get acquainted----”

Mrs. Farrell smiled upon me ingratiatingly.

“Why don't we get acquainted now?” she demanded. “We're motoring down to Cape May to stay three weeks. Why don't you come along--as our guest--and see how you like us?”

I assured them, almost too hastily, that already was deeply engaged.

As they departed, Farrell again admonished me to think it over.

“And look me up at Dun's and Bradstreet's,” he advised. “Ask 'em about me at the Waldorf. Ask the head waiters and bellhops if I look twice at a five spot!”

It seemed an odd way to select a father, but I promised.

I escorted them even to the sidewalk, and not without envy watched them sweep toward the Waldorf in the High Flyer, 1915 model. I caught myself deciding, were it mine, I would paint it gray.

I was lunching at the Ritz with Curtis Spencer, and I looked forward to the delight he would take in my story of the Farrells. He would probably want to write it. He was my junior, but my great friend; and as a novelist his popularity was where five years earlier mine had been. But he belonged to the new school. His novels smelled like a beauty parlor; and his heroines, while always beautiful, were, on occasions, virtuous, but only when they thought it would pay.

Spencer himself was as modern as his novels, and I was confident his view of my adventure would be that of the great world which he described so accurately.

But to my amazement when I had finished he savagely attacked me.

“You idiot!” he roared. “Are you trying to tell me you refused five million dollars--just because you didn't like the people who wanted to force it on you? Where,” he demanded, “is Cape May? We'll follow them now! We'll close this deal before they can change their minds. I'll make you sign to-night. And, then,” he continued eagerly, “we'll take their yacht and escape to Newport, and you'll lend me five thousand dollars, and pay my debts, and give me back the ten you borrowed. And you might buy me a touring-car and some polo ponies and--and--oh, lots of things. I'll think of them as we go along. Meanwhile, I can't afford to give luncheons to millionaires, so you sign for this one; and then we'll start for Cape May.”

“Are you mad?” I demanded; “do you think I'd sell my honor!”

“For five million dollars?” cried Spencer. “Don't make me laugh! If they want a REAL novelist for a son they can adopt me!”

I replied with dignity that I would not disgrace the memory of my parents.

“You have disgraced them!” retorted Spencer, “with your Musketeer novels for infants. You need money. To get it you may be tempted to write more novels. Here's your chance! Stop robbing the public, and lead an honest life. Think of all the money you could give to the poor, think of all the money you and I could lose at Monte Carlo!”

When he found I would not charter an auto-mobile and at once pursue the Farrells he changed his tactics. If I would not go to Cape May, then, he begged, I would go to Fairharbor. He asked that I would, at least, find out what I was refusing. Before making their offer, for six months, the Farrells had had me “looked up,” but, without knowing anything of them, after a talk of ten minutes I had turned them down. “Was that,” he asked, “intelligent? Was it fair to the Farrells?” He continued to tempt me.

“They told you to think it over,” he persisted. “Very well, then, think it over at Fairharbor! For the next three weeks the Farrells will be at Cape May. The coast is clear. Go to Fairharbor as somebody else and be your own detective. Find out if what they tell you is true. Get inside information. Get inside Harbor Castle. Count the eighteen bedrooms and try the beds. Never mind the art gallery, but make sure there is a wine cellar. You can't start too soon, and I WILL GO WITH YOU!”

I told him where he could go.

We then tossed to see who should pay for the lunch and who should tip the head waiter. I lost and had to tip the head waiter. We separated, and as I walked down the Avenue, it seemed as though to the proprietor of every shop I passed I owed money. Owing them the money I did not so much mind; what most distressed me was that they were so polite about it. I had always wanted to reward their patience. A favorite dream of mine was to be able to walk down Fifth Avenue, my pockets stuffed with yellow bills, paying off my debts. Compared with my steadily decreasing income, how enormous my debts appeared; but when compared with the income of a man worth--say-five million dollars, how ridiculous! I had no more than reached my apartment, than a messenger-boy arrived with an envelope. It contained a ticket for a round trip on the New Bedford Line boat leaving that afternoon, a ticket for a stateroom, and a note from Curtis Spencer. The latter read: “The boat leaves at six to-night. You arrive at New Bedford seven to-morrow morning. New Bedford and Fairharbor are connected by a bridge. CROSS IT!”

I tore the note in tiny fragments, and tossed them through the open window. I was exceedingly angry. As I stood at the window adding to the name of Curtis Spencer insulting aliases, the street below sent up hot, stifling odors: the smoke of taxicabs, the gases of an open subway, the stale reek of thousands of perspiring, unwashed bodies. From that one side street seemed to rise the heat and smells of all New York. For relief I turned to my work-table where lay the opening chapters of my new novel, “The White Plume of Savoy.” But now, in the light of Spencer's open scorn, I saw it was impudently false, childish, sentimental. My head ached, the humidity sapped my strength, at heart I felt sick, sore, discouraged. I was down and out. And seeing this, Temptation, like an obsequious floorwalker, came hurrying forward.

“And what may I show you to-day?” asked Temptation. He showed me the upper deck of the New Bedford boat feeling her way between the green banks of the Sound. A cool wind swept past me bearing clean, salty odors; on the saloon deck a band played, and from the darkness the lighthouses winked at me, and in friendly greeting the stars smiled. Temptation won. In five minutes I was feverishly packing, and at five-thirty I was on board. I assured myself I had not listened to Temptation, that I had no interest in Fairharbor. I was taking the trip solely because it would give me a night's sleep on the Sound. I promised myself that on the morrow I would not even LOOK toward Harbor Castle; but on the evening following on the same boat, return to New York. Temptation did not stop to argue, but hastened after another victim.

I turned in at nine o'clock and the coolness, and the salt air, blessed me with the first sleep I had known in weeks. And when I woke we were made fast to the company's wharf at New Bedford, and the sun was well up. I rose refreshed in body and spirit. No longer was I discouraged. Even “The White Plume of Savoy” seemed a perfectly good tale of romance and adventure. And the Farrells were a joke. Even if I were at Fairharbor, I was there only on a lark, and at the expense of Curtis Spencer, who had paid for the tickets. Distinctly the joke was on Curtis Spencer. I lowered the window screen, and looked across the harbor. It was a beautiful harbor. At ancient stone wharfs Jay ancient whalers with drooping davits and squared yards, at anchor white-breasted yachts flashed in the sun, a gray man-of-war's man flaunted the week's laundry, a four-masted schooner dried her canvas, and over the smiling surface of the harbor innumerable fishing boats darted. With delight I sniffed the odors of salt water, sun-dried herring, of oakum and tar. The shore opposite was a graceful promontory crowned with trees and decorous gray-shingled cottages set in tiny gardens that reached to the very edge of the harbor. The second officer was passing my window and I asked what the promontory was called.

“Fairharbor,” he said. He answered with such proprietary pride and smiled upon Fairharbor with such approval that I ventured to guess it was his home.

“That's right,” he said; “I used to live at the New York end of the run-in a flat. But never again! No place for the boy to play but in the street. I found I could rent one of those old cottages over there for the same money I paid for the flat. So I cut out New York. My boy lives in a bathing suit now, and he can handle a catboat same as me. We have a kitchen garden, and hens, and the fishermen here will give you all the fish you can carry away--fish right out of the water. I guess I've smashed the high cost of living problem all right. I wouldn't go back to living in New York now--not if they gave me the PILGRIM.”

As though trying to prod my memory, I frowned. It was my conception of the part of a detective. “Hasn't Fletcher Farrell,” I asked, “a house in Fairharbor?”