“Don’t blame you a bit,” he told her. “I’ll be very careful what I say.”
They had reached the Embarcadero, and the car halted before one of the piers. The chauffeur descended and began to gather up the baggage. Roger and John Quincy took a share of it, and they traversed the pier-shed to the gangplank.
“Get along to your office, Roger,” Barbara said.
“No hurry,” he answered. “I’ll go aboard with you, of course.”
Amid the confusion of the deck, a party of girls swept down on Barbara, pretty lively girls of the California brand. John Quincy learned with some regret that they were there only to see Barbara off. A big broad-shouldered man in white pushed his way through the crowd.
“Hello there!” he called to Barbara.
“Hello, Harry,” she answered. “You, know Roger, don’t you? John Quincy, this is an old friend of mine, Harry Jennison.”
Mr. Jennison was extremely good-looking, his face was deeply tanned by the Island sun, his hair blond and wavy, his gray eyes amused and cynical. Altogether, he was the type of man women look at twice and never forget; John Quincy felt himself at once supplanted in the eyes of Barbara’s friends.
Jennison seized the boy’s hand in a firm grip. “Sailing too, Mr. Winterslip?” he inquired. “That’s good. Between us we ought to be able to keep this young woman entertained.”
The shore call sounded, and the confusion increased. Along the deck came a little old lady, followed by a Chinese woman servant. They walked briskly, and the crowd gave way before them.
“Hello—this is luck,” cried Roger. “Madame Maynard—just a moment. I want you to meet a cousin of mine from Boston.” He introduced John Quincy. “I give him into your charge. Couldn’t find a better guide, philosopher and friend for him if I combed the Islands.”
The old lady glanced at John Quincy. Her black eyes snapped. “Another Winterslip, eh?” she said. “Hawaii’s all cluttered up with ’em now. Well, the more the merrier. I know your aunt.”
“Stick close to her, John Quincy,” Roger admonished.
She shook her head. “I’m a million years old,” she protested. “The boys don’t stick so close any more. They like ’em younger. However, I’ll keep my eye on him. My good eye. Well, Roger, run over some time.” And she moved away.
“A grand soul,” said Roger, smiling after her. “You’ll like her. Old missionary family, and her word’s law over there.”
“Who’s this Jennison?” asked John Quincy.
“Him?” Roger glanced over to where Mr. Jennison stood, the center of an admiring feminine group. “Oh, he’s Dan’s lawyer. One of the leading citizens of Honolulu, I believe. John J. Adonis himself, isn’t he?” An officer appeared, herding the reluctant throng toward the gangplank. “I’ll have to leave you, John Quincy. A pleasant journey. When you come through on your way home, give me a few more days to try to convince you on my San Francisco offer.”
John Quincy laughed. “You’ve been mighty kind.”
“Not at all.” Roger shook his hand warmly. “Take care of yourself over there. Hawaii’s a little too much like Heaven to be altogether safe. So long, my boy, so long.”
He moved away. John Quincy saw him kiss Barbara affectionately and with her friends join the slow procession ashore.
The young man from Boston stepped to the rail. Several hundred voices were calling admonitions, promises, farewells. With that holiday spirit so alien to John Quincy’s experience, those ashore were throwing confetti. The streamers grew in number, making a tangle of color, a last frail bond with the land. The gangplank was taken up, clumsily the President Tyler began to draw away from the pier. On the topmost deck a band was playing—“Aloha-oe”, the sweetest, most melancholy song of goodbye ever written. John Quincy was amazed to feel a lump rising in his throat.
The frail, gay-colored bond was breaking now. A thin veined hand at John Quincy’s side waved a handkerchief. He turned to find Mrs. Maynard. There were tears on her cheeks.
“Silly old woman,” she said. “Sailed away from this town a hundred and twenty-eight times. Actual count—I keep a diary. Cried every time. What about? I don’t know.”
The ship was well out in the harbor now. Barbara came along, Jennison trailing her. The girl’s eyes were wet.
“An emotional lot, we Islanders,” said the old lady. She put her arm about the girl’s slim waist. “Here’s another one of ’em. Living way off the way we do, any goodbye at all—it saddens us.” She and Barbara moved on down the deck.
Jennison stopped. His eyes were quite dry. “First trip out?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes,” replied John Quincy.
“Hope you’ll like us,” Jennison said. “Not Massachusetts, of course, but we’ll do our best to make you feel at home. It’s a way we have with strangers.”
“I’m sure I shall have a bully time,” John Quincy remarked. But he felt somewhat depressed. Three thousand miles from Beacon Street—and moving on! He waved to someone he fancied might be Roger on the dock, and went to find his stateroom.
He learned that he was to share his cabin with two missionaries. One was a tall, gloomy old man with a lemon-colored face—an honored veteran of the foreign field named Upton. The other was a ruddy-cheeked boy whose martyrdom was still before him. John Quincy suggested drawing lots for a choice of berths, but even this mild form of gambling appeared distasteful to these emissaries of the church.
“You boys take the berths,” said Upton. “Leave me the couch. I don’t sleep well anyhow.” His tone was that of one who prefers to suffer.
John Quincy politely objected. After further discussion it was settled that he was to have the upper berth, the old man the lower, and the boy the couch. The Reverend Mr. Upton seemed disappointed. He had played
