The Pacific was behaving in a most unfriendly manner, tossing the great ship about as though it were a piece of driftwood. John Quincy decided to dispense with lunch, and spent the afternoon reading in his berth. By evening he felt better, and under the watchful and somewhat disapproving eyes of the missionaries, arrayed himself carefully for dinner.
His name being Winterslip, he had been invited to sit at the captain’s table. He found Madame Maynard, serene and twinkling, at the captain’s right, Barbara at his left, and Jennison at Barbara’s side. It appeared that oddly enough there was an aristocracy of the Islands, and John Quincy, while he thought it quaint there should be such distinctions in an outpost like Hawaii, took his proper place as a matter of course.
Mrs. Maynard chatted brightly of her many trips over this route. Suddenly she turned to Barbara. “How does it happen, my dear,” she asked, “that you’re not on the college boat?”
“All booked up,” Barbara explained.
“Nonsense,” said the frank old lady. “You could have got on. But then”—she looked meaningly toward Jennison—“I presume this ship was not without its attraction.”
The girl flushed slightly and made no reply.
“What,” John Quincy inquired, “is the college boat?”
“So many children from Hawaii at school on the mainland,” the old lady explained, “that every June around this time they practically fill a ship. We call it the college boat. This year it’s the Matsonia. She left San Francisco today at noon.”
“I’ve got a lot of friends aboard her,” Barbara said. “I do wish we could beat her in. Captain, what are the chances?”
“Well, that depends,” replied the captain cautiously.
“She isn’t due until Tuesday morning,” Barbara persisted. “Wouldn’t it be a lark if you could land us the night before? As a favor to me, Captain.”
“When you look at me like that,” smiled the officer, “I can only say that I’ll make a supreme effort. I’m just as eager as you to make port on Monday—it would mean I could get off to the Orient that much sooner.”
“Then it’s settled,” Barbara beamed.
“It’s settled that we’ll try,” he said. “Of course, if I speed up there’s always the chance I may arrive off Honolulu after sundown, and be compelled to lay by until morning. That would be torture for you.”
“I’ll risk it,” Barbara smiled. “Wouldn’t dear old dad be pleased if I should burst upon his vision Monday evening?”
“My dear girl,” the captain said gallantly, “any man would be pleased to have you burst upon his vision any time.”
There was, John Quincy reflected, much in what the captain said. Up to that moment there had been little of the romantic in his relations with girls; he was accustomed to look upon them merely as tennis or golf opponents or a fourth at bridge. Barbara would demand a different classification. There was an enticing gleam in her blue eyes, a hint of the eternal feminine in everything she did or said, and John Quincy was no wooden man. He was glad that when he left the dinner table, she accompanied him.
They went on deck and stood by the rail. Night had fallen, there was no moon, and it seemed to John Quincy that the Pacific was the blackest, angriest ocean he had ever seen. He stood gazing at it gloomily.
“Homesick, John Quincy?” Barbara asked. One of his hands was resting on the rail. She laid her own upon it.
He nodded. “It’s a funny thing. I’ve been abroad a lot, but I never felt like this. When the ship left port this morning, I nearly wept.”
“It’s not so very funny,” she said gently. “This is an alien world you’re entering now. Not Boston, John Quincy, nor any other old, civilized place. Not the kind of place where the mind rules. Out here it’s the heart that charts our course. People you’re fond of do the wildest, most unreasonable things, simply because their minds are sleeping and their hearts are beating fast. Just—just remember, please, John Quincy.”
There was an odd note of wistfulness in her voice. Suddenly at their side appeared the white-clad figure of Harry Jennison.
“Coming for a stroll, Barbara?” he inquired.
For a moment she did not reply. Then she nodded. “Yes,” she said. And called over her shoulder as she went: “Cheer up, John Quincy.”
He watched her go, reluctantly. She might have stayed to assuage his loneliness. But there she walked along the dim deck, close to Jennison’s side.
After a time, he sought the smoking-room. It was deserted, but on one of the tables lay a copy of the Boston Transcript. Delighted, John Quincy pounced upon it, as Robinson Crusoe might have pounced on news from home.
The issue was ten days old, but no matter. He turned at once to the financial pages. There it was, like the face of a well-beloved friend, the record of one day’s trading on the Stock Exchange. And up in one corner, the advertisement of his own banking house, offering an issue of preferred stock in a Berkshire cotton mill. He read eagerly, but with an odd detached feeling. He was gone, gone from that world, away out here on a black ocean bound for picture-book islands. Islands where, not so long ago, brown tribes had battled, brown kings ruled. There seemed no link with that world back home, those gay-colored streamers of confetti breaking so readily had been a symbol. He was adrift. What sort of port would claim him in the end?
He threw the paper down. The Reverend Mr. Upton entered the smoking-room.
“I left my newspaper here,” he explained. “Ah—did you care to look at it?”
“Thank you, I have,” John Quincy told him.
The old man picked it up in a great bony hand. “I always buy a Transcript when I get the chance,” he said. “It carries me back. You know, I was born in Salem, over seventy years ago.”
John Quincy stared at him. “You’ve been
