The boy indicated a spot by the rail on the forward deck, and the porter began to unload. Carefully selecting the man’s good hand, John Quincy dropped into it a tip so generous as to result in a touching of hook to cap in a weird salute. The object of this attention sank down amid his elaborate trappings, removed the straw hat from his perspiring head, and tried to figure out just what had happened to him.
Three thousand miles from Beacon Street, and two thousand miles still to go! Why, he inquired sourly of his usually pleasant self, had he ever agreed to make this absurd expedition into heathen country? Here it was late June, Boston was at its best. Tennis at Longwood, long mild evenings in a single shell on the Charles, weekends and golf with Agatha Parker at Magnolia. And if one must travel, there was Paris. He hadn’t seen Paris in two years and had been rather planning a quick run over, when his mother had put this preposterous notion into his head.
Preposterous—it was all of that. Traveling five thousand miles just as a gentle hint to Aunt Minerva to return to her calm, well-ordered life behind purple windowpanes on Beacon Street. And was there any chance that his strong-minded relative would take the hint? Not one in a thousand. Aunt Minerva was accustomed to do as she pleased—he had an uncomfortable, shocked recollection of one occasion when she had said she would do as she damn well pleased.
John Quincy wished he was back. He wished he was crossing Boston Common to his office on State Street, there to put out a new issue of bonds. He was not yet a member of the firm—that was an honor accorded only to Winterslips who were bald and a little stooped—but his heart was in his work. He put out a bond issue with loving apprehension, waiting for the verdict as a playwright waits behind the scenes on a first night. Would those First Mortgage Sixes go over big, or would they flop at his feet?
The hoarse boom of a ferry whistle recalled John Quincy to his present unbelievable location on the map. The boat began to move. He was dimly conscious of a young person of feminine gender who came and sat at his side. Away from the slip and out into the harbor the ferry carried John Quincy, and he suddenly sat up and took notice, for he was never blind to beauty, no matter where he encountered it.
And he was encountering beauty now. The morning air was keen and dry and bright. Spread out before him was that harbor which is like a tired navigator’s dream come true. They passed Goat Island, and he heard the faint echo of a bugle, he saw Tamalpais lifting its proud head toward the sparkling sky, he turned, and there was San Francisco scattered blithely over its many hills.
The ferry plowed on, and John Quincy sat very still. A forest of masts and steam funnels—here was the water front that had supplied the atmosphere for those romantic tales that held him spellbound when he was a boy at school—a quiet young Winterslip whom the gypsy strain had missed. Now he could distinguish a bark from Antwerp, a great liner from the Orient, a five-masted schooner that was reminiscent of those supposedly forgotten stories. Ships from the Treaty Ports, ships from coconut islands in southern seas. A picture as intriguing and colorful as a back drop in a theater—but far more real.
Suddenly John Quincy stood up. A puzzled look had come into his calm gray eyes. “I—I don’t understand,” he murmured.
He was startled by the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t intended to speak aloud. In order not to appear too utterly silly, he looked around for someone to whom he might pretend he had addressed that remark. There was no one about—except the young person who was obviously feminine and therefore not to be informally accosted.
John Quincy looked down at her. Spanish or something like that, blue-black hair, dark eyes that were alight now with the amusement she was striving to hide, a delicate oval face tanned a deep brown. He looked again at the harbor—beauty all about the boat, and beauty on it. Much better than traveling on trains!
The girl looked up at John Quincy. She saw a big, broad-shouldered young man with a face as innocent as a child’s. A bit of friendliness, she decided instantly, would not be misunderstood.
“I beg your pardon,” she said.
“Oh—I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—I spoke without intending—I said I didn’t understand—”
“You didn’t understand what?”
“A most amazing thing has happened,” he continued. He sat down, and waved his hand toward the harbor. “I’ve been here before.”
She looked perplexed. “Lots of people have,” she admitted.
“But—you see—I mean—I’ve never been here before.”
She moved away from him. “Lots of people haven’t.” She admitted that, too.
John Quincy took a deep breath. What was this discussion he had got into, anyhow? He had a quick impulse to lift his hat gallantly and walk away, letting the whole matter drop. But no, he came of a race that sees things through.
“I’m from Boston,” he said.
“Oh,” said the girl. That explained everything.
“And what I’m trying to make clear—although of course there’s no reason why I should have dragged you into it—”
“None whatever,” she smiled. “But go on.”
“Until a few days ago I was never west of New York, never in my whole life, you understand. Been about New England a bit, and abroad a few times, but the West—”
“I know. It didn’t interest you.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” protested John Quincy with careful politeness. “But there was such a lot
