THE HERALDS OF FAME BY ROBERT BARR AUTHOR OF "A WOMAN INTERVENES," "IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS," "THE FACE AND THE MASK," "FROM WHOSE BOURNE," ETC. WITH FRONTISPIECE BY E. FREDERICK 1896 Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger and PG Distributed Proofreaders from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions CHAPTER I. Now, when each man's place in literature is so clearly defined, it seems ridiculous to state that there was a time when Kenan Buel thought J. Lawless Hodden a great novelist. One would have imagined that Buel's keen insight into human nature would have made such a mistake impossible, but it must be remembered that Buel was always more or less of a hero-worshipper. It seems strange in the light of our after-knowledge that there ever was a day when Hodden's books were selling by the thousand, and Buel was tramping the streets of London fruitlessly searching for a publisher. Not less strange is the fact that Buel thought Hodden's success well deserved. He would have felt honoured by the touch of Hodden's hand. No convict ever climbed a treadmill with more hopeless despair than Buel worked in his little room under the lofty roof. He knew no one; there were none to speak to him a cheering or comforting word; he was ignorant even of the names of the men who accepted the articles from his pen, which appeared unsigned in the daily papers and in some of the weeklies. He got cheques--small ones--with illegible and impersonal signatures that told him nothing. But the bits of paper were honoured at the bank, and this lucky fact enabled him to live and write books which publishers would not look at. Nevertheless, showing how all things are possible to a desperate and resolute man, two of his books had already seen the light, if it could be called light. The first he was still paying for, on the instalment plan. The publishers were to pay half, and he was to pay half. This seemed to him only a fair division of the risk at the time. Not a single paper had paid the slightest attention to the book. The universal ignoring of it disheartened him. He had been prepared for abuse, but not for impenetrable silence. He succeeded in getting another and more respectable publisher to take up his next book on a royalty arrangement. This was a surprise to him, and a gratification. His satisfaction did not last long after the book came out. It was mercilessly slated. One paper advised him to read "Hodden;" another said he had plagiarized from that popular writer. The criticisms cut him like a whip. He wondered why he had rebelled at the previous silence. He felt like a man who had heedlessly hurled a stone at a snow mountain and had been buried by the resulting avalanche. He got his third publisher a year after that. He thought he would never succeed in getting the same firm twice, and wondered what would happen when he exhausted the London list. It is not right that a man should go on for ever without a word of encouragement. Fate recognised that there would come a breaking-point, and relented in time. The word came from an unexpected source. Buel was labouring, heavy-eyed, at the last proof-sheets of his third book, and was wondering whether he would have the courage not to look at the newspapers when the volume was published. He wished he could afford to go to some wilderness until the worst was over. He knew he could not miss the first notice, for experience had taught him that Snippit & Co., a clipping agency, would send it to him, with a nice type-written letter, saying-- "DEAR SIR, "As your book is certain to attract a great deal of attention from the Press, we shall be pleased to send you clippings similar to the enclosed at the following rates." It struck him as rather funny that any company should expect a sane man to pay so much good money for Press notices, mostly abusive. He never subscribed. The word of encouragement gave notice of its approach in a letter, signed by a man of whom he had never heard. It was forwarded to him by his publishers. The letter ran:-- "DEAR SIR, "Can you make it convenient to lunch with me on Friday at the Métropole? If you have an engagement for that day can you further oblige me by writing and putting it off? Tell the other fellow you are ill or have broken your leg, or anything, and charge up the fiction to me. I deal in fiction, anyhow. I leave on Saturday for the Continent, not wishing to spend another Sunday in London if I can avoid it. I have arranged to get out your book in America, having read the proof-sheets at your publisher's. All the business part of the transaction is settled, but I would like to see you personally if you don't mind, to have a talk over the future--always an interesting subject. "Yours very truly, "L. F. BRANT, "Of Rainham Bros., Publishers, New York." Buel read this letter over and over again. He had never seen anything exactly like it. There was a genial flippancy about it that was new to him, and he wondered what sort of a man the New Yorker was. Mr. Brant wrote to a stranger with the familiarity of an old friend, yet the letter warmed Buel's heart. He smiled at the idea the American evidently had about a previous engagement. Invitations to lunch become frequent when a man does not need them. No broken leg story would have to be told. He wrote and accepted Mr. Brant's invitation. "You're Mr Buel, I think?" The stranger's hand rested lightly on the young author's shoulder. Buel had just entered the unfamiliar precincts of the Métropole Hotel. The tall man with the gold lace on his hat had hesitated a moment before he swung open the big door, Buel was so evidently not a guest of the hotel. "My name is Buel." "Then you're my victim. I've been waiting impatiently for you. I am L. F. Brant." "I thought I was in time. I am sorry to have kept you waiting." "Don't mention it. I have been waiting but thirty seconds. Come up in the elevator. They call it a lift here, not knowing any better, but it gets there ultimately, I have the title-deeds to a little parlour while I am staying in this tavern, and I thought we could talk better if we had lunch there. Lunch costs more on that basis, but I guess we can stand it." A cold shudder passed over the thin frame of Kenan Buel. He did not know but it was the custom in America to ask a man to lunch and expect him to pay half. Brant's use of the plural lent colour to this view, and Buel knew he could not pay his share. He regretted they were not in a vegetarian restaurant. The table in the centre of the room was already set for two, and the array of wine-glasses around each plate looked tempting. Brant pushed the electric button, drew up his chair, and said-- "Sit down, Buel, sit down. What's your favourite brand of wine? Let's settle on it now, so as to have no unseemly wrangle when the waiter comes. I'm rather in awe of the waiter. It doesn't seem natural that any mere human man should be so obviously superior to the rest of us mortals as this waiter is. I'm going to give you only the choice of the first wines. I have taken the champagne for granted, and it's cooling now in a tub somewhere. We always drink champagne in the States, not because we like it, but because it's expensive. I calculate that I pay the expenses of my trip over here merely by ordering unlimited champagne. I save more than a dollar a bottle on New York prices, and these saved dollars count up in a month. Personally I prefer cider or lager beer, but in New York we dare not own to liking a thing unless it is expensive." "It can hardly be a pleasant place for a poor man to live in, if that is the case." "My dear Buel, no city is a pleasant place for a poor man to live in. I don't suppose New York is worse than London in that respect. The poor have a hard time of it anywhere. A man owes it to himself and family not to be poor. Now, that's one thing I like about your book; you touch on poverty in a sympathetic way, by George, like a man who had come through it himself. I've been there, and I know how it is. When I first struck New York I hadn't even a ragged dollar bill to my back. Of course every successful man will tell you the same of himself, but it is mostly brag, and in half the instances it isn't true at all; but in my case--well, I wasn't subscribing to the heathen in those days. I made up my mind that poverty didn't pay, and I have succeeded in remedying the state of affairs. But I haven't forgotten how it felt to be hard up, and I sympathise with those who are. Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than to give a helping hand to a fellow--that is, to a clever fellow who was worth saving--who is down at bed rock. Don't you feel that way too?" "Yes," said Buel, with some hesitation, "it would be a pleasure." "I knew when I read your book you felt that way--I was sure of it. Well, I've helped a few in my time; but I regret to say most of them turned out to be no good. That is where the trouble is. Those who are really deserving are just the persons who die of starvation in a garret, and never let the outside world know their trouble." "I do not doubt such is often the case." "Of course it is. It's always the case. But here's the soup. I hope you have brought a good appetite. You can't expect such a meal here as you would get in New York; but they do fairly well. I, for one, don't grumble about the food in London, as most Americans do. Londoners manage to keep alive, and that, after all, is the main thing." Buel was perfectly satisfied with the meal, and thought if they produced a better one in New York, or anywhere else, the art of cookery had reached wonderful perfection. Brant, however, kept apologising for the spread as he went along. The talk drifted on in an apparently aimless fashion, but the publisher was a shrewd man, and he was gradually leading it up to the point he had in view from the beginning, and all the while he was taking the measure of his guest. He was not a man to waste either his time or his dinners without an object. When he had once "sized up" his man, as he termed it, he was either exceedingly frank and open with him, or the exact opposite, as suited his purpose. He told Buel that he came to England once a year, if possible, rapidly scanned the works of fiction about to be published by the various houses in London, and made arrangements for the producing of those in America that he thought would go down with the American people. "I suppose," said Buel, "that you have met many of the noted authors of this country?" "All of them, I think; all of them, at one time or another. The publishing business has its drawbacks like every other trade," replied Brant, jauntily. "Have you met Hodden?" "Several times. Conceited ass!" "You astonish me. I have never had the good fortune to become acquainted with any of our celebrated writers. I would think it a privilege to know Hodden and some of the others." "You're lucky, and you evidently don't know it. I would rather meet a duke any day than a famous author. The duke puts on less side and patronises you less." "I would rather be a celebrated author than a duke if I had my choice." "Well, being a free and independent citizen of the Democratic United States, I wouldn't. _No_, sir! I would rather be Duke Brant any day in the week than Mr. Brant, the talented author of, etc., etc. The moment an author receives a little praise and becomes talked about, he gets what we call in the States 'the swelled head.' I've seen some of the nicest fellows in the world become utterly spoiled by a little success. And then think of the absurdity of it all. There aren't more than two or three at the most of the present-day writers who will be heard of a century hence. Read the history of literature, and you will find that never more than four men in any one generation are heard of after. Four is a liberal allowance. What has any writer to be conceited about anyhow? Let him read his Shakespeare and be modest." Buel said with a sigh, "I wish there was success in store for me. I would risk the malady you call the 'swelled head.'" "Success will come all right enough, my boy. 'All things come to him who waits,' and while he is waiting puts in some good, strong days of work. It's the working that tells, not the waiting. And now, if you will light one of these cigars, we will talk of you for a while, if your modesty will stand it. What kind of Chartreuse will you have? Yellow or green?" "Either." "Take the green, then. Where the price is the same I always take the green. It is the stronger, and you get more for your money. Now then, I will be perfectly frank with you. I read your book in the proof-sheets, and I ran it down in great style to your publisher." "I am sorry you did not like it." "I don't say I didn't like it. I ran it down because it was business. I made up my mind when I read that book to give a hundred pounds for the American rights. I got it for twenty." Brant laughed, and Buel felt uncomfortable. He feared that after all he did not like this frank American. "Having settled about the book, I wanted to see you, and here you are. Of course, I am utterly selfish in wanting to see you, for I wish you to promise me that we will have the right of publishing your books in America as long as we pay as much as any other publisher. There is nothing unfair in that, is there?" "No. I may warn you, however, that there has been no great competition, so far, for the privilege of doing any publishing, either here or in America." "That's all right. Unless I'm a Dutchman there will be, after your new book is published. Of course, that is one of the things no fellow can find out. If he could, publishing would be less of a lottery than it is. A book is sometimes a success by the merest fluke; at other times, in spite of everything, a good book is a deplorable failure. I think yours will go; anyhow, I am willing to bet on it up to a certain amount, and if it does go, I want to have the first look-in at your future books. What do you say?" "Do you wish me to sign a contract?" "No, I merely want your word. You may write me a letter if you like, that I could show to my partners, saying that we would have the first refusal of your future books." "I am quite willing to do that." "Very good. That's settled. Now, you look fagged out. I wish you would take a trip over to New York. I'll look after you when you get there. It would do you a world of good, and would show in the pages of your next book. What do you say to that? Have you any engagements that would prevent you making the trip?" Buel laughed, "I am perfectly free as far as engagements are concerned." "That's all right, then. I wish I were in that position. Now, as I said, I considered your book cheap at £100. I got it for £20. I propose to hand over the £80 to you. I'll write out the cheque as soon as the waiters clear away the _débris_. Then your letter to the firm would form the receipt for this money, and--well, it need not be a contract, you know, or anything formal, but just your ideas on any future business that may crop up." "I must say I think your offer is very generous." "Oh, not at all. It is merely business. The £80 is on account of royalties. If the book goes, as I think it will, I hope to pay you much more than that. Now I hope you will come over and see me as soon as you can." "Yes. As you say, the trip will do me good. I have been rather hard at it for some time." "Then I'll look out for you. I sail on the French line Saturday week. When will you come?" "As soon as my book is out here, and before any of the reviews appear." "Sensible man. What's your cable address?" "I haven't one." "Well, I suppose a telegram to your publishers will find you. I'll cable if anything turns up unexpectedly. You send me over a despatch saying what steamer you sail on. My address is 'Rushing, New York.' Just cable the name of the steamer, and I will be on the look-out for you." It was doubtless the effect of the champagne, for Buel went back to his squalid room with his mind in the clouds. He wondered if this condition was the first indication of the swelled head Brant had talked about. Buel worked harder than ever at his proofs, and there was some growling at head-quarters because of the numerous corrections he made. These changes were regarded as impudence on the part of so unknown a man. He sent off to America a set of the corrected proofs, and received a cablegram, "Proofs received. Too late. Book published today." This was a disappointment. Still he had the consolation of knowing that the English edition would be as perfect as he could make it. He secured a berth on the _Geranium_, sailing from Liverpool, and cabled Brant to that effect. The day before he sailed he got a cablegram that bewildered him. It was simply, "She's a-booming." He regretted that he had never learned the American language. CHAPTER II. Kenan Buel received from his London publisher a brown paper parcel, and on opening it found the contents to be six exceedingly new copies of his book. Whatever the publisher thought of the inside of the work, he had not spared pains to make the outside as attractive as it could be made at the price. Buel turned it over and over, and could almost imagine himself buying a book that looked so tastefully got up as this one. The sight of the volume gave him a thrill, for he remembered that the Press doubtless received its quota at about the same time his parcel came, and he feared he would not be out of the country before the first extract from the clipping agency arrived. However, luck was with the young man, and he found himself on the platform of Euston Station, waiting for the Liverpool express, without having seen anything about his book in the papers, except a brief line giving its title, the price, and his own name, in the "Books Received" column. As he lingered around the well-kept bookstall before the train left, he saw a long row of Hodden's new novel, and then his heart gave a jump as he caught sight of two copies of his own work in the row labelled "New Books." He wanted to ask the clerk whether any of them had been sold yet, but in the first place he lacked the courage, and in the second place the clerk was very busy. As he stood there, a comely young woman, equipped for traveling, approached the stall, and ran her eye hurriedly up and down the tempting array of literature. She bought several of the illustrated papers, and then scanned the new books. The clerk, following her eye, picked out Buel's book. "Just out, miss. Three and sixpence." "Who is the author?" asked the girl. "Kenan Buel, a new man," answered the clerk, without a moment's hesitation, and without looking at the title-page. "Very clever work." Buel was astonished at the knowledge shown by the clerk. He knew that W.H. Smith & Son never had a book of his before, and he wondered how the clerk apparently knew so much of the volume and its author, forgetting that it was the clerk's business. The girl listlessly ran the leaves of the book past the edge of her thumb. It seemed to Buel that the fate of the whole edition was in her hands, and he watched her breathlessly, even forgetting how charming she looked. There stood the merchant eager to sell, and there, in the form of a young woman, was the great public. If she did not buy, why should any one else; and if nobody bought, what chance had an unknown author? She put the book down, and looked up as she heard some one sigh deeply near her. "Have you Hodden's new book?" she asked. "Yes, miss. Six shillings." The clerk quickly put Buel's book beside its lone companion, and took down Hodden's. "Thank you," said the girl, giving him a half sovereign; and, taking the change, she departed with her bundle of literature to the train. Buel said afterwards that what hurt him most in this painful incident was the fact that if it were repeated often the bookstall clerk would lose faith in the book. He had done so well for a man who could not possibly have read a word of the volume, that Buel felt sorry on the clerk's account rather than his own that the copy had not been sold. He walked to the end of the platform, and then back to the bookstall. "Has that new book of Buel's come out yet?" he asked the clerk in an unconcerned tone. "Yes, sir. Here it is; three and sixpence, sir." "Thank you," said Buel, putting his hand in his pocket for the money. "How is it selling?" "Well, sir, there won't be much call for it, not likely, till the reviews begin to come out." There, Mr. Buel, you had a lesson, if you had only taken it to heart, or pondered on its meaning. Since then you have often been very scornful of newspaper reviews, yet you saw yourself how the great public treats a man who is not even abused. How were you to know that the column of grossly unfair rancour which _The Daily Argus_ poured out on your book two days later, when you were sailing serenely over the Atlantic, would make that same clerk send in four separate orders to the "House" during the week? Medicine may have a bad taste, and yet have beneficial results. So Mr. Kenan Buel, after buying a book of which he had six copies in his portmanteau, with no one to give them to, took his place in the train, and in due time found himself at Liverpool and on board the _Geranium_. The stewards being busy, Buel placed his portmanteau on the deck, and, with his newly bought volume in his hand, the string and brown paper still around it, he walked up and down on the empty side of the deck, noticing how scrupulously clean the ship was. It was the first time he had ever been on board a steamship, and he could not trust himself unguided to explore the depths below, and see what kind of a state-room and what sort of a companion chance had allotted to him. They had told him when he bought his ticket that the steamer would be very crowded that trip, so many Americans were returning; but his state-room had berths for only two, and he had a faint hope the other fellow would not turn up. As he paced the deck his thoughts wandered to the pretty girl who did not buy his book. He had seen her again on the tender in company with a serene and placid older woman, who sat unconcernedly, surrounded by bundles, shawls, straps, valises, and hand-bags, which the girl nervously counted every now and then, fruitlessly trying to convince the elderly lady that something must have been left behind in the train, or lost in transit from the station to the steamer. The worry of travel, which the elderly woman absolutely refused to share, seemed to rest with double weight on the shoulders of the girl. As Buel thought of all this, he saw the girl approach him along the deck with a smile of apparent recognition on her face. "She evidently mistakes me for some one else," he said to himself. "Oh, thank you," she cried, coming near, and holding out her hand. "I see you have found my book." He helplessly held out the package to her, which she took. "Is it yours?" he asked. "Yes, I recognised it by the string. I bought it at Euston Station. I am forever losing things," she added. "Thank you, ever so much." Buel laughed to himself as she disappeared. "Fate evidently intends her to read my book," he said to himself. "She will think the clerk has made a mistake. I must get her unbiased opinion of it before the voyage ends." The voyage at that moment was just beginning, and the thud, thud of the screw brought that fact to his knowledge. He sought a steward, and asked him to carry the portmanteau to berth 159. "You don't happen to know whether there is any one else in that room or not, do you?" he asked. "It's likely there is, sir. The ship's very full this voyage." Buel followed him into the saloon, and along the seemingly interminable passage; then down a narrow side alley, into which a door opened marked 159-160. The steward rapped at the door, and, as there was no response, opened it. All hopes of a room to himself vanished as Buel looked into the small state-room. There was a steamer trunk on the floor, a portmanteau on the seat, while the two bunks were covered with a miscellaneous assortment of hand-bags, shawl-strap bundles, and packages. The steward smiled. "I think he wants a room to himself," he said. On the trunk Buel noticed the name in white letters "Hodden," and instantly there arose within him a hope that his companion was to be the celebrated novelist. This hope was strengthened when he saw on the portmanteau the letters "J.L.H.," which were the novelist's initials. He pictured to himself interesting conversations on the way over, and hoped he would receive some particulars from the novelist's own lips of his early struggles for fame. Still, he did not allow himself to build too much on his supposition, for there are a great many people in this world, and the chances were that the traveller would be some commonplace individual of the same name. The steward placed Buel's portmanteau beside the other, and backed out of the overflowing cabin. All doubt as to the identity of the other occupant was put at rest by the appearance down the passage of a man whom Buel instantly recognised by the portraits he had seen of him in the illustrated papers. He was older than the pictures made him appear, and there was a certain querulous expression on his face which was also absent in the portraits. He glanced into the state-room, looked for a moment through Buel, and then turned to the steward. "What do you mean by putting that portmanteau into my room?" "This gentleman has the upper berth, sir." "Nonsense. The entire room is mine. Take the portmanteau out." The steward hesitated, looking from one to the other. "The ticket is for 159, sir," he said at last. "Then there is some mistake. The room is mine. Don't have me ask you again to remove the portmanteau." "Perhaps you would like to see the purser, sir." "I have nothing to do with the purser. Do as I tell you." All this time he had utterly ignored Buel, whose colour was rising. The young man said quietly to the steward, "Take out the portmanteau, please." When it was placed in the passage, Hodden entered the room, shut and bolted the door. "Will you see the purser, sir?" said the steward in an awed whisper. "I think so. There is doubtless some mistake, as he says." The purser was busy allotting seats at the tables, and Buel waited patiently. He had no friends on board, and did not care where he was placed. When the purser was at liberty, the steward explained to him the difficulty which had arisen. The official looked at his list. "159--Buel. Is that your name, sir? Very good; 160--Hodden. That is the gentleman now in the room. Well, what is the trouble?" "Mr Hodden says, sir, that the room belongs to him." "Have you seen his ticket?" "No, sir." "Then bring it to me." "Mistakes sometimes happen, Mr. Buel," said the purser, when the steward vanished. "But as a general thing I find that people simply claim what they have no right to claim. Often the agents promise that if possible a passenger shall have a room to himself, and when we can do so we let him have it. I try to please everybody; but all the steamers crossing to America are full at this season of the year, and it is not practicable to give every one the whole ship to himself. As the Americans say, some people want the earth for £12 or £15, and we can't always give it to them. Ah, here is the ticket. It is just as I thought. Mr. Hodden is entitled merely to berth 160." The arrival of the ticket was quickly followed by the advent of Mr. Hodden himself. He still ignored Buel. "Your people in London," he said to the purser, "guaranteed me a room to myself. Otherwise I would not have come on this line. Now it seems that another person has been put in with me. I must protest against this kind of usage." "Have you any letter from them guaranteeing the room?" asked the purser blandly. "No. I supposed until now that their word was sufficient." "Well, you see, I am helpless in this case. These two tickets are exactly the same with the exception of the numbers. Mr. Buel has just as much right to insist on being alone in the room as far as the tickets go, and I have had no instructions in the matter." "But it is an outrage that they should promise me one thing in London, and then refuse to perform it, when I am helpless on the ocean." "If they have done so--" "_If_ they have done so? Do you doubt my word, sir?" "Oh, not at all, sir, not at all," answered the purser in his most conciliatory tone. "But in that case your ticket should have been marked 159-160." "I am not to suffer for their blunders." "I see by this list that you paid £12 for your ticket. Am I right?" "That was the amount, I believe. I paid what I was asked to pay." "Quite so, sir. Well, you see, that is the price of one berth only. Mr. Buel, here, paid the same amount." "Come to the point. Do I understand you to refuse to remedy the mistake (to put the matter in its mildest form) of your London people?" "I do not refuse. I would be only too glad to give you the room to yourself, if it were possible. Unfortunately, it is not possible. I assure you there is not an unoccupied state-room on the ship." "Then I will see the captain. Where shall I find him?" "Very good, sir. Steward, take Mr. Hodden to the captain's room." When they were alone again Buel very contritely expressed his sorrow at having been the innocent cause of so much trouble to the purser. "Bless you, sir, I don't mind it in the least. This is a very simple case. Where both occupants of a room claim it all to themselves, and where both are angry and abuse me at the same time, then it gets a bit lively. I don't envy him his talk with the captain. If the old man happens to be feeling a little grumpy today, and he most generally does at the beginning of the voyage, Mr. Hodden will have a bad ten minutes. Don't you bother a bit about it, sir, but go down to your room and make yourself at home. It will be all right." Mr. Hodden quickly found that the appeal to Caesar was not well timed. The captain had not the suave politeness of the purser. There may be greater and more powerful men on earth than the captain of an ocean liner, but you can't get any seafaring man to believe it, and the captains themselves are rarely without a due sense of their own dignity. The man who tries to bluff the captain of a steamship like the _Geranium_ has a hard row to hoe. Mr. Hodden descended to his state-room in a more subdued frame of mind than when he went on the upper deck. However, he still felt able to crush his unfortunate room-mate. "You insist, then," he said, speaking to Buel for the first time, "on occupying this room?" "I have no choice in the matter." "I thought perhaps you might feel some hesitation in forcing yourself in where you were so evidently not wanted?" The hero-worshipper in Buel withered, and the natural Englishman asserted itself. "I have exactly the same right in this room that you have. I claim no privilege which I have not paid for." "Do you wish to suggest that I have made such a claim?" "I suggest nothing; I state it. You _have_ made such a claim, and in a most offensive manner." "Do you understand the meaning of the language you are using, sir? You are calling me a liar." "You put it very tersely, Mr. Hodden. Thank you. Now, if you venture to address me again during this voyage, I shall be obliged if you keep a civil tongue in your head." "Good heavens! _You_ talk of civility?" cried the astonished man, aghast. His room-mate went to the upper deck. In the next state-room pretty Miss Carrie Jessop clapped her small hands silently together. The construction of staterooms is such that every word uttered in one above the breath is audible in the next room; Miss Jessop could not help hearing the whole controversy, from the time the steward was ordered so curtly to remove the portmanteau, until the culmination of the discussion and the evident defeat of Mr. Hodden. Her sympathy was all with the other fellow, at that moment unknown, but a sly peep past the edge of the scarcely opened door told her that the unnamed party in the quarrel was the awkward young man who had found her book. She wondered if the Hodden mentioned could possibly be the author, and, with a woman's inconsistency, felt sure that she would detest the story, as if the personality of the writer had anything whatever to do with his work. She took down the parcel from the shelf and undid the string. Her eyes opened wide as she looked at the title. "Well I never!" she gasped. "If I haven't robbed that poor, innocent young man of a book he bought for himself! Attempted eviction by his room-mate, and bold highway robbery by an unknown woman! No, it's worse than that; it's piracy, for it happened on the high seas." And the girl laughed softly to herself. CHAPTER III. Kenan Buel walked the deck alone in the evening light, and felt that he ought to be enjoying the calmness and serenity of the ocean expanse around him after the noise and squalor of London; but now that the excitement of the recent quarrel was over, he felt the reaction, and his natural diffidence led him to blame himself. Most of the passengers were below, preparing for dinner, and he had the deck to himself. As he turned on one of his rounds, he saw approaching him the girl of Euston Station, as he mentally termed her. She had his book in her hand. "I have come to beg your pardon," she said. "I see it was your own book I took from you to day." "My own book!" cried Buel, fearing she had somehow discovered his guilty secret. "Yes. Didn't you buy this for yourself?" She held up the volume. "Oh, certainly. But you are quite welcome to it, I am sure." "I couldn't think of taking it away from you before you have read it." "But I have read it," replied Buel, eagerly: "and I shall be very pleased to lend it to you." "Indeed? And how did you manage to read it without undoing the parcel?" "That is to say I--I skimmed over it before it was done up," he said in confusion. The clear eyes of the girl disconcerted him, and, whatever his place in fiction is now, he was at that time a most unskilful liar. "You see, I bought it because it is written by a namesake of mine. My name is Buel, and I happened to notice that was the name on the book; in fact, if you remember, when you were looking over it at the stall, the clerk mentioned the author's name, and that naturally caught my attention." The girl glanced with renewed interest at the volume. "Was this the book I was looking at? The story I bought was Hodden's latest. I found it a moment ago down in my state-room, so it was not lost after all." They were now walking together as if they were old acquaintances, the girl still holding the volume in her hand. "By the way," she said innocently, "I see on the passenger list that there is a Mr. Hodden on board. L>o you think he can be the novelist?" "I believe he is," answered Buel, stiffly. "Oh, that will be too jolly for anything. I would _so_ like to meet him. I am sure he must be a most charming man. His books show such insight into human nature, such sympathy and noble purpose. There could be nothing petty or mean about such a man." "I--I--suppose not." "Why, of course there couldn't. You have read his books, have you not?" "All of them except his latest." "Well, I'll lend you that, as you have been so kind as to offer me the reading of this one." "Thank you. After you have read it yourself." "And when you have become acquainted with Mr. Hodden, I want you to introduce him to me." "With pleasure. And--and when I do so, who shall I tell him the young lady is?" The audacious girl laughed lightly, and, stepping back, made him a saucy bow. "You will introduce me as Miss Caroline Jessop, of New York. Be sure that you say 'New York,' for that will account to Mr. Hodden for any eccentricities of conduct or conversation he may be good enough to notice. I suppose you think American girls are very forward? All Englishmen do." "On the contrary, I have always understood that they are very charming." "Indeed? And so you are going over to see?" Buel laughed. All the depression he felt a short time before had vanished. "I had no such intention when I began the voyage, but even if I should quit the steamer at Queenstown, I could bear personal testimony to the truth of the statement." "Oh, Mr. Buel, that is very nicely put. I don't think you can improve on it, so I shall run down and dress for dinner. There is the first gong. Thanks for the book." The young man said to himself, "Buel, my boy, you're getting on;" and he smiled as he leaned over the bulwark and looked at the rushing water. He sobered instantly as he remembered that he would have to go to his state-room and perhaps meet Hodden. It is an awkward thing to quarrel with your room-mate at the beginning of a long voyage. He hoped Hodden had taken his departure to the saloon, and he lingered until the second gong rang. Entering the stateroom, he found Hodden still there. Buel gave him no greeting. The other cleared his throat several times and then said-- "I have not the pleasure of knowing your name." "My name is Buel." "Well, Mr. Buel, I am sorry that I spoke to you in the manner I did, and I hope you will allow me to apologise for doing so. Various little matters had combined to irritate me, and--Of course, that is no excuse. But----" "Don't say anything more. I unreservedly retract what I was heated enough to say, and so we may consider the episode ended. I may add that if the purser has a vacant berth anywhere, I shall be very glad to take it, if the occupants of the room make no objection." "You are very kind," said Hodden, but he did not make any show of declining the offer. "Very well, then, let us settle the matter while we are at it." And Buel pressed the electric button. The steward looked in, saying,-- "Dinner is ready, gentlemen." "Yes, I know. Just ask the purser if he can step here for a moment." The purser came promptly, and if he was disturbed at being called at such a moment he did not show it. Pursers are very diplomatic persons. "Have you a vacant berth anywhere, purser?" An expression faintly suggestive of annoyance passed over the purser's serene brow. He thought the matter had been settled. "We have several berths vacant, but they are each in rooms that already contain three persons." "One of those will do for me; that is, if the occupants have no objection." "It will be rather crowded, sir." "That doesn't matter, if the others are willing." "Very good, sir. I will see to it immediately after dinner." The purser was as good as his word, and introduced Buel and his portmanteau to a room that contained three wild American collegians who had been doing Europe "on the cheap" and on foot. They received the new-comer with a hilariousness that disconcerted him. "Hello, purser!" cried one, "this is an Englishman. You didn't tell us you were going to run in an Englishman on us." "Never, mind, we'll convert him on the way over." "I say, purser, if you sling a hammock from the ceiling and put up a cot on the floor you can put two more men in here. Why didn't you think of that?" "It's not too late yet. Why did you suggest it?" "Gentlemen," said Buel, "I have no desire to intrude, if it is against your wish." "Oh, that's all right. Never mind them. They have to talk or die. The truth is, we were lonesome without a fourth man." "What's his name, purser?" "My name is Buel." One of them shouted out the inquiry, "What's the matter with Buel?" and all answered in concert with a yell that made the steamer ring, "_He's_ all right." "You'll have to sing 'Hail Columbia' night and morning if you stay in this cabin." "Very good," said Buel, entering into the spirit of the occasion. "Singing is not my strong point, and after you hear me at it once, you will be glad to pay a heavy premium to have it stopped." "Say, Buel, can you play poker?" "No, but I can learn." "That's business. America's just yearning for men who can learn. We have had so many Englishmen who know it all, that we'll welcome a change. But poker's an expensive game to acquire." "Don't be bluffed, Mr. Buel. Not one of the crowd has enough money left to buy the drinks all round. We would never have got home if we hadn't return tickets." "Say, boys, let's lock the purser out, and make Buel an American citizen before he can call for help. You solemnly swear that you hereby and hereon renounce all emperors, kings, princes, and potentates, and more especially--how does the rest of it go!" "He must give up his titles, honours, knighthoods, and things of that sort." "Say, Buel, you're not a lord or a duke by any chance? Because, if you are, we'll call back the purser and have you put out yet." "No, I haven't even the title esquire, which, I understand, all American citizens possess." "Oh, you'll do. Now, I propose that Mr. Buel take his choice of the four bunks, and that we raffle for the rest." When Buel reached the deck out of this pandemonium, he looked around for another citizen of the United States, but she was not there. He wondered if she were reading his book, and how she liked it. CHAPTER IV. Next morning Mr. Buel again searched the deck for the fair American, and this time he found her reading his book, seated very comfortably in her deck chair. The fact that she was so engaged put out of Buel's mind the greeting he had carefully prepared beforehand, and he stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He inwardly cursed his unreadiness, and felt, to his further embarrassment, that his colour was rising. He was not put more at his ease when Miss Jessop looked up at him coldly, with a distinct frown on her pretty face. "Mr. Buel, I believe?" she said pertly. "I--I think so," he stammered. She went on with her reading, ignoring him, and he stood there not knowing how to get away. When he pulled himself together, after a few moments' silence, and was about to depart, wondering at the caprice of womankind, she looked up again, and said icily-- "Why don't you ask me to walk with you? Do you think you have no duties, merely because you are on shipboard?" "It isn't a duty, it is a pleasure, if you will come with me. I was afraid I had offended you in some way." "You have. That is why I want to walk with you. I wish to give you a piece of my mind, and it won't be pleasant to listen to, I can assure you. So there must be no listener but yourself." "Is it so serious as that?" "Quite. Assist me, please. Why do you have to be asked to do such a thing? I don't suppose there is another man on the ship who would see a lady struggling with her rugs, and never put out his hand." Before the astonished young man could offer assistance the girl sprang to her feet and stood beside him. Although she tried to retain her severe look of displeasure, there was a merry twinkle in the corner of her eye, as if she enjoyed shocking him. "I fear I am very unready." "You are." "Will you take my arm as we walk?" "Certainly not," she answered, putting the tips of her fingers into the shallow pockets of her pilot jacket. "Don't you know the United States are long since independent of England?" "I had forgotten for the moment. My knowledge of history is rather limited, even when I try to remember. Still, independence and all, the two countries may be friends, may they not?" "I doubt it. It seems to be natural that an American should hate an Englishman." "Dear me, is it so bad as that? Why, may I ask? Is it on account of the little trouble in 1770, or whenever it was?" "1776, when we conquered you." "Were we conquered? That is another historical fact which has been concealed from me. I am afraid England doesn't quite realise her unfortunate position. She has a good deal of go about her for a conquered nation. But I thought the conquering, which we all admit, was of much more recent date, when the pretty American girls began to come over. Then Englishmen, at once capitulated." "Yes," she cried scornfully. "And I don't know which to despise most, the American girls who marry Englishmen, or the Englishmen they marry. They are married for their money." "Who? The Englishmen?" The girl stamped her foot on the deck as they turned around. "You know very well what I mean. An Englishman thinks of nothing but money." "Really? I wonder where you got all your cut-and-dried notions about Englishmen? You seem to have a great capacity for contempt. I don't think it is good. My experience is rather limited, of course, but, as far as it goes, I find good and bad in all nations. There are Englishmen whom I find it impossible to like, and there are Americans whom I find I admire in spite of myself. There are also, doubtless, good Englishmen and bad Americans, if we only knew where to find them. You cannot sum up a nation and condemn it in a phrase, you know." "Can't you? Well, literary Englishmen have tried to do so in the case of America. No English writer has ever dealt even fairly with the United States." "Don't you think the States are a little too sensitive about the matter?" "Sensitive? Bless you, we don't mind it a bit." "Then where's the harm? Besides, America has its revenge in you. Your scathing contempt more than balances the account." "I only wish I could write. Then I would let you know what I think of you." "Oh, don't publish a book about us. I wouldn't like to see war between the two countries." Miss Jessop laughed merrily for so belligerent a person. "War?" she cried. "I hope yet to see an American army camped in London." "If that is your desire, you can see it any day in summer. You will find them tenting out at the Métropole and all the expensive hotels. I bivouacked with an invader there some weeks ago, and he was enduring the rigours of camp life with great fortitude, mitigating his trials with unlimited champagne." "Why, Mr. Buel," cried the girl admiringly, "you're beginning to talk just like an American yourself." "Oh, now, you are trying to make me conceited." Miss Jessop sighed, and shook her head. "I had nearly forgotten," she said, "that I despised you. I remember now why I began to walk with you. It was not to talk frivolously, but to show you the depth of my contempt! Since yesterday you have gone down in my estimation from 190 to 56." "Fahrenheit?" "No, that was a Wall Street quotation. Your stock has 'slumped,' as we say on the Street." "Now you are talking Latin, or worse, for I can understand a little Latin." "'Slumped' sounds slangy, doesn't it? It isn't a pretty word, but it is expressive. It means going down with a run, or rather, all in a heap." "What have I done?" "Nothing you can say will undo it, so there is no use in speaking any more about it. Second thoughts are best. My second thought is to say no more." "I must know my crime. Give me a chance to, at least, reach par again, even if I can't hope to attain the 90 above." "I thought an Englishman had some grit. I thought he did not allow any one to walk over him. I thought he stood by his guns when he knew he was in the right. I thought he was a manly man, and a fighter against injustice!" "Dear me! Judging by your conversation of a few minutes ago, one would imagine that you attributed exactly the opposite qualities to him." "I say I thought all this--yesterday. I don't think so to-day." "Oh, I see! And all on account of me?" "All on account of you." "Once more, what have I done?" "What have you done? You have allowed that detestably selfish specimen of your race, Hodden, to evict you from your room." The young man stopped abruptly in his walk, and looked at the girl with astonishment. She, her hands still coquettishly thrust in her jacket-pockets, returned his gaze with unruffled serenity. "What do you know about it?" he demanded at last. "Everything. From the time you meekly told the steward to take out your valise until the time you meekly apologised to Hodden for having told him the truth, and then meekly followed the purser to a room containing three others." "But Hodden meekly, as you express it, apologised first. I suppose you know that too, otherwise I would not have mentioned it." "Certainly he did. That was because he found his overbearing tactics did not work. He apologised merely to get rid of you, and did. That's what put me out of patience with you. To think, you couldn't see through his scheme!" "Oh! I thought it was the lack of manly qualities you despised in me. Now you are accusing me of not being crafty." "How severely you say that! You quite frighten me! You will be making me apologise by-and-by, and I don't want to do that." Buel laughed, and resumed his walk. "It's all right," he said; "Hodden's loss is my gain. I've got in with a jolly lot, who took the trouble last night to teach me the great American game at cards--and counters." Miss Jessop sighed. "Having escaped with my life," she said, "I think I shall not run any more risks, but shall continue with your book. I had no idea you could look so fierce. I have scarcely gotten over it yet. Besides, I am very much interested in that book of yours." "Why do you say so persistently 'that book of mine'?" "Isn't it yours? You bought it, didn't you? Then it was written by your relative, you know." "I said my namesake." "So you did. And now I'm going to ask you an impudent question. You will not look wicked again, will you?" "I won't promise. That depends entirely on the question." "It is easily answered." "I'm waiting." "What is your Christian name, Mr. Buel?" "My Christian name?" he repeated, uncomfortably. "Yes, what is it?" "Why do you wish to know?" "A woman's reason--because." They walked the length of the deck in silence. "Come, now," she said, "confess. What is it?" "John." Miss Jessop laughed heartily, but quietly. "You think John commonplace, I suppose?" "Oh, it suits _you_, Mr. Buel. Goodbye." As the young woman found her place in the book, she mused, "How blind men are, after all--with his name in full on the passage list." Then she said to herself, with a sigh, "I do wish I had bought this book instead of Hodden's." CHAPTER V. At first Mr. Hodden held somewhat aloof from his fellow-passengers; but, finding perhaps that there was no general desire to intrude upon him, he condescended to become genial to a select few. He walked the deck alone, picturesquely attired. He was a man who paid considerable attention to his personal appearance. As day followed day, Mr. Hodden unbent so far as to talk frequently with Miss Jessop on what might almost be called equal terms. The somewhat startling opinions and unexpected remarks of the American girl appeared to interest him, and doubtless tended to confirm his previous unfavourable impressions of the inhabitants of the Western world. Mr. Buel was usually present during these conferences, and his conduct under the circumstances was not admirable. He was silent and moody, and almost gruff on some occasions. Perhaps Hodden's persistent ignoring of him, and the elder man's air of conscious superiority, irritated Buel; but if he had had the advantage of mixing much in the society of his native land he would have become accustomed to that. People thrive on the condescension of the great; they like it, and boast about it. Yet Buel did not seem to be pleased. But the most astounding thing was that the young man should actually have taken it upon himself to lecture Miss Jessop once, when they were alone, for some remarks she had made to Hodden as she sat in her deck-chair, with Hodden loquacious on her right and Buel taciturn on her left. What right had Buel to find fault with a free and independent citizen of another country? Evidently none. It might have been expected that Miss Jessop, rising to the occasion, would have taught the young man his place, and would perhaps have made some scathing remark about the tendency of Englishmen to interfere in matters that did not concern them. But she did nothing of the kind. She looked down demurely on the deck, with the faint flicker of a smile hovering about her pretty lips, and now and then flashed a quick glance at the serious face of the young man. The attitude was very sweet and appealing, but it was not what we have a right to expect from one whose ruler is her servant towards one whose ruler is his sovereign. In fact, the conduct of those two young people at this time was utterly inexplicable. "Why did you pretend to Hodden that you had never heard of him, and make him state that he was a writer of books?" Buel had said. "I did it for his own good. Do you want me to minister to his insufferable vanity? Hasn't he egotism enough already? I saw in a paper a while ago that his most popular book had sold to the extent of over 100,000 copies in America. I suppose that is something wonderful; but what does it amount to after all? It leaves over fifty millions of people who doubtless have never heard of him. For the time being I merely went with the majority. We always do that in the States." "Then I suppose you will not tell him you bought his latest book in London, and so you will not have the privilege of bringing it up on-deck and reading it?" "No. The pleasure of reading that book must be postponed until I reach New York. But my punishment does not end there. Would you believe that authors are so vain that they actually carry with them the books they have written?" "You astonish me." "I thought I should. And added to that, would you credit the statement that they offer to lend their works to inoffensive people who may not be interested in them and who have not the courage to refuse? Why do you look so confused, Mr. Buel? I am speaking of Mr. Hodden. He kindly offered me his books to read on the way over. He has a prettily bound set with him. He gave me the first to-day, which I read ever so many years ago." "I thought you liked his books?" "For the first time, yes; but I don't care to read them twice." The conversation was here interrupted by Mr. Hodden himself, who sank into the vacant chair beside Miss Jessop. Buel made as though he would rise and leave them together, but with an almost imperceptible motion of the hand nearest him, Miss Jessop indicated her wish that he should remain, and then thanked him with a rapid glance for understanding. The young man felt a glow of satisfaction at this, and gazed at the blue sea with less discontent than usual in his eyes. "I have brought you," said the novelist, "another volume." "Oh, _thank_ you," cried Miss Duplicity, with unnecessary emphasis on the middle word. "It has been considered," continued Mr. Hodden, "by those whose opinions are thought highly of in London, to be perhaps my most successful work. It is, of course, not for me to pass judgment on such an estimate; but for my own part I prefer the story I gave you this morning. An author's choice is rarely that of the public." "And was this book published in America?" "I can hardly say it was published. They did me the honour to pirate it in your most charming country. Some friend--or perhaps I should say enemy--sent me a copy. It was a most atrocious production, in a paper cover, filled with mistakes, and adorned with the kind of spelling, which is, alas! prevalent there." "I believe," said Buel, speaking for the first time, but with his eyes still on the sea, "there is good English authority for much that we term American spelling." "English authority, indeed!" cried Miss Jessop; "as if we needed English authority for anything. If we can't spell better than your great English authority, Chaucer--well!" Language seemed to fail the young woman. "Have you read Chaucer?" asked Mr. Hodden, in surprise. "Certainly not; but I have looked at his poems, and they always remind me of one of those dialect stories in the magazines." Miss Jessop turned over the pages of the book which had been given her, and as she did so a name caught her attention. She remembered a problem that had troubled her when she read the book before. She cried impulsively--"Oh, Mr. Hodden, there is a question I want to ask you about this book. Was--" Here she checked herself in some confusion. Buel, who seemed to realise the situation, smiled grimly. "The way of the transgressor is hard," he whispered in a tone too low for Hodden to hear. "Isn't it?" cordially agreed the unblushing young woman. "What did you wish to ask me?" inquired the novelist. "Was it the American spelling or the American piracy that made you dislike the United States?" Mr. Hodden raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I do not dislike the United States. I have many friends there, and see much to admire in the country. But there are some things that do not commend themselves to me, and those I ventured to touch upon lightly on one or two occasions, much to the displeasure of a section of the inhabitants--a small section, I hope." "Don't you think," ventured Buel, "that a writer should rather touch on what pleases him than on what displeases him, in writing of a foreign country?" "Possibly, Nations are like individuals; they prefer flattery to honest criticism." "But a writer should remember that there is no law of libel to protect a nation." To this remark Mr. Hodden did not reply. "And what did you object to most, Mr. Hodden?" asked the girl. "That is a hard question to answer. I think, however, that one of the most deplorable features of American life is the unbridled license of the Press. The reporters make existence a burden; they print the most unjustifiable things in their so-called interviews, and a man has no redress. There is no escaping them. If a man is at all well known, they attack him before he has a chance to leave the ship. If you refuse to say anything, they will write a purely imaginative interview. The last time I visited America, five of them came out to interview me--they came out in the Custom House steamer, I believe." "Why, I should feel flattered if they took all that trouble over me, Mr. Hodden." "All I ask of them is to leave me alone." "I'll protect you, Mr. Hodden. When they come, you stand near me, and I'll beat them off with my sunshade. I know two newspaper men--real nice young men they are too--and they always do what I tell them." "I can quite believe it, Miss Jessop." "Well, then, have no fear while I'm on board." Mr. Hodden shook his head. He knew how it would be, he said. "Let us leave the reporters. What else do you object to? I want to learn, and so reform my country when I get back." "The mad passion of the people after wealth, and the unscrupulousness of their methods of obtaining it, seem to me unpleasant phases of life over there." "So they are. And what you say makes me sigh for dear old London. How honest they are, and how little they care for money there! _They_ don't put up the price 50 per cent. merely because a girl has an American accent. Oh no. They think she likes to buy at New York prices. And they are so honourable down in the city that nobody ever gets cheated. Why, you could put a purse up on a pole in London, just as--as--was it Henry the Eighth--?" "Alfred, I think!" suggested Buel. "Thanks! As Alfred the Great used to do." Mr. Hodden looked askance at the young woman. "Remember," he said, "that you asked me for my opinion. If what I have said is offensive to one who is wealthy, as doubtless you are, Miss Jessop, I most sincerely--" "Me? Well, I never know whether I'm wealthy or not. I expect that before long I shall have to take to typewriting. Perhaps, in that case, you will give me some of your novels to do, Mr. Hodden. You see, my father is on the Street." "Dear me!" said Mr. Hodden, "I am sorry to hear that." "Why? They are not all rogues on Wall Street, in spite of what the papers say. Remember your own opinion of the papers. They are not to be trusted when they speak of Wall Street men. When my father got very rich once I made him give me 100,000 dollars, so that, should things go wrong--they generally go wrong for somebody on Wall Street--we would have something to live on, but, unfortunately, he always borrows it again. Some day, I'm afraid, it will go, and then will come the typewriter. That's why I took my aunt with me and saw Europe before it was too late. I gave him a power of attorney before I left, so I've had an anxious time on the Continent. My money was all right when we left Liverpool, but goodness knows where it will be when I reach New York." "How very interesting. I never heard of a situation just like it before." CHAPTER VI. The big vessel lay at rest in New York Bay waiting for the boat of the health officers and the steamer with the customs men on board. The passengers were in a state of excitement at the thought of being so near home. The captain, who was now in excellent humour, walked the deck and chatted affably with every one. A successful voyage had been completed. Miss Jessop feared the coming of the customs boat as much as Hodden feared the reporters. If anything, he was the more resigned of the two. What American woman ever lands on her native shore without trembling before the revenue laws of her country? Kenan Buel, his arms resting on the bulwarks, gazed absently at the green hills he was seeing for the first time, but his thoughts were not upon them. The young man was in a quandary. Should he venture, or should he not, that was the question. Admitting, for the sake of argument, that she cared for him, what had he to offer? Merely himself, and the debt still unpaid on his first book. The situation was the more embarrassing because of a remark she had made about Englishmen marrying for money. He had resented that on general principles when he heard it, but now it had a personal application that seemed to confront him whichever way he turned. Besides, wasn't it all rather sudden, from an insular point of view? Of course they did things with great rapidity in America, so perhaps she would not object to the suddenness. He had no one to consult, and he felt the lack of advice. He did not want to make a mistake, neither did he wish to be laughed at. Still, the laughing would not matter if everything turned out right. Anyhow, Miss Jessop's laugh was very kindly. He remembered that if he were in any other difficulty he would turn quite naturally to her for advice, although he had known her so short a time, and he regretted that in his present predicament he was debarred from putting the case before her. And yet, why not? He might put the supposititious case of a friend, and ask what the friend ought to do. He dismissed this a moment later. It was too much like what people did in a novel, and besides, he could not carry it through. She would see through the sham at once. At this point he realised that he was just where he began. "Dear me, Mr. Buel, how serious you look. I am afraid you don't approve of America. Are you sorry the voyage is ended?" "Yes, I am," answered Buel, earnestly. "I feel as if I had to begin life over again." "And are you afraid?" "A little." "I am disappointed in you. I thought you were not afraid of anything." "You were disappointed in me the first day, you remember." "So I was. I had forgotten." "Will your father come on board to meet you?" "It depends altogether on the state of the market. If things are dull, he will very likely meet me out here. If the Street is brisk, I won't see him till he arrives home to-night. If medium, he will be on the wharf when we get in." "And when you meet him I suppose you will know whether you are rich or poor?" "Oh, certainly. It will be the second thing I ask him." "When you know, I want you to tell me. Will you?" "Are you interested in knowing?" "Very much so." "Then I hope I shall be rich." Mr. Buel did not answer. He stared gloomily down at the water lapping the iron side of the motionless steamer. The frown on his brow was deep. Miss Jessop looked at him for a moment out of the corners of her eyes. Then she said, impulsively-- "I know that was mean. I apologise. I told you I did not like to apologise, so you may know how sorry I am. And, now that I have begun, I also apologise for all the flippant things I have said during the voyage, and for my frightful mendacity to poor Mr. Hodden, who sits there so patiently and picturesquely waiting for the terrible reporters. Won't you forgive me?" Buel was not a ready man, and he hesitated just the smallest fraction of a second too long. "I won't ask you twice, you know," said Miss Jessop, drawing herself up with dignity. "Don't--don't go!" cried the young man, with sudden energy, catching her hand. "I'm an unmannerly boor. But I'll risk everything and tell you the trouble. I don't care a--I don't care whether you are rich or poor. I----" Miss Jessop drew away her hand. "Oh, there's the boat, Mr. Buel, and there's my papa on the upper deck." She waved her handkerchief in the air in answer to one that was fluttering on the little steamer. Buel saw the boat cutting a rapid semicircle in the bay as she rounded to, leaving in her wake a long, curving track of foam. She looked ridiculously small compared with the great ship she was approaching, and her deck seemed crowded. "And there are the reporters!" she cried; "ever so many of them. I guess Mr. Hodden will be sorry he did not accept my offer of protection. I know that young man who is waving his hand. He was on the _Herald_ when I left; but no one can say what paper he's writing for now." As the boat came nearer a voice shouted-- "All well, Carrie?" The girl nodded. Her eyes and her heart were too full for speech. Buel frowned at the approaching boat, and cursed its inopportune arrival. He was astonished to hear some one shout from her deck-- "Hello, Buel!" "Why, there's some one who knows you!" said the girl, looking at him. Buel saw a man wave his hand, and automatically he waved in return. After a moment he realised that it was Brant the publisher. The customs officers were first on board, for it is ordained by the law that no foot is to tread the deck before theirs; but the reporters made a good second. Miss Jessop rushed to the gangway, leaving Buel alone. "Hello, Cap!" cried one of the young men of the Press, with that lack of respect for the dignitaries of this earth which is characteristic of them. "Had a good voyage?" "Splendid," answered the captain, with a smile. "Where's your celebrity? Trot him out." "I believe Mr. Hodden is aft somewhere." "Oh,--Hodden!" cried the young man, profanely; "he's a chestnut. Where's Kenan Buel?" The reporter did not wait for a reply, for he saw by the crowd around a very flushed young man that the victim had been found and cornered. "Really, gentlemen," said the embarrassed Englishman, "you have made a mistake. It is Mr. Hodden you want to see. I will take you to him." "Hodden's played," said one of the young men in an explanatory way, although Buel did not understand the meaning of the phrase. "He's petered out;" which addition did not make it any plainer. "You're the man for our money every time." "Break away there, break away!" cried the belated Brant, forcing his way through them and taking Buel by the hand. "There's no rush, you know, boys. Just let me have a minute's talk with Mr. Buel. It will be all right. I have just set up the champagne down in the saloon. It's my treat, you know. There's tables down there, and we can do things comfortably. I'll guarantee to produce Buel inside of five minutes." Brant linked arms with the young man, and they walked together down the deck. "Do you know what this means, Buel?" he said, waving his hand towards the retreating newspaper men. "I suppose it means that you have got them to interview me for business purposes. I can think of no other reason." "I've had nothing to do with it. That shows just how little you know about the American Press. Why, all the money I've got wouldn't bring those men out here to interview anybody who wasn't worth interviewing. It means fame; it means wealth; it means that you have turned the corner; it means you have the world before you; it means everything. Those young men are not reporters to you; they are the heralds of fame, my boy. A few of them may get there themselves some day, but it means that you have got there _now_. Do you realise that?" "Hardly. I suppose, then, the book has been a success?" "A success? It's been a cyclone. I've been fighting pirates ever since it came out. You see, I took the precaution to write some things in the book myself." Buel looked alarmed. "And then I copyrighted the whole thing, and they can't tell which is mine and which is yours until they get a hold of the English edition. That's why I did not wait for your corrections." "We are collaborators, then?" "You bet. I suppose some of the English copies are on this steamer? I'm going to try to have them seized by the customs if I can. I think I'll make a charge of indecency against the book." "Good heavens!" cried Buel, aghast. "There is nothing of that in it." "I am afraid not," said Brant, regretfully. "But it will give us a week more at least before it is decided. Anyhow, I'm ready for the pirates, even if they do come out. I've printed a cheap paper edition, 100,000 copies, and they are now in the hands of all the news companies--sealed up, of course--from New York to San Francisco. The moment a pirate shows his head, I'll telegraph the word 'rip' all over the United States, and they will rip open the packages and flood the market with authorised cheap editions before the pirates leave New York. Oh, L. F. Brant was not born the day before yesterday." "I see he wasn't," said Buel, smiling. "Now you come down and be introduced to the newspaper boys. You'll find them jolly nice fellows." "In a moment. You go down and open the champagne. I'll follow you. I--I want to say a few words to a friend on board." "No tricks now, Buel. You're not going to try to dodge them?" "I'm a man of my word, Mr. Brant. Don't be afraid." "And now," said the other, putting his hands on the young man's shoulders, "you'll be kind to them. Don't put on too much side, you know. You'll forgive me for mentioning this, but sometimes your countrymen do the high and mighty act a little too much. It doesn't pay." "I'll do my best. But I haven't the slightest idea what to say. In fact, I've nothing to say." "Oh, that's all right. Don't you worry. Just have a talk with them, that's all they want. You'll be paralysed when the interviews come out to-morrow; but you'll get over that." "You're sure the book is a success in its own merits, and not through any newspaper puffing or that sort of thing, you know?" "Why, certainly. Of course our firm pushed it. We're not the people to go to sleep over a thing. It might not have done quite so well with any other house; but I told you in London I thought it was bound to go. The pushing was quite legitimate." "In that case I shall be down to see the reporters in a very few minutes." Although Buel kept up his end of the conversation with Brant, his mind was not on it. Miss Jessop and her father were walking near them; snatches of their talk came to him, and his attention wandered in spite of himself. The Wall Street man seemed to be trying to reassure his daughter, and impart to her some of the enthusiasm he himself felt. He patted her affectionately on the shoulder now and then, and she walked with springy step very close to his side. "It's all right, Carrie," he said, "and as safe as the bank." "Which bank, papa?" Mr. Jessop laughed. "The Chemical Bank, if you like; or, as you are just over from the other side, perhaps I should say the Bank of England." "And did you take put every cent?" "Yes; and I wished there was double the amount to take. It's a sure thing. There's no speculation about it. There isn't a bushel of wheat in the country that isn't in the combination. It would have been sinful not to have put every cent I could scrape together into it. Why, Carrie, I'll give you a quarter of a million when the deal comes off." Carrie shook her head. "I've been afraid of wheat corners," she said, "ever since I was a baby. Still, I've no right to say anything. It's all your money, anyway, and I've just been playing that it was mine. But I do wish you had left a hundred dollars for a typewriter." Mr. Jessop laughed again in a very hearty and confident way. "Don't you fret about that, Carrie. I've got four type machines down at the office. I'll let you have your choice before the crash comes. Now I'll go down and see those customs men. There won't be any trouble. I know them." It was when Mr. Jessop departed that Buel suddenly became anxious to get rid of Brant. When he had succeeded, he walked over to where the girl leaned on the bulwark. "Well?" he said, taking his place beside her. "Well!" she answered, without looking up at him. "Which is it? Rich or poor?" "Rich, I should say, by the way the reporters flocked about you. That means, I suppose, that your book has been a great success, and that you are going to make your fortune out of it. Let me congratulate you, Mr. Buel." "Wait a minute. I don't know yet whether I am to be congratulated or not; that will depend on you. Of course you know I was not speaking of myself when I asked the question." "Oh, you meant me, did you? Well, I can't tell for some time to come, but I have my fears. I hear the click of the typewriter in the near future." "Caroline, I am very serious about this. I don't believe you think, or could think, that I care much about riches. I have been on too intimate terms with poverty to be afraid of it. Of course my present apparent success has given me courage, and I intend to use that courage while it lasts. I have been rather afraid of your ridicule, but I think, whether you were rich or poor, or whether my book was a success or a failure, I would have risked it, and told you I loved you." The girl did not look up at him, and did not answer for a moment. Then she said, in a voice that he had to bend very close to hear-- "I--I would have been sorry all my life if you hadn't--risked it." THE END.