The Portygee

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THE PORTYGEE


By Joseph Crosby Lincoln




CHAPTER I


Overhead the clouds cloaked the sky; a ragged cloak it was, and, here
and there, a star shone through a hole, to be obscured almost instantly
as more cloud tatters were hurled across the rent. The pines threshed on
the hill tops. The bare branches of the wild-cherry and silverleaf trees
scraped and rattled and tossed. And the wind, the raw, chilling December
wind, driven in, wet and salty, from the sea, tore over the dunes and
brown uplands and across the frozen salt-meadows, screamed through
the telegraph wires, and made the platform of the dismal South Harniss
railway station the lonesomest, coldest, darkest and most miserable spot
on the face of the earth.

At least that was the opinion of the seventeen-year-old boy whom the
down train--on time for once and a wonder--had just deposited upon that
platform. He would not have discounted the statement one iota. The South
Harniss station platform WAS the most miserable spot on earth and he was
the most miserable human being upon it. And this last was probably true,
for there were but three other humans upon that platform and, judging by
externals, they seemed happy enough. One was the station agent, who was
just entering the building preparatory to locking up for the night,
and the others were Jim Young, driver of the "depot wagon," and Doctor
Holliday, the South Harniss "homeopath," who had been up to a Boston
hospital with a patient and was returning home. Jim was whistling
"Silver Bells," a tune much in vogue the previous summer, and Doctor
Holliday was puffing at a cigar and knocking his feet together to keep
them warm while waiting to get into the depot wagon. These were the only
people in sight and they were paying no attention whatever to the lonely
figure at the other end of the platform.

The boy looked about him. The station, with its sickly yellow gleam
of kerosene lamp behind its dingy windowpane, was apparently the only
inhabited spot in a barren wilderness. At the edge of the platform
civilization seemed to end and beyond was nothing but a black earth
and a black sky, tossing trees and howling wind, and cold--raw, damp,
penetrating cold. Compared with this even the stuffy plush seats and
smelly warmth of the car he had just left appeared temptingly homelike
and luxurious. All the way down from the city he had sneered inwardly at
a one-horse railroad which ran no Pullmans on its Cape branch in winter
time. Now he forgot his longing for mahogany veneer and individual
chairs and would gladly have boarded a freight car, provided there were
in it a lamp and a stove.

The light in the station was extinguished and the agent came out with
a jingling bunch of keys and locked the door. "Good-night, Jim,"
he shouted, and walked off into the blackness. Jim responded with a
"good-night" of his own and climbed aboard the wagon, into the dark
interior of which the doctor had preceded him. The boy at the other end
of the platform began to be really alarmed. It looked as if all living
things were abandoning him and he was to be left marooned, to starve or
freeze, provided he was not blown away first.

He picked up the suitcase--an expensive suitcase it was, elaborately
strapped and buckled, with a telescope back and gold fittings--and
hastened toward the wagon. Mr. Young had just picked up the reins.

"Oh,--oh, I say!" faltered the boy. We have called him "the boy" all
this time, but he did not consider himself a boy, he esteemed himself
a man, if not full-grown physically, certainly so mentally. A man,
with all a man's wisdom, and more besides--the great, the all-embracing
wisdom of his age, or youth.

"Here, I say! Just a minute!" he repeated. Jim Young put his head around
the edge of the wagon curtain. "Eh?" he queried. "Eh? Who's talkin'? Oh,
was it you, young feller? Did you want me?"

The young fellow replied that he did. "This is South Harniss, isn't it?"
he asked.

Mr. Young chuckled. "Darn sure thing," he drawled. "I give in that it
looks consider'ble like Boston, or Providence, R. I., or some of them
capitols, but it ain't, it's South Harniss, Cape Cod."

Doctor Holliday, on the back seat of the depot wagon, chuckled. Jim
did not; he never laughed at his own jokes. And his questioner did not
chuckle, either.

"Does a--does a Mr. Snow live here?" he asked.

The answer was prompt, if rather indefinite. "Um-hm," said the driver.
"No less'n fourteen of him lives here. Which one do you want?"

"A Mr. Z. Snow."

"Mr. Z. Snow, eh? Humph! I don't seem to recollect any Mr. Z. Snow
around nowadays. There used to be a Ziba Snow, but he's dead. 'Twan't
him you wanted, was it?"

"No. The one I want is--is a Captain Snow. Captain--" he paused before
uttering the name which to his critical metropolitan ear had seemed
so dreadfully countrified and humiliating; "Captain Zelotes Snow," he
blurted, desperately.

Jim Young laughed aloud. "Good land, Doc!" he cried, turning toward his
passenger; "I swan I clean forgot that Cap'n Lote's name begun with a
Z. Cap'n Lote Snow? Why, darn sure! I . . . Eh?" He stopped short,
evidently struck by a new idea. "Sho!" he drawled, slowly. "Why,
I declare I believe you're . . . Yes, of course! I heard they was
expectin' you. Doc, you know who 'tis, don't you? Cap'n Lote's grandson;
Janie's boy."

He took the lighted lantern from under the wagon seat and held it up so
that its glow shone upon the face of the youth standing by the wheel.

"Hum," he mused. "Don't seem to favor Janie much, does he, Doc. Kind of
got her mouth and chin, though. Remember that sort of good-lookin' set
to her mouth she had? And SHE got it from old Cap'n Lo himself. This
boy's face must be more like his pa's, I cal'late. Don't you cal'late
so, Doc?"

Whether Doctor Holliday cal'lated so or not he did not say. It may be
that he thought this cool inspection of and discussion concerning a
stranger, even a juvenile stranger, somewhat embarrassing to its object.
Or the lantern light may have shown him an ominous pucker between the
boy's black brows and a flash of temper in the big black eyes beneath
them. At any rate, instead of replying to Mr. Young, he said, kindly:

"Yes, Captain Snow lives in the village. If you are going to his house
get right in here. I live close by, myself."

"Darned sure!" agreed Mr. Young, with enthusiasm. "Hop right in, sonny."

But the boy hesitated. Then, haughtily ignoring the driver, he said: "I
thought Captain Snow would be here to meet me. He wrote that he would."

The irrepressible Jim had no idea of remaining ignored. "Did Cap'n Lote
write you that he'd be here to the depot?" he demanded. "All right, then
he'll be here, don't you fret. I presume likely that everlastin' mare
of his has eat herself sick again; eh, Doc? By godfreys domino, the way
they pet and stuff that fool horse is a sin and a shame. It ain't Lote's
fault so much as 'tis his wife's--she's responsible. Don't you fret,
Bub, the cap'n'll be here for you some time to-night. If he said he'll
come he'll come, even if he has to hire one of them limmysines. He, he,
he! All you've got to do is wait, and . . . Hey! . . . Hold on a minute!
. . . Bub!"

The boy was walking away. And to hail him as "Bub" was, although Jim
Young did not know it, the one way least likely to bring him back.

"Bub!" shouted Jim again. Receiving no reply he added what he had
intended saying. "If I run afoul of Cap'n Lote anywheres on the road,"
he called, "I'll tell him you're here a-waitin'. So long, Bub. Git dap,
Chain Lightnin'."

The horse, thus complimented, pricked up one ear, lifted a foot, and
jogged off. The depot wagon became merely a shadowy smudge against the
darkness of the night. For a few minutes the "chock, chock" of the hoofs
upon the frozen road and the rattle of wheels gave audible evidence of
its progress. Then these died away and upon the windswept platform of
the South Harniss station descended the black gloom of lonesomeness
so complete as to make that which had been before seem, by comparison,
almost cheerful.

The youth upon that platform turned up his coat collar, thrust his
gloved hands into his pockets, and shivered. Then, still shivering,
he took a brisk walk up and down beside the suitcase and, finally,
circumnavigated the little station. The voyage of discovery was
unprofitable; there was nothing to discover. So far as he could
see--which was by no means far--upon each side of the building was
nothing but bare fields and tossing pines, and wind and cold and
blackness. He came to anchor once more by the suitcase and drew a long,
hopeless breath.

He thought of the cheery dining room at the school he had left the day
before. Dinner would be nearly over by now. The fellows were having
dessert, or, probably, were filing out into the corridors, the younger
chaps to go to the study hall and the older ones--the lordly seniors, of
whom he had been one--on the way to their rooms. The picture of his own
cheerful, gay room in the senior corridor was before his mind; of that
room as it was before the telegram came, before the lawyer came with
the letter, before the end of everything as he knew it and the beginning
of--this. He had not always loved and longed for that school as he loved
and longed for it now. There had been times when he referred to it as
"the old jail," and professed to hate it. But it had been the only real
home he had known since he was eight years old and now he looked back
upon it as a fallen angel might have looked back upon Paradise. He
sighed again, choked and hastily drew his gloved hand across his eyes.
At the age of seventeen it is very unmanly to cry, but, at that age
also, manhood and boyhood are closely intermingled. He choked again
and then, squaring his shoulders, reached into his coat pocket for the
silver cigarette case which, as a recent acquisition, was the pride of
his soul. He had just succeeded in lighting a cigarette when, borne upon
the wind, he heard once more the sound of hoofs and wheels and saw in
the distance a speck of light advancing toward the station.

The sounds drew nearer, so did the light. Then an old-fashioned buggy,
drawn by a plump little sorrel, pulled up by the platform and a hand
held a lantern aloft.

"Hello!" hailed a voice. "Where are you?"

The hail did not have to be repeated. Before the vehicle reached the
station the boy had tossed away the cigarette, picked up the suitcase,
and was waiting. Now he strode into the lantern light.

"Here I am," he answered, trying hard not to appear too eager. "Were you
looking for me?"

The holder of the lantern tucked the reins between the whip-socket and
the dash and climbed out of the buggy. He was a little man, perhaps
about forty-eight or fifty, with a smooth-shaven face wrinkled at the
corners of the mouth and eyes. His voice was the most curious thing
about him; it was high and piping, more like a woman's than a man's. Yet
his words and manner were masculine enough, and he moved and spoke with
a nervous, jerky quickness.

He answered the question promptly. "Guess I be, guess I be," he said
briskly. "Anyhow, I'm lookin' for a boy name of--name of--My soul to
heavens, I've forgot it again, I do believe! What did you say your name
was?"

"Speranza. Albert Speranza."

"Sartin, sartin! Sper--er--um--yes, yes. Knew it just as well as I did
my own. Well, well, well! Ye-es, yes, yes. Get right aboard, Alfred. Let
me take your satchel."

He picked up the suitcase. The boy, his foot upon the buggy step, still
hesitated. "Then you're--you're not my grandfather?" he faltered.

"Eh? Who? Your grandfather? Me? He, he, he!" He chuckled shrilly. "No,
no! No such luck. If I was Cap'n Lote Snow, I'd be some older'n I be now
and a dum sight richer. Yes, yes. No, I'm Cap'n Lote's bookkeeper over
at the lumber consarn. He's got a cold, and Olive--that's his wife--she
said he shouldn't come out to-night. He said he should, and while they
was Katy-didin' back and forth about it, Rachel--Mrs. Ellis--she's the
hired housekeeper there--she telephoned me to harness up and come meet
you up here to the depot. Er--er--little mite late, wan't I?"

"Why, yes, just a little. The other man, the one who drives the mail
cart--I think that was what it was--said perhaps the horse was sick, or
something like that."

"No-o, no, that wan't it this time. I--er--All tucked in and warm
enough, be you? Ye-es, yes, yes. No, I'm to blame, I shouldn't wonder. I
stopped at the--at the store a minute and met one or two of the fellers,
and that kind of held me up. All right now? Ye-es, yes, yes. G'long,
gal."

The buggy moved away from the platform. Its passenger, his chilly feet
and legs tightly wrapped in the robes, drew a breath of relief between
his chattering teeth. He was actually going somewhere at last; whatever
happened, morning would not find him propped frozen stiff against the
scarred and mangy clapboards of the South Harniss station.

"Warm enough, be you?" inquired his driver cheerfully.

"Yes, thank you."

"That's good, that's good, that's good. Ye-es, yes, yes.
Well--er--Frederick, how do you think you're goin' to like South
Harniss?"

The answer was rather non-committal. The boy replied that he had not
seen very much of it as yet. His companion seemed to find the statement
highly amusing. He chuckled and slapped his knee.

"Ain't seen much of it, eh? No-o, no, no. I guess you ain't, guess you
ain't. He, he, he . . . Um . . . Let's see, what was I talkin' about?"

"Why, nothing in particular, I think, Mr.--Mr.--"

"Didn't I tell you my name? Sho, sho! That's funny. My name's
Keeler--Laban B. Keeler. That's my name and bookkeeper is my station.
South Harniss is my dwellin' place--and I guess likely you'll have to
see the minister about the rest of it. He, he, he!"

His passenger, to whom the old schoolbook quatrain was entirely unknown,
wondered what on earth the man was talking about. However, he smiled
politely and sniffed with a dawning suspicion. It seemed to him there
was an unusual scent in the air, a spirituous scent, a--

"Have a peppermint lozenger," suggested Mr. Keeler, with sudden
enthusiasm. "Peppermint is good for what ails you, so they tell me.
Ye-es, yes, yes. Have one. Have two, have a lot."

He proceeded to have a lot himself, and the buggy was straightway
reflavored, so to speak. The boy, his suspicions by no means dispelled,
leaned back in the corner behind the curtains and awaited developments.
He was warmer, that was a real physical and consequently a slight mental
comfort, but the feeling of lonesomeness was still acute. So far his
acquaintanceship with the citizens of South Harniss had not filled him
with enthusiasm. They were what he, in his former and very recent state
of existence, would have called "Rubes." Were the grandparents whom he
had never met this sort of people? It seemed probable. What sort of
a place was this to which Fate had consigned him? The sense of utter
helplessness which had had him in its clutches since the day when he
received the news of his father's death was as dreadfully real as ever.
He had not been consulted at all. No one had asked him what he wished to
do, or where he wished to go. The letter had come from these people, the
Cape Cod grandparents of whom, up to that time, he had never even
heard, and he had been shipped to them as though he were a piece of
merchandise. And what was to become of him now, after he reached his
destination? What would they expect him to do? Or be? How would he be
treated?

In his extensive reading--he had been an omnivorous reader--there were
numerous examples of youths left, like him, to the care of distant
relatives, or step-parents, or utter strangers. Their experiences,
generally speaking, had not been cheerful ones. Most of them had run
away. He might run away; but somehow the idea of running away, with no
money, to face hardship and poverty and all the rest, did not make an
alluring appeal. He had been used to comfort and luxury ever since he
could remember, and his imagination, an unusually active one, visualized
much more keenly than the average the tribulations and struggles of a
runaway. David Copperfield, he remembered, had run away, but he did it
when a kid, not a man like himself. Nicholas Nickleby--no, Nicholas had
not run away exactly, but his father had died and he had been left to an
uncle. It would be dreadful if his grandfather should turn out to be a
man like Ralph Nickleby. Yet Nicholas had gotten on well in spite of his
wicked relative. Yes, and how gloriously he had defied the old
rascal, too! He wondered if he would ever be called upon to defy his
grandfather. He saw himself doing it--quietly, a perfect gentleman
always, but with the noble determination of one performing a
disagreeable duty. His chin lifted and his shoulders squared against the
back of the buggy.

Mr. Keeler, who had apparently forgotten his passenger altogether, broke
into song,


"She's my darlin' hanky-panky
And she wears a number two,
Her father keeps a barber shop
Way out in Kalamazoo."


He sang the foregoing twice over and then added a chorus, plainly
improvised, made up of "Di doos" and "Di dums" ad lib. And the buggy
rolled up and over the slope of a little hill and, in the face of a
screaming sea wind, descended a long, gentle slope to where, scattered
along a two-mile water frontage, the lights of South Harniss twinkled
sparsely.


"Did doo dum, dee dum, doo dum
Di doo dum, doo dum dee."


So sang Mr. Keeler. Then he broke off his solo as the little mare turned
in between a pair of high wooden posts bordering a drive, jogged along
that drive for perhaps fifty feet, and stopped beside the stone step
of a white front door. Through the arched window above that door shone
lamplight warm and yellow.

"Whoa!" commanded Mr. Keeler, most unnecessarily. Then, as if himself a
bit uncertain as to his exact whereabouts, he peered out at the door and
the house of which it was a part, afterward settling back to announce
triumphantly: "And here we be! Yes, sir, here we be!"

Then the door opened. A flood of lamplight poured upon the buggy and its
occupants. And the boy saw two people standing in the doorway, a man and
a woman.

It was the woman who spoke first. It was she who had opened the door.
The man was standing behind her looking over her shoulder--over her head
really, for he was tall and broad and she short and slender.

"Is it--?" she faltered.

Mr. Keeler answered. "Yes, ma'am," he declared emphatically, "that's who
'tis. Here we be--er--er--what's-your-name--Edward. Jump right out."

His passenger alighted from the buggy. The woman bent forward to look at
him, her hands clasped.

"It--it's Albert, isn't it?" she asked.

The boy nodded. "Yes," he said.

The hands unclasped and she held them out toward him. "Oh, Albert," she
cried, "I'm your grandmother. I--"

The man interrupted. "Wait till we get him inside, Olive," he said.
"Come in, son." Then, addressing the driver, he ordered: "Labe, take the
horse and team out to the barn and unharness for me, will you?"

"Ye-es, yes, yes," replied Mr. Keeler. "Yes indeed, Cap'n. Take her
right along--right off. Yes indeedy. Git dap!"

He drove off toward the end of the yard, where a large building,
presumably a barn, loomed black against the dark sky. He sang as
he drove and the big man on the step looked after him and sniffed
suspiciously.

Meanwhile the boy had followed the little woman into the house through
a small front hall, from which a narrow flight of stairs shot aloft with
almost unbelievable steepness, and into a large room. Albert had a
swift impression of big windows full of plants, of pictures of ships and
schooners on the walls, of a table set for four.

"Take your things right off," cried his grandmother. "Here, I'll take
'em. There! now turn 'round and let me look at you. Don't move till I
get a good look."

He stood perfectly still while she inspected him from head to foot.

"You've got her mouth," she said slowly. "Yes, you've got her mouth. Her
hair and eyes were brown and yours are black, but--but I THINK you look
like her. Oh, I did so want you to! May I kiss you, Albert? I'm your
grandmother, you know."

With embarrassed shyness he leaned forward while she put her arms about
his neck and kissed him on the cheek. As he straightened again he
became aware that the big man had entered the room and was regarding him
intently beneath a pair of shaggy gray eyebrows. Mrs. Snow turned.

"Oh, Zelotes," she cried, "he's got Janie's mouth, don't you think so?
And he DOES look like her, doesn't he?"

Her husband shook his head. "Maybe so, Mother," he said, with a half
smile. "I ain't a great hand for locatin' who folks look like. How are
you, boy? Glad to see you. I'm your grandfather, you know."

They shook hands, while each inspected and made a mental estimate of the
other. Albert saw a square, bearded jaw, a firm mouth, gray eyes with
many wrinkles at the corners, and a shock of thick gray hair. The eyes
had a way of looking straight at you, through you, as if reading your
thoughts, divining your motives and making a general appraisal of you
and them.

Captain Zelotes Snow, for his part, saw a tall young fellow, slim and
straight, with black curly hair, large black eyes and regular features.
A good-looking boy, a handsome boy--almost too handsome, perhaps, or
with just a touch of the effeminate in the good looks. The captain's
glance took in the well-fitting suit of clothes, the expensive tie, the
gold watch chain.

"Humph!" grunted Captain Zelotes. "Well, your grandma and I are glad
to have you with us. Let me see, Albert--that's your right name, ain't
it--Albert?"

Something in his grandfather's looks or tone aroused a curious feeling
in the youth. It was not a feeling of antagonism, exactly, but more of
defiance, of obstinacy. He felt as if this big man, regarding him so
keenly from under the heavy brows, was looking for faults, was expecting
to find something wrong, might almost be disappointed if he did not find
it. He met the gaze for a moment, the color rising to his cheeks.

"My name," he said deliberately, "is Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza."

Mrs. Snow uttered a little exclamation. "Oh!" she ejaculated. And then
added: "Why--why, I thought--we--we understood 'twas 'Albert.' We didn't
know there was--we didn't know there was any more to it. What did you
say it was?"

Her grandson squared his shoulders. "Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza,"
he repeated. "My father"--there was pride in his voice now--"my father's
name was Miguel Carlos. Of course you knew that."

He spoke as if all creation must have known it. Mrs. Snow looked
helplessly at her husband. Captain Zelotes rubbed his chin.

"We--ll," he drawled dryly, "I guess likely we'll get along with
'Albert' for a spell. I cal'late 'twill come more handy to us Cape
folks. We're kind of plain and everyday 'round here. Sapper's ready,
ain't it, Mother? Al must be hungry. I'm plaguey sure _I_ am."

"But, Zelotes, maybe he'd like to go up to his bedroom first. He's been
ridin' a long ways in the cars and maybe he'd like to wash up or change
his clothes?"

"Change his clothes! Lord sakes, Olive, what would he want to change his
clothes this time of night for? You don't want to change your clothes,
do you, boy?"

"No, sir, I guess not."

"Sartin sure you don't. Want to wash? There's a basin and soap and towel
right out there in the kitchen."

He pointed to the kitchen door. At that moment the door was partially
opened and a brisk feminine voice from behind it inquired: "How about
eatin'? Are you all ready in there?"

It was Captain Snow who answered.

"You bet we are, Rachel!" he declared. "All ready and then some. Trot
her out. Sit down, Mother. Sit down, Al. Now then, Rachel, all aboard."

Rachel, it appeared, was the owner of the brisk feminine voice just
mentioned. She was brisk herself, as to age about forty, plump, rosy and
very business-like. She whisked the platter of fried mackerel and the
dishes of baked potatoes, stewed corn, hot biscuits and all the rest,
to the table is no time, and then, to Albert's astonishment, sat down at
that table herself. Mrs. Snow did the honors.

"Albert," she said, "this is Mrs. Ellis, who helps me keep house.
Rachel, this is my grandson, Albert--er--Speranza."

She pronounced the surname in a tone almost apologetic. Mrs. Ellis did
not attempt to pronounce it. She extended a plump hand and observed: "Is
that so? Real glad to know you, Albert. How do you think you're goin' to
like South Harniss?"

Considering that his acquaintance with the village had been so decidedly
limited, Albert was somewhat puzzled how to reply. His grandfather saved
him the trouble.

"Lord sakes, Rachel," he declared, "he ain't seen more'n three square
foot of it yet. It's darker'n the inside of a nigger's undershirt
outdoors to-night. Well, Al--Albert, I mean, how are you on mackerel?
Pretty good stowage room below decks? About so much, eh?"