# The Taking of Billy Rand

Extracted from The Stories Editors Buy and Why (1921) compiled by Jean Wick, pp. 261–278. Reprinted from Short Stories, 1920.
THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND
By GORDON YOUNG
FOR reasons that might be called confidential, since they were known only to Billy Rand himself and to the police, he took the tip of a friend wise in geography and made for a speck on the map called Ponape—a bit of an island that sticks out inconspicuously in the South Seas.
He landed on a beach where there were some natives that he mistook for "niggers" and a lot of Germans.
Said Billy Rand to a German trader:
"I'm travelin' for my health and lookin' for a quiet spot. I need rest. This here Langar is too thrivin' a metropolis. It reminds me of New York."
He looked out of the doorway to where a half dozen little trading schooners were anchored, and at the corrugated iron warehouse; but most particularly he looked at the two wireless masts. Those were what reminded him of New York.
"Ja," said the trader, and tipped the empty beer bottle significantly.
Billy took the hint. More beer came. Then the trader warmed up slightly and talked.
Billy didn't know exactly what was being said. No fortune teller bad ever warned him that he ought to study German.
The trader pointed here and there, and Billy twisted his head about to see. Then he began to realize that the German was talking of directions. Which way did Billy want to travel?
Billy took a chance and poked his finger in the same direction that his nose happened to be.
The trader agreed that it was a desirable choice and put out his hand, palm up. The sign language had never seemed so eloquent to Billy before.
That was how Billy came to be landed on the beach some two hundred miles from Langar. The bay was pretty and the trader had given him to understand that a missionary lived there.
But alone on the beach Billy couldn't see anything but niggers. They swarmed about him, grinned, looked him over curiously, fingered his clothes, felt of him, and chattered. He wished heartily that he was back in New York explaining to the judge just how it happened. The trader was already standing out to sea.
The natives half carried, half dragged the squatty little man with the dapper manner, alias Billy Rand, up the beach and through the bushes until they came to a cleared space where there were grass houses and women cooking.
"Just in time for dinner!" he said to himself, and nearly fainted.
Then a man came to the door of one of the grass houses. He was a comparatively young man, fine looking—Billy thought—and not at all like the beachcombers, missionaries and Germans with which Billy had already become acquainted. And Billy could not imagine that any one other than those people—beachcombers, missionaries and Germans—would hide themselves away in such outlandish places unless for "confidential" reasons.
"Who are you?" the man asked. It seemed to Billy that there was something pryingly suspicious in the question.
Rapidly he hastened to assure this stranger:
"It's all right. I came along for quiet and rest too. I know just how you feel when a stranger comes along your trail. Now I've—"
"I don't know what you mean," said the other, looking puzzled. Billy noticed that he had brown eyes that looked almost sad.
"I'm in the same fix as you," Billy explained vaguely.
"A missionary?" the man asked.
"Me a what!"
And Billy followed it up with a few remarks that showed he was far from having been trained as a missionary.
The man looked relieved, though he did say quietly:
"You see, I'm a missionary. From what you said I judged that you, too—well, I want neither a rival nor an assistant—but," he added quickly, "anybody else is welcome."
Billy cast a speculative eye over the crowd of natives ringed about him.
"Say," he confessed frankly, "I was awfully glad to see you. These fellows had me scared stiff."
The missionary laughed. "They can't imagine any one being afraid of them."
"Ain't they got no lookin' glasses?" Billy demanded.
The missionary laughed again and invited him into his house.
Billy at first had a nightmarish sensation as he stepped in; lizards, birds and things, some dried, some stuffed, some pickled in bottles, some stuck on cards—bugs and butterflies and flying squirrels and even some bright-scaled fish.
"Have a little drink?" asked the missionary. "And here is a pipe and some tobacco—trade tobacco. Wretched stuff. Just make yourself at home. And tell me, what's going on in the world? I've been here four years."
Billy reflected that this man might be a missionary, but he was a good judge of whiskey, though he took only a little for himself and after filling Billy's glass put the bottle away.
Later another drink for Billy alone was forthcoming; and he, already wanting to stay on and on with the missionary and not wanting him to think that he, Billy, was a murderer or something, up and told just what he would have told the judge if he had not been able to keep just about two jumps ahead of the detectives that were on his trail.
Billy naively explained that he wasn't going to confess to anybody that he had carried the money from a certain firm of paying contractors to a certain man that could—and did—control the awarding of paving contracts.
"An' was it police or a woman with you:" Billy inquired pointedly, feeling that an exchange of confidence was due.
The missionary gave him a quick glance, then smiled and said that he was really a naturalist, but was officially a missionary because the Germans, who owned the Carolinas, were more agreeable to missionaries than to scientists—of other countries.
"A woman," Billy said to himself, noticing how handsome and young the missionary was. His name was Roscoe Tomlin.
In the next few weeks they got well acquainted. Billy helped, as the natives did, to catch bugs and things and pickle them. He picked up a few words of the dialect and soon had the pickaninnies taking a great fancy to him.
Then, just as Billy was getting settled to the new life and beginning to feel secure, a little steam yacht nosed cautiously into the mouth of the bay.
The natives made a dash for the beach, tumbled into canoes and went splashing out to give greetings and get presents.
Tomlin was off in the bush chasing bugs and things.
Billy, not being anxious to receive visitors himself, went near the beach and reclined behind a convenient rock.
Presently he saw a boat dropped from the davits. People got into it. One of them was a woman. They landed on the beach and, in about two minutes, Billy sauntered out to make sure that she was as pretty as she looked. The men who had rowed ashore stayed in the boat, but she got out with a little man who had a Vandyke beard, a cap and doublebreasted serge coat.
"No detective," said Billy reassuringly to himself, "would attempt that disguise."
"Hello," said the little fellow seeing that Billy was a white man.
Billy didn't like his looks. Just why, he could not have told. But he didn't like 'em. He wasn't frightened though—besides, she was getting prettier and prettier at every step.
Her hair was red and her eyes were purple with fire in them; her lips were red as a flame-tree's flower, or maybe more red. She was slender without being slim and moved as easily as a pandanus leaf swinging in a little breeze. Billy was very susceptible to beauty. He would have thrown himself face down right there on the sand for her to walk on at the least suggestion that such an attitude would be pleasing to her. She was young without being girlish—nor was there anything old womanish about her. No. Billy, who was a bit hazy on historical events, was sure that she looked exactly like those women who bowl kings off their thrones, get men assassinated—or whatever else they want. Not that she looked wicked. No. But—well, Billy was a long way from home and she wore her clothes as they are worn on the Boardwalk; she carried herself as women do on Fifth Avenue. And then she was pretty.
"Is there a man here by the name of Roscoe Tomlin?" the little man asked, turning hard blue eyes on Billy as though he were a bum or wastrel.
"Who's he?" said Billy, looking innocent.
"Who are you?" the woman asked. She spoke pleasantly, encouragingly, as though Billy interested her. He and the ladies always did get along, anyway.
"I'm Billy Rand," he said. "The missionary's assistant."
"And who is the missionary?" She asked it quickly, eagerly.
"Mr. Roscoe Tomlin," said Billy, bowing low.
"You—you—you," the little man stuttered angrily, "why didn't you tell me that when I asked you?"
"Because," Bill answered, looking right at him, "I didn't know the lady was interested!"
"I'll fix you!" the man shouted, and came toward Billy as though about to do something he shouldn't.
He was about Billy's size—and Billy never ran in front of ladles, not pretty ones at any rate.
But hostilities were suppressed peremptorily. She snapped out in a surprised tone:
"Captain Farewell!"
The Captain stopped. Anybody would have stopped.
"That's all right," Billy assured her. "Us missionaries is used to such fellers. Bad lot o' men come to these islands—crooks and things!"
The Captain appeared to be on the verge of blowing up; but she—she did not seem to notice. She smiled as she asked:
"Is Mr.—I mean is the Rev. Mr. Tomlin as—as pugnacious as you?"
"Him?" asked Billy. "Why, he trained me! He eats 'em alive."
"Cannibal, eh?" said the Captain. "I told you how white men degenerated among the natives," he remarked to her. Then of Billy he asked, "Is this Rev. Mr. Tomlin married or—"
He stopped right there. Billy didn't quite know what the Captain was driving at, but sensed enough to make him want to fight.
"Has Mr. Tomlin a wife?" she asked.
"Has he a native wife?" the Captain emphasized.
"Lady," said Billy, getting hot inside, and when he got hot inside he was likely to be blunt in his remarks, "supposin' some stranger come to a friend of yours and asked are you married to a nigger!"
She flushed and caught her breath, but someway it seemed that she was very much pleased, though she said: "You are right. I apologize. But will you please take us to Mr. Tomlin. I am a friend—a former friend of his."
So Billy led them up to the house, and the natives came along chattering and grinning and wanting to touch the woman's clothes. Billy warned them off repeatedly with a strange mixture of native words and New York slang. The Captain, speaking like a man does who has something on his mind, asked:
"And how long have you been here, Rev. Mr. Rand?"
"Me? Oh, let's see. Two—no not quite two years. Be two years soon. A feller sort o' loses track of time in a place like this, you know."
"So I would judge!" said the Captain with a strange intonation that caused Billy some vague uneasiness.
It stood this way with Billy: The District Attorney back in New York was after the Chief. Certain contractors lost money on a job and that made them peevish, so they swore that they had handed out a bribe to get the contract awarded to them. The Chief stood pat and said: "Prove it!" Billy had carried the money. If Billy confessed, the District Attorney had the proof. But Billy jumped. If he should be caught and still refuse to come through with a confession, it was highly probable that the District Attorney would pry loose some little episodes in Billy's past and hand him something. He would not snitch on the Chief and as he did not like the accommodations at Sing Sing, Billy had been ducking and dodging all over the Pacific, and the detectives—though they had never laid eyes on him—had been stubborn and alert as ferrets in a rabbit warren. It wasn't that Billy had a criminal record—far from it. But he had been in practical politics as an aid to the Chief. This was a stubborn political fight involving some pretty big pickings, and he had the misfortune to be a crucial witness. So Billy grew very thoughtful at the way Captain Farwell spoke.
He led the guests into the house and had them sit down. They looked at the bugs and pickled lizards and stuffed fish, but the woman did not shiver.
"This has always been Roscoe's habit," she said.
Billy sent some of the native youngsters for green cocoanuts and poured a drink of cool milk for the guests. The woman was eager and busy with questions, wanting to know everything knowable about Tomlin; and the Captain watched Billy steadily and continued remarks that made him nervous.
Billy reflected that the Captain was not a big man in any way—something like himself in build, only a trifle thinner—and, well, a fight wouldn't help much to keep him out of New York, but it would be gratifying.
While they were talking, Tomlin came.
The natives had told him about the witch-boat—any boat, in their minds, was driven by the devil if it did not have sails—and about the white woman and man being in the house.
He was naturally interested. Tourists were often nosing around in yachts, but he had never seen any before. He came over the doorway—the doorways were built high to keep the pigs out—and said with general friendliness:
"I hope Billy is making you comfortable."
"Yes, Roscoe. Quite comfortable," she said, turning her face toward him.
"You!—Lorraine—here!"
"Why, of course. How are you Roscoe? Didn't you get my letter? This is Captain Farwell. Mother is aboard the Petrel, but she isn't well."
Tomlin looked at the Captain and nodded, still in a daze.
From the way he looked back at Lorraine, Billy did not know whether Tomlin had a peeve and wasn't trying to show it, or didn't have one and wanted to pretend. Lorraine seemed wiser. She smiled at him in a way that, Billy thought, ought to have made a statue come from its pedestal and be human.
Billy recognized that four was a multitude and said:
"Captain, you just come with me, and I'll show you a cocoanut grove or a sunset or something."
Lorraine frankly rewarded Billy with a smile and a glance.
The Captain hemmed and hawed, but she said as politely as though she meant it: "Certainly Captain, we'll excuse you. I remember you said you wanted to see a real native village. Mr. Rand, I'm sure, will be an excellent guide."
"Yes," said Tomlin, feeling no doubt that he ought to say something, "Billy has been here only a few weeks, but he knows the natives almost as well as I."
Billy at once felt himself crumbling from the inside. He had counted much on an alibi that would give him a two year residence on the island.
Lorraine seemed to realize that something was wrong. She caught Billy's eye, and in about the tenth part of a second, then and there with nothing more than a sparkle of light from under her long lashes, made an offensive and defensive alliance with him.
When they were outside the Captain said:
"How one must lose track of time here! Remarkable, isn't it! I feel as though I'd been here several days."
"The cocoanuts are down this way," said Billy, starting off.
"By the way, Rand, I don't suppose there is any way of getting out of this place, is there?" the Captain asked.
"How do you mean, get out?"
It was a question uppermost in Billy's mind.
"I mean any of these islands—off like this. Just before we left Langar I heard of a couple of detectives from New York. They have tracked their man half way around the world, and discovered that about two months ago—maybe a little less—he left Langar with a German trader. The trader is out now on a trip and they're waiting for him to come back and tell them where he dropped this man.
"Neither of these detectives, so I heard—the steward talked with them—has ever seen the man. But they have a good description of him, a very good description. Short inclined to be chubby—though possibly he's thinned out some since he became a fugitive—blue eyes, dark brown hair. Somewhat resourceful, they say. Passed himself as a waiter and got passage on a government transport to Guam. Pretended to be a discharged marine at Guam and shipped with a pearl pirate for Yap. At Yap he became a planter and doubled back to Langar. They don't know what he told the trader, but they know this trader never makes anything but little islands out of touch with the world. They figure that they have their prize this time. Haven't seen anybody of his description, have you?"
Billy came very nearly to saying yes; but what would be the use? In normal spirits he would have told the Captain that the description fitted himself—the Captain—pretty closely. But Billy was in no mood for humor.
"I am telling you all this so that in case you ever run across the fellow you can send word to Langar. Quite a reward for him, I understand. The detectives are waiting there. They heard the Petrel was cruising about, and asked the steward to notify everybody on board. They are very impatient. I am sure if they got wind of where the fellow was they would hire a schooner and go for him."
"Can't arrest him without the consent of German authorities, can they?" Billy inquired.
"Not properly, of course. But they can smuggle him out. Once they get their hands on him they will not stop to ask questions until they get to New York. This fellow is so resourceful and tricky that they won't give him half a chance to make trouble for them."
Billy did not answer. He was beginning to feel a kind of companionable sympathy for the lizards that he and Tomlin caught and smothered in chloroform before "picklin' 'em." No matter where he went he felt that he never appreciably increased the distance between himself and 240 Centre Street, New York—Police Headquarters.
But Billy wasn't the only one who was having troubles. Lorraine and Tomlin came walking toward the beach, and a blind man could tell that neither of them was happy. The Captain, not being blind, appeared perky and pleased.
"Aren't you coming to see mother?" she asked wistfully as she got into the boat. Perhaps she was too proud to ask him to come on her own account.
"To-morrow, Lorraine. To-morrow," he said in an empty voice that showed he scarcely knew what he was saying.
"To-morrow!" he said, not without a touch of anger. Then to Billy, "Mr. Rand, will you come and have dinner with me—now!"
"I sure am delighted!" said Billy, and without looking toward the reproachful eyes of Tomlin or the glaring eyes of the Captain, he climbed into the boat, and gave all of his attention to Lorraine's.
Billy thought the Petrel was about the finest thing imaginable, all white and shiny, and he thought the dinner was too much for mere words to describe—with just himself and Lorraine at the table. The mother was not well, but she looked much worse when Lorraine said that Tomlin wouldn't come—until to-morrow.
At dinner Billy got the whole story. Of course Lorraine didn't intend to tell it, but she did—at least enough of it for him to understand that some years before she had loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and that they were promised, each to the other. But of course there had loved Tomlin and he had loved her, and that they was rich and he was poor and had "pride"—also a passion for bugs and things. There isn't much money to be made out of that sort of study, and she objected to being expected to live on what he made from it—when she was rich as an Indian princess. Her father offered to help Tomlin along in business, but Tomlin insisted that his career was in studying bugs, and that made the father peevish and he said that Tomlin didn't need help. Naturally Tomlin then grew more peevish and said that the father and his money could go to the—well, wherever it is that rich men go on Judgment Day when they fail to get through the eye of the needle. And, of course, that made Lorraine peevish, and she said that Tomlin didn't love her. But he said that he did and always would, but that he had "pride." So the engagement was shattered, and Lorraine married a man rich as she was. But Tomlin had her heart and she couldn't forget him. Besides, she felt that maybe after all she was to blame. When her husband died from overwork of the stomach, she inquired and found that Tomlin had turned missionary to the Caroline Islands. She talked with her mother, and the mother, having known all along how Lorraine felt, said to do it, so Lorraine sent Tomlin a letter (the mail is delivered to stray missionaries once every three or four years), took the Petrel, engaged Captain Farwell, and set out to locate Tomlin, being aided thereby through the Board by Foreign Missions which had him down on its payroll for $35 every three months. But as converting heathens isn't a very paying business, there were times when he did not get that.
It was a long trip. And Captain Farwell, being a single man and feeling himself as attractive as any missionary, continually told her of how white men degenerated in the tropics and—well, the inference was that no woman could ask for a better husband than a sailorman of just his height and age. He might as well have suggested himself as the consort for the Empress Dowager of China. But the Captain had ideas and believed himself a very resourceful gentleman.
"And Roscoe," she said bitterly, "still has that awful 'pride' of his!"
"He loves you, don't he?" Billy demanded.
She looked a little startled, but admitted that Tomlin had said he did and had never loved any one else; and her eyes seemed to ask Billy what he thought of a man who would love a girl and not show it.
Billy was a man of some attainment in the use of his wits. He had lived by them for many years. He assured Lorraine that all Tomlin needed was a little friendly advice and to "leave it to me!" She was a bit alarmed at Billy's proprietary manner in taking over her love affair, but they were a long way from home and the conventions of New York.
And when Billy started to leave she said: "And by the way, Mr. Rand, if for any reason you care to leave on the Petrel, whether or not Roscoe comes, you will be welcome. And we are not going back by way of Langar!"
"Them detectives 'll be awfully disappointed if you don't," Billy said frankly, wondering just how much Tomlin had told her, and what the steward had told her—or Captain Farwell?
Billy got into the boat to be taken ashore, but the sailors said that they were waiting for the Captain, too. Presently Captain Farwell came and as the boat shoved off in the darkness, there was a crackling and snapping on board the Petrel. Billy had noticed the wireless. He was not much of a sailor and besides it had seemed natural for ships to have tall poles and wires and ropes.
"Mr. Rand," said the Captain, when he came, "I'm sending to Langar a description of the man we met on the island this afternoon."
Of course, he said it that way so the sailors wouldn't understand.
"And I believe," he went on, "that I can persuade the owner of the Petrel that it would be wiser to go back by way of Langar."
So the Captain had been listening.
Billy settled down on a thwart and tried to think.
"It will take the detectives about two days to get here. Much may happen in two days."
Billy hoped so.
The Captain left Billy to ruminate until the boat hit the beach. Then he got out and said that he would walk a bit with Billy.
"You know," the Captain began, "if Tomlin should not leave on the Petrel I don't believe that we would go back by way of Langar."
Billy said nothing. He didn't quite understand.
"And in that case, if you were on board the detectives would never meet you."
"Go on," said Billy. "I'm interested."
"But if Tomlin remained—and was able to talk, understand—he would tell that you had gone on the Petrel and you wouldn't be much better off. Besides, the Petrel would be into trouble for having tried to do you a favor. They would get hold of the Petrel some way."
"That's right," said Billy. "Now tell it all."
"I'll be frank with you. You are a bad crook, so I don't suppose one crime more or less means much to you, does it:"
"Naw, I'm bad!" said Billy grinning to himself in the darkness.
"Listen then. You kill Tomlin and I'll see that you get away. Let him live this night out and I'll put you in irons and carry you to Langar myself."
"Ooo-oo," said Billy. "I'm in a pickle."
"You are," said the Captain, speaking firm.
"With Tomlin out of the way, you think this girl can be consoled by being Mrs. Farwell. Am I some guesser?"
"You discuss your own business. Not mine."
"Sure. You've got what they call the upper hand."
"I have." The Captain was a man of decision; very firm, too.
"How's the best way to go about it to keep Tomlin quiet?"
"Knife him."
"All thought out!" said Billy, admiringly.
"Yes. Here's a knife. Don't leave it lying around. If you do I shall swear you stole it from me."
"I'll bring it back to you."
"You'll do it then?""
"I'll come to the Petrel in the mornin' and say a nigger done it."
"That's right. Don't fail me. It'll go hard with you."
"I believe you," said Billy, as the Captain turned away and walked back toward the beach.
Billy, grinning thoughtfully, went up to the house. Through the doorway he could see Tomlin with his elbows on the table, his hands in his hair, sitting amid his troubles. The lantern hanging from a beam made him look like a great grotesque image carved from teak.
Billy climbed over the doorway.
"Billy—" Tomlin said anxiously, ready to ask questions.
Billy did not answer, but started gathering up his few belongings, and making a great show of that.
"Billy, what are you doing?"
No answer, but much rummaging.
"Billy, have you gone crazy?"
"Nope."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm movin'."
"Moving? What's the matter?"
"I got pride," said Billy.
"Pride? What on earth is the matter with you?"
Then Billy told him. That is Billy explained how he had landed on the beach and been living on Tomlin's charity, and he simply couldn't stand it any more. His pride wouldn't let him stand it. He was going back in the bush and hunt berries and bugs of his own.
"But Billy—are you crazy? I've done nothing for you. I've liked you—I want you to stay."
"Nope. I got pride!"
"You idiot!" Tomlin cried, jumping up, his strained nerves at the breaking point.
"Who's an idiot?"
"You are. All this means nothing to me. I'm glad to share it with you. Anything—everything. I like you—and you—you—"
"—then why don't you marry her?" Billy cut in.
Tomlin's face went blank as the palm of his hand.
"What does all that mean to her? She just wants to share it with you. And you got pride. Aw, you just want her to coax and beg."
"Look here—what are you talking about?" Tomlin demanded.
"See this knife," said Billy, flourishing the long, cold blade. "Well—" and Billy told him everything.
A few hours later Tomlin was talking like a happy child and trying to shave while Billy sat at the table painfully trying to write a note.
Tomlin knocked over a shelf of pickled lizards.
"Look out!" Billy exclaimed.
"To hell with 'em!" said Tomlin.
"A missionary to—"
"I've thought out my letter of resignation," said Tomlin.
Billy finished his note and put it in his pocket, saying: "I'll rout out some niggers and you come about fifteen minutes after me. Meantime I got to kill a chicken."
He slipped out and feeling under the low eaves grabbed a sleepy fowl. Captain Farwell's knife was soon a very grewsome object.
Just before dawn Billy paddled out to the Petrel. He inquired for Lorraine's cabin and banging on the door slipped her his note with a word or two of explanation, then returned to the deck.
"Mr. Tomlin was murdered by natives last night," he said to a sailor on watch. "The lady wants me to tell the Captain."
Billy was shown to the Captain's cabin and the sailor went to spread the news forward.
"Who's there?" said the Captain.
"Me," said Billy. "The niggers killed Tomlin last night!"
"Come in," said the Captain, excited. Billy came in.
"Shut the door."
It was shut.
"Lock it."
Billy fumbled with the lock.
The Captain was in bed, sitting up, nervous.
"He is dead?"
"See this?" said Billy, pulling out the knife.
"Why didn't you wipe it off?"
"All right," said Billy as he grabbed the end of the sheet and wiped the blade.
"You fool—the stains—here—"
"Where else should they be? Us murderers has to stick together."
"Are you trying to implicate me? But I've got you—I'll swear—you're going to murder me!"
With that the Captain sprang out of bed and began yelling "Murder! Help!"
The door opened and Lorraine stood there, just as Billy had requested. Her hair was tumbled down and she wore a kimono of white silk with blue birds. Her face did not look pleasant, and her eyes were cold and straight, but she said quite calmly:
"Captain Farwell, I have been listening with the door ajar ever since you told Mr. Rand to lock it!"
With that she turned and walked off.
The Captain dropped his jaw, and then himself. He flopped like a sack of flour into a chair and sat there staring at Billy.
"You see, Cap," said Billy, friendly-like, "I'm wanted back in New York as a witness in a bribery case. Not for murder. And seein' as you don't want it, I think I'll keep this knife as a little souvenir."
The Captain said nothing, so Billy kept the knife and went out, shutting the door.
Down the passageway he came upon Tomlin with his arms around Lorraine, and she was weeping happily.
Billy overheard "—as soon as we can find a minister."
"But you are one!" she insisted. "And Mr. Rand—isn't he—"
Tomlin exploded into laughter.
But Billy intervened.
"'Scuse me for interferin' with the reunion, but if you are lookin' for a weddin' ceremony, allow me to offer my services."
Tomlin looked surprised for it was obvious that Billy was in earnest.
Billy hastened to explain that when he had come over to Guam on the transport the captain had married an officer and a nurse, so it appeared that captains could marry people—though a missionary's assistant couldn't!
"That's right!'; said Tomlin.
Lorraine was inclined to object.
"Then we must wait, my dear."
"We have waited so long!" she said, thereby agreeing to the Captain's performing the ceremony.
The Captain was still in pajamas and on his chair and showed all the visible symptoms of nervous prostration.
"Captain," said Billy, cheerfully, "we'd like to have a knot spliced this mornin' and seein' as how you are a sailor—"
"Will you be good enough to perform the wedding service?" Tomlin asked, sternly. After all it was his, not Billy's wedding.
The Captain choked and was badly scared, but at last managed to say that he was "agreeable," although he didn't appear to be.
Billy grabbed a pair of sailors for witnesses, the Captain fished out a Bible—and Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe Tomlin marched out blushing and happy to break the news to mother; whereupon the old lady climbed right out of bed, cured.
That afternoon the Captain had a little talk with Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin and said that he would like permission to go ashore and stay there, as relations on board had become somewhat strained. He knew that a boat would be along in two or three days (the detectives had answered that they were coming). It was very irregular—a captain leaving his ship that way—but Tomlin said that all things considered, he thought it would be well.
So the Captain said good-bye to the steward and whispered something that caused the steward to look hard at Billy; then he, the Captain, left, bag and baggage.
That day was spent in getting Tomlin's bugs and lizards on board and in saying good-bye to the natives.
The next morning with the First Officer on the bridge, the Petrel steamed out and left the Captain sitting on the beach—very glad to have got away without charges being laid up against him.
Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin cornered Billy and asked what on earth they could do for him.
"Yesum," said Billy. "Just drop that steward overboard."
Mrs. Tomlin promised that at the first port they reached the steward would be fired and given passage money home.
As the day passed Billy walked the deck and exchanged jokes with the First Officer, who was the new Captain—and glad of it, because he had never liked Farwell anyhow. Then a little trading schooner came over the line, bow on.
Billy knew right away by intuition that she carried the detectives.
When within hailing distance the schooner heaved to and the Petrel slowed down.
A fellow from the bow called out to thank the Captain for having tipped him off as to the crook wanted in New York, and asked if he was still in the nigger village.
The new Captain didn't quite understand; but Billy grabbed the megaphone and yelled: "Yes—raised a beard—stole papers and clothes from the ship—may try to pass himself off as a Captain or something—clever crook, you know—let 'im explain nothin' or you won't get him to New York. Good luck!"
A shout of thanks came over the water as the Petrel started churning ahead.
Billy looked after the little schooner, and taking a deep breath, said gratefully to himself, "The Lord helps them as helps 'emselves! Can you see the D. A. when he gets hold of old Cap. Farwell expectin' to see little Billy!"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1948, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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