Percy F. Westerman
CHUMS OF THE "GOLDEN VANITY"
CHUMS OF THE "GOLDEN VANITY"
CHAPTER I. The Broken Appointment
"It looks as if it's going to be a complete washout," declared Bernard Woodward, glancing at his watch for at least the twentieth time since noon—and it was now nearly two o'clock. "What's to be done if Mr. Harrison doesn't show up?"
"He will," asserted Geoffrey Ensor confidently. "Perhaps something's happened to his jolly old car. That's the yacht, right enough. There can't be two Nornas. It's merely a case of our weary watches keeping."
"Well, there's some slight consolation in that," rejoined his chum. "There's no need to hand them over to 'Uncle' for custody. But I hope to goodness we aren't let down."
The two chums were waiting at Greenbank Steps at Falmouth—waiting to keep an appointment with someone whom they had never seen. The expected meeting was the outcome of an announcement in the Yachting Press. The owner of a twelve-ton yawl had advertised for two young and energetic amateur yachtsmen to accompany him on a cruise to the Brittany ports. Bernard and Geoff had replied to a Box Number with the result that arrangements had been made with the owner, a Mr. Harrison, for the crew to join the yawl Norna at Greenbank, Falmouth, at noon on Tuesday morning.
They were there to the minute, but the owner of Norna was not.
Bernard Woodward was a somewhat heavily-built, broad-shouldered lad of sixteen, dark-featured and looking considerably older than his years. He was Yorkshire born and until he went to Greystones—a public school in the south of England—most of his time had been spent in the neighbourhood of Whitby and Runswick Bay, where he had acquired a useful knowledge of seamanship from the fishermen who earn their livelihood in those quaint but highly seaworthy craft known as cobles. There was Norse blood in Bernard's veins; almost certainly his ancestors first set foot in England when, centuries ago, the black-sailed galleys from Scandinavia ascended the Humber and Trent to harry and then to settle on Anglo-Saxon soil.
It was Bernard's ambition to take to the sea as a career. He wanted to enter the Royal Navy. His father had vetoed that. Later his inclinations leant towards the Mercantile Marine, but Mr. Woodward turned that idea down also. He wanted Bernard to become a Chartered Accountant, overlooking the fact that his son was quite old enough to form a strong opinion of what his future career ought to be. Curiously enough Mr. Woodward offered no objection to Bernard going on a yachting cruise across Channel with a hitherto unknown individual. Possibly it was because Mr. Woodward, an artist of no slight repute, was taking a holiday sketching class to Brittany and would be in a position to give an eye to his son should occasion arise.
Geoff Ensor was similar in build to his chum, and almost the same age. There the resemblance ended, for Geoff was typically Anglo-Saxon in appearance, with fair complexion and straight, close-cropped flaxen hair. His home was in East Dorset where the high percentage of fair-haired people testifies to the purity of the Anglo-Saxon more than in any other part of England.
Geoff's father was a well-to-do solicitor. There was a sound practice waiting for Geoff when the time came, but, like Bernard, the youth's mind was set upon the sea. He stood rather in awe of his parent and had not as yet expressed in words the thought that was uppermost in his mind. Consequently Mr. Ensor took it for granted that Geoff would automatically become the son of "Ensor & Son" even as he had once been junior partner to his father.
Nor had Mr. Ensor raised any objection to Geoff's proposal to go on a yachting cruise. In fact he rather jumped at the idea, since it left him free to take his wife on an extended motor tour to the Highlands. The arrangement fitted in well. Mr. Ensor was spared the additional and decidedly heavy hotel expenses for his son on tour, while Geoff, who hated to have to sit inactive in a car for hours at a stretch, was glad to have the opportunity to exchange the dusty road for the ozone-laden breezes of the open sea.
Geoff had a fair practical knowledge of boats. Often he had gone afloat in small craft in Poole Harbour. His theoretical knowledge of seamanship was amazing, especially as he had no relatives connected with the sea. Quite possibly his great-great-great grandfather had been one of those hardy—one might say lawless—mariners of Poole, who in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had earned a reputation for desperate courage in many a stoutly contested fight with French privateers.
In Bernard Woodward he found a kindred spirit. In their leisure moments at Greystones they talked boats and precious little else. They took in every yachting paper they could find, they pored over charts and sailing directions, devoured dry tomes on seamanship and navigation.
Then, towards the close of the summer term, they answered Mr. Harrison's advertisement, made all arrangements and arrived at the rendezvous at Falmouth well before the stated time—and Mr. Harrison had failed to put in an appearance!
Another hour passed tediously. Yachtsmen and paid hands passed in a steady stream to embark in their dinghies and go aboard their various craft. A flat calm accompanied by a slight summer haze overspread the harbour. Yachts of all rigs and sizes—cutters, yawls, ketches, and several of those characteristically designed, able craft known as quay punts—rode at their moorings. Many had their sails set, the canvas hanging idly from their gaffs, waiting for the expected and long-delayed breeze. Others, possessing auxiliary motors, were chugging noisily seaward to catch the steady sou'westerly wind beyond Pendennis Point.
Anxiously Bernard and Geoff scanned the faces of the yachtsmen as they passed, but, beyond casual, careless glances, none showed any interest in the two waiting youths. Obviously, then, Mr. Harrison was not amongst those fortunate individuals who had but to row a short distance to their respective yachts.
Practically every craft was making ready to get under way. A notable exception was the Norna. She lay, with sail covers on, riding gently to the first of the ebb, without a sign of life on board.
"Why not try and find where her dinghy is?" suggested Geoff.
"Good egg!" agreed his chum. "There's bound to be someone looking after the yacht."
They made their way towards the stone quay whence the ferry plies from Greenbank to Flushing, looking at each of the many dinghies lying on the shelving shore.
Presently they noticed one with a club badge painted on each bow and the name Norna on the back-board. She had but recently been washed down. Globules of water yet remained on her varnished thwarts and spotlessly clean bottom-boards.
Evidently the person entrusted with the duty of looking after and cleaning Mr. Harrison's dinghy had only recently completed his task. He could not be far away.
A group of blue-jerseyed men were leaning over a low stone wall, lazily contemplating the wind-bound yachts.
"Can you tell me who is in charge of Norna?" asked Bernard.
"I be, sure, sir," replied a weather-beaten man, tugging at his tawny forelock.
"Have you seen Mr. Harrison?"
"No sir. 'E wrote tu I tellin' me to 'ave his yot ready tu-day come-rainy, come-fine. Aired canvas I 'ave, an' put fresh watter an' all aboard agen 'is comin'."
"We arranged with him to join the yacht here," announced Geoff. "Did he mention anything about us in his letter?"