“Gabriel’s pants,” the niece said to Jenny, “I itch just to think about that, don’t you?”
Fairchild brightened. “Up the Tchufuncta?” he repeated. “Why, that’s where the Jackson place is. Maybe Al’s at home. Major Ayers must meet Al Jackson, Julius.”
“Al Jackson?” Major Ayers repeated. The best poet in New Orleans groaned and Mrs. Wiseman said:
“Good Lord, Dawson.”
“Sure. The one I was telling you about at lunch, you know.”
“Ah, yes: the alligator chap, eh?” Mrs. Maurier exclaimed. “Mr. Talliaferro” again.
“Very well,” Mr. Talliaferro said loudly, “that’s settled, then. Fishing has it. And in the meantime, the Commodore invites you all to a dancing party on deck immediately after dinner. So finish your dinner, people. Fairchild, you are to lead the grand march.”
“Sure,” Fairchild agreed again. “Yes, that’s the one. His father has a fish ranch up here. That’s where Al got his start, and now he’s the biggest fisherd in the world—”
“Did you see the sunset this evening, Major Ayers?” Mrs. Wiseman asked loudly. “Deliciously messy, wasn’t it?”
“Nature getting even with Turner,” the poet suggested.
“That will take years and years,” Mrs. Wiseman answered. Mrs. Maurier sailed in, gushing.
“Our southern sunsets, Major Ayers—” But Major Ayers was staring at Fairchild.
—“Fisherd?” he murmured.
“Sure. Like the old cattle ranches out west, you know. But instead of a cattle ranch, Al Jackson has got a fish ranch out in the wide open spaces of the Gulf of Mexico—”
“Where men are sharks,” put in Mrs. Wiseman. “Don’t leave that out.” Major Ayers stared at her.
“Sure. Where men are men. That’s where this beautiful blond girl comes in. Like Jenny yonder. Maybe Jenny’s the one. Are you the girl, Jenny?” Major Ayers now stared at Jenny.
Jenny was gazing at the narrator, her blue ineffable eyes quite round, holding a piece of bread in her hand. “Sir?” she said at last.
“Are you the girl that lives on that Jackson fish ranch out in the Gulf of Mexico?”
“I live on Esplanade,” Jenny said after a while, tentatively.
“Mr. Fairchild!” Mrs. Maurier exclaimed. Mr. Talliaferro said:
“My dear sir!”
“No, I reckon you are not the one, or you’d know it. I don’t imagine that even Claude Jackson could live on a fish ranch in the Gulf of Mexico and not know it. This girl is from Brooklyn, anyway — a society girl. She went down there to find her brother. Her brother had just graduated from reform school and so his old man sent him down there for the Jacksons to make a fisherd out of him. He hadn’t shown any aptitude for anything else, you see, and his old man knew it didn’t take much intelligence to herd a fish. His sister—”
“But, I say,” Major Ayers interrupted, “why do they herd their fish?”
“They round ’em up and brand ’em, you see. Al Jackson brands—”
“Brand ’em?”
“Sure: marks ’em so he can tell his fish from ordinary wild fish-mavericks, they call ’em. And now he owns nearly all the fish in the world; a fish millionaire, even if he is fish-poor right now. Wherever you see a marked fish, it’s one of Al Jackson’s.”
“Marks his fish, eh?”
“Sure: notches their tails.”
“Mr. Fairchild,” Mrs. Maurier said.
“But our fish at home have notched tails.” Major Ayers objected.
“Well, they are Jackson fish that have strayed off the range, then.”
“Why doesn’t he establish a European agent?” the ghostly poet asked viciously.
Major Ayers stared about from face to face. “I say,” he began. He stuck there. The hostess rose decisively.
“Come, people, let’s go on deck.”
“No, no,” the niece said quickly, “go on: tell us some more,” Mrs. Wiseman rose also.
“Dawson,” she said firmly, “shut up. We simply cannot stand any more. This afternoon has been too trying. Come on, let’s go up,” she said, herding the ladies firmly out of the room, taking Mr. Talliaferro along also.
NINE O’CLOCK
He needed a bit of wire. He had reached that impasse familiar to all creators, where he could not decide which of a number of things to do next. His object had attained that stage of completion in which the simplicity of the initial impulse dissolves into a number of trivial necessary details; and lying on his bunk in the cabin he and Mr. Talliaferro shared, his saw at hand and a thin litter of sawdust and shavings well impermeating the bed clothing, he held his wooden cylinder to the small inadequate light and decided that he could do with a bit of stiff wire or something of that nature.
He swung his legs out of the berth and flowed to the floor in a single beautiful motion, and crossing the room on his bare feet he searched Mr. Talliaferro’s effects without success, so he passed from the cabin.
Still on his bare feet he went along the passage, and opening another door he let subdued light from the passage into a room filled with snoring, discerning vaguely the sleeper and, on a peg in the wall, a stained white cap. Captain’s room, he decided, leaving the door open and traversing the room silently to another door.
There was a dim small light in this room, gleaming dully on the viscid anatomy of the now motionless engine. But he ignored the engine now, going about his search with businesslike expedition. There was a wooden cabinet against the walclass="underline" some of the drawers were locked. He rummaged through the others, pausing at times to raise certain objects to the light for a closer inspection, discarding them again. He closed the last drawer and stood with his hand on the cabinet, examining the room.
A piece of wire would do, a short piece of stiff wire. . there were wires on one wall, passing among and between switches. But these were electric wires and probably indispensable. Electric wires. . battery room. It must be there, beyond that small door.
It was there — a shadow-filled cubbyhole smelling of acids, of decomposition; a verdigris of decay. Plenty of wires here, but no loose ones. . He stared around, and presently he saw something upright and gleaming dully. It was a piece of mechanism, steel, smooth and odorless and rather comforting in this tomb of smells, and he examined it curiously, striking matches. And there, attached to it, was exactly what he needed — a small straight steel rod.
I wonder what it does, he thought. It looked — a winch of some kind, maybe. But what would they want with a winch down here? Something they don’t use much, evidently, he assured himself. Too clean. Cleaner than the engine. Not greased all over like the engine. They mustn’t hardly ever use it. . Or a pump. A pump, that’s what it is. They won’t need a pump once a year: not any bilge in a boat kept up like a grand piano. Anyhow, they couldn’t possibly need it before tomorrow, and I’ll be through with it then. Chances are they wouldn’t miss it if I kept it altogether.
The rod came off easily. Plenty of wrenches in the cabinet, and he just unscrewed the nuts at each end of the rod and lifted it out. He paused again, holding the rod in his hand. . Suppose he were to injure the rod some way. He hadn’t considered that and he stood turning the rod this way and that in his fingers, watching dull gleams of light on its slender polished length. It was so exactly what he needed. Steel, too; good steeclass="underline" it cost twelve thousand dollars. And if you can’t get good steel for that. . He put his tongue on it. It tasted principally of machine oil, but it must be good hard steel, costing twelve thousand dollars. I guess I can’t hurt anything that cost twelve thousand dollars, specially by just using it one time. . “If they need it tomorrow, I’ll be through with it, anyway,” he said aloud.