The Log of The Jolly Polly
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Richard Harding Davis >> The Log of The Jolly Polly
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THE LOG OF THE "JOLLY POLLY"
Temptation came to me when I was in the worst possible position to
resist it.
It is a way temptation has. Whenever I swear off drinking
invariably I am invited to an ushers' dinner. Whenever I am rich,
only the highbrow publications that pay the least, want my work.
But the moment I am poverty-stricken the MANICURE GIRL'S MAGAZINE
and the ROT AND SPOT WEEKLY spring at me with offers of a dollar a
word. Temptation always is on the job. When I am down and out
temptation always is up and at me.
When first the Farrells tempted me my vogue had departed. On my
name and "past performances" I could still dispose of what I wrote,
but only to magazines that were just starting. The others knew I no
longer was a best-seller. All the real editors knew it. So did the
theatrical managers.
My books and plays had flourished in the dark age of the
historical-romantic novel. My heroes wore gauntlets and long
swords. They fought for the Cardinal or the King, and each
loved a high-born demoiselle who was a ward of the King or the
Cardinal, and with feminine perversity, always of whichever one her
young man was fighting. With people who had never read Guizot's
"History of France," my books were popular, and for me made a great
deal of money. This was fortunate, for my parents had left me
nothing save expensive tastes. When the tastes became habits, the
public left me. It turned to white-slave and crook plays, and to
novels true to life; so true to life that one felt the author must
at one time have been a masseur in a Turkish bath.
So, my heroines in black velvet, and my heroes with long swords
were "scrapped." As one book reviewer put it, "To expect the public
of to-day to read the novels of Fletcher Farrell is like asking
people to give up the bunny hug and go back to the lancers."
And, to make it harder, I was only thirty years old.
It was at this depressing period in my career that I received a
letter from Fairharbor, Massachusetts, signed Fletcher Farrell. The
letter was written on the business paper of the Farrell Cotton
Mills, and asked if I were related to the Farrells of Duncannon, of
the County Wexford, who emigrated to Massachusetts in 186o. The
writer added that he had a grandfather named Fletcher and suggested
we might be related. From the handwriting of Fletcher Farrell and
from the way he ill-treated the King's English I did not feel the
ties of kinship calling me very loud. I replied briefly that my
people originally came from Youghal, in County Cork, that as early
as 1730 they had settled in New York, and that all my relations on
the Farrell side either were still at Youghal, or dead. Mine was
not an encouraging letter; nor did I mean it to be; and I was
greatly surprised two days later to receive a telegram reading,
"Something to your advantage to communicate; wife and self calling
on you Thursday at noon. Fletcher Farrell." I was annoyed, but also
interested. The words "something to your advantage" always possess
a certain charm. So, when the elevator boy telephoned that Mr. and
Mrs. Farrell were calling, I told him to bring them up.
My first glance at the Farrells convinced me the interview was a
waste of time. I was satisfied that from two such persons, nothing
to my advantage could possibly emanate. On the contrary, from their
lack of ease, it looked as though they had come to beg or borrow.
They resembled only a butler and housekeeper applying for a new
place under the disadvantage of knowing they had no reference from
the last one. Of the two, I better liked the man. He was an
elderly, pleasant-faced Irishman, smooth-shaven, red-cheeked, and
with white hair. Although it was July, he wore a frock coat, and
carried a new high hat that glistened. As though he thought at any
moment it might explode, he held it from him, and eyed it
fearfully. Mrs. Farrell was of a more sophisticated type. The lines
in her face and hands showed that for years she might have known
hard physical work. But her dress was in the latest fashion, and
her fingers held more diamonds than, out of a showcase, I ever had
seen.
With embarrassment old man Farrell began his speech. Evidently it
had been rehearsed and as he recited it, in swift asides, his wife
prompted him; but to note the effect he was making, she kept her
eyes upon me. Having first compared my name, fame, and novels with
those of Charles Dickens, Walter Scott, and Archibald Clavering
Gunter, and to the disadvantage of those gentlemen, Farrell said
the similarity of our names often had been commented upon, and that
when from my letter he had learned our families both were from the
South of Ireland, he had a premonition we might be related.
Duncannon, where he was born, he pointed out, was but forty miles
from Youghal, and the fishing boats out of Waterford Harbor often
sought shelter in Blackwater River. Had any of my forebears, he
asked, followed the herring?
Alarmed, lest at this I might take offense, Mrs. Farrell
interrupted him.
"The Fletchers and O'Farrells of Youghal she exclaimed, "were
gentry. What would they be doing in a trawler?"
I assured her that so far as I knew, 1750 being before my time,
they might have been smugglers and pirates.
"All I ever heard of the Farrells," I told her, begins after they
settled in New York. And there is no one I can ask concerning them.
My father and mother are dead; all my father's relatives are dead,
and my mother's relatives are as good as dead. I mean," I added,
"we don't speak!"
To my surprise, this information appeared to afford my visitors
great satisfaction. They exchanged hasty glances.
"Then," exclaimed Mr. Farrell, eagerly; "if I understand you, you
have no living relations at all--barring those that are dead!"
"Exactly!" I agreed.
He drew a deep sigh of relief. With apparent irrelevance but with
a carelessness that was obviously assumed, he continued.
"Since I come to America," he announced, "I have made heaps of
money. "As though in evidence of his prosperity, he flashed the
high hat. In the sunlight it coruscated like one of his wife's
diamonds. "Heaps of money," he repeated. "The mills are still in my
name, he went on, "but five years since I sold them-- We live on
the income. We own Harbor Castle, the finest house on the whole
waterfront."
"When all the windows are lit up," interjected Mrs. Farrell, "it's
often took for a Fall River boat!"
"When I was building it," Farrell continued, smoothly, "they called
it Farrell's Folly; but not NOW." In friendly fashion he winked at
me, "Standard Oil," he explained, "offered half a million for it.
They wanted my wharf for their tank steamers. But, I needed it for
my yacht!"
I must have sat up rather too suddenly, for, seeing the yacht had
reached home, Mr. Farrell beamed. Complacently his wife smoothed an
imaginary wrinkle in her skirt.
"Eighteen men!" she protested, "with nothing to do but clean brass
and eat three meals a day!"
Farrell released his death grip on the silk hat to make a sweeping
gesture.
"They earn their wages," he said generously.
"Aren't they taking us this week to Cap May?"
"They're taking the yacht to Cape May! corrected Mrs. Farrell; "not
ME!"
"The sea does not agree with her," explained Farrell; "WE'RE going
by automobile." Mrs. Farrell now took up the wondrous tale
It's a High Flyer, 1915 model," she explained; "green, with white
enamel leather inside, and red wheels outside. You can see it from
the window."
Somewhat dazed, I stepped to the window and found you could see it
from almost anywhere. It was as large as a freight car; and was
entirely surrounded by taxi-starters, bellboys, and nurse-maids.
The chauffeur, and a deputy chauffeur, in a green livery with
patent-leather leggings, were frowning upon the mob. They possessed
the hauteur of ambulance surgeons. I returned to my chair, and then
rose hastily to ask if I could not offer Mr. Farrell some
refreshment.
"Mebbe later," he said. Evidently he felt that as yet he had not
sufficiently impressed me.
"Harbor Castle," he recited, "has eighteen bedrooms, billiard-room,
music-room, art gallery and swimming-pool." He shook his head. "And
no one to use 'em but us. We had a boy." He stopped, and for an
instant, as though asking pardon, laid his hand upon the knee of
Mrs. Farrell. "But he was taken when he was four, and none came
since. My wife has a niece," he added, "but----"
"But," interrupted Mrs. Farrell, "she was too high and mighty for
plain folks, and now there is no one. We always took an interest in
you because your name was Farrell. We were always reading of you in
the papers. We have all your books, and a picture of you in the
billiard-room. When folks ask me if we are any relation--sometimes
I tell 'em we ARE."
As though challenging me to object, she paused.
"It's quite possible," I said hastily. And, in order to get rid of
them, I added: "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write to Ireland
and----"
Farrell shook his head firmly. "You don't need to write to
Ireland," he said, "for what we want."
"What DO you want?" I asked.
"We want a SON," said Farrell; "an adopted son. We want to adopt
YOU!"
"You want to WHAT?" I asked.
To learn if Mrs. Farrell also was mad, I glanced toward her, but
her expression was inscrutable. The face of the Irishman had grown
purple.
"And why not?" he demanded. "You are a famous young man, all right,
and educated. But there's nothing about me I'm ashamed of! I'm
worth five million dollars and I made every cent Of it myself--and
I made it honest. You ask Dun or Bradstreet, ask----"
I attempted to soothe him.
"THAT'S not it, sir, " I explained. "It's a most generous offer, a
most flattering, complimentary offer. But you don't know me. I don
t know you. Choosing a son is a very----"
"I've had you looked up," announced Mrs. Farrell. "The Pinkertons
give you a high rating. I hired 'em to trail you for six months."
I wanted to ask WHICH six months, but decided to let sleeping dogs
lie. I shook my head. Politely but firmly I delivered my ultimatum.
"It is quite impossible!" I said firmly.
Mrs. Farrell continued the debate. She talked in a businesslike
manner and pronounced the arrangement one by which both sides would
benefit. There were thousands of other Farrells, she pointed out,
any one of whom they might have adopted. But they had selected me
because in so choosing, they thought they were taking the least
risk. They had decided she was pleased to say, that I would not
disgrace them, and that as a "literary author " I brought with me
a certain social asset.
A clever, young businessman they did not want. Their business
affairs they were quit able to manage themselves. But they would
like as an adopted son one who had already added glory to the name
of Farrell, which glory he was willing to share.
"We wouldn't tie you down," she urged "but we would expect you to
live at Harbor Castle a part of your time, and to call us Ma and
Pa. You would have your own rooms, and your own servant, and there
is a boat-house on the harbor front, where you could write your
novels."
At this, knowing none wanted my novels, I may have winced, for,
misreading my discontent, Farrell hastily interrupted.
"You won't have to work at all," he protested heartily. "My son can
afford to live like a lord. You'll get all the spending money you
want, and if you're fond of foreign parts, you can take the yacht
wherever you please!"
"The farther the better," exclaimed Mrs. Farrell with heat. "And
when you get it there, I hope you'll SINK it!"
"Maybe your friends would come and visit You," suggested Farrell,
I thought, a trifle wistfully. "There's bathing, tennis, eight...
bedrooms, billiard-room, art gallery----"
"You told him that!" said Mrs. Farrell.
I was greatly at a loss. Their offer was preposterous, but to them,
it was apparently a perfectly possible arrangement. Nor were they
acting on impulse. Mrs. Farrell had admitted that for six months
she had had me "trailed." How to say "No" and not give offense, I
found difficult. They were deeply in earnest and I could see that
Farrell, at least, was by instinct generous, human, and kind. It
was, in fact, a most generous offer. But how was I to tell them
tactfully I was not for sale, that I was not looking for
"ready-to-wear" parents, and that if I were in the market, they
were not the parents I would choose. I had a picture of life at
Harbor Castle, dependent upon the charity of the Farrells. I
imagined what my friends would say to me, and worse, what they
would say behind my back. But I was not forced to a refusal.
Mr. Farrell rose.
"We don't want to hurry you," he said. "We want you to think it
over. Maybe if we get acquainted----"
Mrs. Farrell smiled upon me ingratiatingly.
"Why don't we get acquainted now?" she demanded. "We're motoring
down to Cape May to stay three weeks. Why don't you come along--as
our guest--and see how you like us?"
I assured them, almost too hastily, that already was deeply
engaged.
As they departed, Farrell again admonished me to think it over.
"And look me up at Dun's and Bradstreet's," he advised. "Ask 'em
about me at the Waldorf. Ask the head waiters and bellhops if I
look twice at a five spot!"
It seemed an odd way to select a father, but I promised.
I escorted them even to the sidewalk, and not without envy watched
them sweep toward the Waldorf in the High Flyer, 1915 model. I
caught myself deciding, were it mine, I would paint it gray.
I was lunching at the Ritz with Curtis Spencer, and I looked
forward to the delight he would take in my story of the Farrells.
He would probably want to write it. He was my junior, but my great
friend; and as a novelist his popularity was where five years
earlier mine had been. But he belonged to the new school. His
novels smelled like a beauty parlor; and his heroines, while always
beautiful, were, on occasions, virtuous, but only when they thought
it would pay.
Spencer himself was as modern as his novels, and I was confident
his view of my adventure would be that of the great world which he
described so accurately.
But to my amazement when I had finished he savagely attacked me.
"You idiot!" he roared. "Are you trying to tell me you refused five
million dollars-- just because you didn't like the people who
wanted to force it on you? Where," he demanded, "is Cape May? We'll
follow them now! We'll close this deal before they can change their
minds. I'll make you sign to-night. And, then," he continued
eagerly, "we'll take their yacht and escape to Newport, and you'll
lend me five thousand dollars, and pay my debts, and give me back
the ten you borrowed. And you might buy me a touring-car and some
polo ponies and--and--oh, lots of things. I'll think of them as we
go along. Meanwhile, I can't afford to give luncheons to
millionaires, so you sign for this one; and then we'll start for
Cape May."
"Are you mad?" I demanded; "do you think I'd sell my honor!"
"For five million dollars?" cried Spencer. "Don't make me laugh! If
they want a REAL novelist for a son they can adopt me!"
I replied with dignity that I would not disgrace the memory of my
parents.
"You have disgraced them!" retorted Spencer, "with your Musketeer
novels for infants. You need money. To get it you may be tempted to
write more novels. Here's your chance! Stop robbing the public, and
lead an honest life. Think of all the money you could give to the
poor, think of all the money you and I could lose at Monte Carlo!"
When he found I would not charter an auto-mobile and at once pursue
the Farrells he changed his tactics. If I would not go to Cape May,
then, he begged, I would go to Fairharbor. He asked that I would,
at least, find out what I was refusing. Before making their offer,
for six months, the Farrells had had me "looked up, " but, without
knowing anything of them, after a talk of ten minutes I had turned
them down. "Was that," he asked, "intelligent? Was it fair to the
Farrells?" He continued to tempt me.
"They told you to think it over," he persisted. "Very well, then,
think it over at Fairharbor! For the next three weeks the Farrells
will be at Cape May. The coast is clear. Go to Fairharbor as
somebody else and be your own detective. Find out if what they tell
you is true. Get inside information. Get inside Harbor Castle.
Count the eighteen bedrooms and try the beds. Never mind the art
gallery, but make sure there is a wine cellar.
You can't start too soon, and I WILL GO WITH YOU!"
I told him where he could go.
We then tossed to see who should pay for the lunch and who should
tip the head waiter. I lost and had to tip the head waiter. We
separated, and as I walked down the Avenue, it seemed as though to
the proprietor of every shop I passed I owed money. Owing them the
money I did not so much mind; what most distressed me was that they
were so polite about it. I had always wanted to reward their
patience. A favorite dream of mine was to be able to walk down
Fifth Avenue, my pockets stuffed with yellow bills, paying off my
debts. Compared with my steadily decreasing income, how enormous my
debts appeared; but when compared with the income of a man worth--
say-five million dollars, how ridiculous! I had no more than
reached my apartment, than a messenger-boy arrived with an
envelope. It contained a ticket for a round trip on the New Bedford
Line boat leaving that afternoon, a ticket for a stateroom, and a
note from Curtis Spencer. The latter read: "The boat leaves at six
to-night. You arrive at New Bedford seven to-morrow morning. New
Bedford and Fairharbor are connected by a bridge. CROSS IT!"
I tore the note in tiny fragments, and tossed them through the open
window. I was exceedingly angry. As I stood at the window adding to
the name of Curtis Spencer insulting aliases, the street below sent
up hot, stifling odors: the smoke of taxicabs, the gases of an open
subway, the stale reek of thousands of perspiring, unwashed bodies.
From that one side street seemed to rise the heat and smells of all
New York. For relief I turned to my work-table where lay the
opening chapters of my new novel, "The White Plume of Savoy." But
now, in the light of Spencer's open scorn, I saw it was impudently
false, childish, sentimental. My head ached, the humidity sapped my
strength, at heart I felt sick, sore, discouraged. I was down and
out. And seeing this, Temptation, like an obsequious floorwalker,
came hurrying forward.
"And what may I show you to-day?" asked Temptation. He showed me
the upper deck of the New Bedford boat feeling her way between the
green banks of the Sound. A cool wind swept past me bearing clean,
salty odors; on the saloon deck a band played, and from the
darkness the lighthouses winked at me, and in friendly greeting the
stars smiled. Temptation won. In five minutes I was feverishly
packing, and at five-thirty I was on board. I assured myself I had
not listened to Temptation, that I had no interest in Fairharbor.
was taking the trip solely because it would give me a night's sleep
on the Sound. I promised myself that on the morrow I would not even
LOOK toward Harbor Castle; but on the evening following on the same
boat, return to New York. Temptation did not stop to argue, but
hastened after another victim.
I turned in at nine o'clock and the coolness, and the salt air,
blessed me with the first sleep I had known in weeks. And when I
woke we were made fast to the company's wharf at New Bedford, and
the sun was well up. I rose refreshed in body and spirit. No longer
was I discouraged. Even "The White Plume of Savoy" seemed a
perfectly good tale of romance and adventure. And the Farrells were
a joke. Even if I were at Fairlharbor, I was there only on a lark,
and at the expense of Curtis Spencer, who had paid for the tickets.
Distinctly the joke was on Curtis Spencer. I lowered the window
screen, and looked across the harbor. It was a beautiful harbor. At
ancient stone wharfs Jay ancient whalers with drooping davits and
squared yards, at anchor white-breasted yachts flashed in the sun,
a gray man-of-war's man flaunted the week's laundry, a four-masted
schooner dried her canvas, and over the smiling surface of the
harbor innumerable fishing boats darted. With delight I sniffed the
odors of salt water, sun-dried herring, of oakum and tar. The shore
opposite was a graceful promontory crowned with trees and decorous
gray-shingled cottages set in tiny gardens that reached to the very
edge of the harbor. The second officer was passing my window and I
asked what the promontory was called.
"Fairharbor," he said. He answered with such proprietary pride and
smiled upon Fairharbor with such approval that I ventured to guess
it was his home.
"That's right," he said; "I used to live at the New York end of the
run-in a flat. But never again! No place for the boy to play but in
the street. I found I could rent one of those old cottages over
there for the same money I paid for the flat. So I cut out New
York. My boy lives in a bathing suit now, and he can handle a
catboat same as me. We have a kitchen garden, and hens, and the
fishermen here will give you all the fish you can carry away--fish
right out of the water. I guess I've smashed the high cost of
living problem all right. I wouldn't go back to living in New York
now--not if they gave me the PILGRIM.
As though trying to prod my memory, I frowned. It was my conception
of the part of a detective. "Hasn't Fletcher Farrell," I asked, "a
house in Fairharbor?"
"Harbor Castle," said the mate promptly. "It's on the other side of
the point I'd as soon live in a jail!"
"Why?" I exclaimed.
But he was no longer listening. He pointed at the shore opposite.
"See that flag running up the staff in that garden?" he cried.
"'That's my boy signalling. I got to get to the boat deck and wave
back!"
I felt as a detective. I had acquired important information. The
mate, a man of judgment, preferred Fairharbor to New York. Also, to
living in Harbor Castle, he preferred going to jail.
The boat on which I had arrived was listed to start back at six the
same evening on her return trip to New York. So, at the office of
the line I checked my valise, and set forth to explore New Bedford.
The whaling vessels moored to a nearby wharf, I inspected from
hatches to keels, and by those on board was directed to a warehouse
where were stored harpoons, whalebone, and wooden figure-heads. My
pleasure in these led to my being passed on to a row of "antique"
shops filled with relics of the days of whaling and also with
genuine pie-crust tables, genuine flint-lock muskets, genuine
Liverpool pitchers. I coveted especially old-time engravings of the
whalers, and was told at Hatchardson's book-store on the main
street others could be found in profusion.
Hatchardson's proved to be a place of great delight. As you entered
there were counters for magazines and post-cards, popular music,
and best-selling novels, while in the rear of the shop tables and
shelves were stocked with ancient volumes, and on the wall
surrounding them hung engravings, prints and woodcuts of even the
eighteenth century. Just as the drugstore on the corner seemed to
be a waiting station for those of New Bedford who used the
trolley-cars, so for those who moved in automobiles, or still clung
to the family carriage, Hatchardson's appeared to be less a shop
than a public meeting-place. I noticed that the clerks, most of
whom were women, were with the customers on a most friendly
footing, addressing them, and by them being addressed by name.
Finding I was free to wander where I pleased, I walked to the rear
of the shop and from one of the tables picked up a much-worn
volume. It was entitled "The Log of the JOLLY POLLY, and was
illustrated with wood cuts showing square- rigged ships and whales
Spouting. For five minutes, lost to my Surroundings, I turned the
pages; and then became conscious that across the table some one was
watching me. I raised my eyes and beheld a face of most surprising
charm, intelligence and beauty. It was so lovely that it made me
wince. The face was the fortune, and judging from the fact that in
her hand she held a salesbook, the sole fortune, of a tall young
girl who apparently had approached to wait on me. She was looking
toward the street, so that, with the book- shelves for a
back-ground, her face was in profile, and I determined swiftly that
if she were to wait on me she would be kept waiting as long as my
money lasted. I did not want "The Log of the JOLLY POLLY," but I
did want to hear the lovely lady speak, and especially I desired
that the one to whom she spoke should be myself.
"What is the price of this?" I asked. With magnificent self-
control I kept my eyes on the book, but the lovely lady was so long
silent that I raised them. To my surprise, I found on her face an
expression of alarm and distress. With reluctance, and yet within
her voice a certain hopefulness, she said, "Fifty dollars."