IN WHICH PHIL GOES TO WORK IN THE COOK-ROOM OF THE MARIAN

“All right, Phil; hoist the jib,” said Mr. Waterford, as soon as we were out of the river.

I cleared away the jib and hoisted it, the skipper hauling aft the sheet, and trimming the sail.  The wind was from the westward, rather light for one who was fond of a smashing time on the water, and it was one of the most perfect of summer days.  The Marian was headed in the direction of her rival, which appeared to be working towards the south-east corner of the lake.  My impression was, that Mr. Whippleton intended to land at this point, and take a train to the east.  I was prepared to follow the instruction which I had given the entry clerk, and pursue the fugitive to the other side of the continent.

This boating excursion had been planned by Waterford and our junior partner, but of course it was not possible that the former knew the purposes of the latter; at least, such was my view of the matter at first, though I afterwards had occasion to change my mind.  I was satisfied now, if I had not been before, that Mr. Whippleton meant to leave Chicago forever.  He had done all the mischief in his power there, and to remain any longer would result in a mortifying exposure.  Like other smart rogues, he had gathered together all he could, and was going to some distant locality to enjoy it.

Miss Collingsby had seated herself in the stern sheets of the boat, and was watching the waters that rippled under the counter.  I thought she was not very well satisfied with herself for what she had done, and rather wished herself on shore again.  If she knew her prudent and dignified father’s opinion of Mr. Waterford, it would not have been strange that she was dissatisfied with herself.

“This is a magnificent day for a sail,” said Mr. Waterford, gayly, as he glanced at his fair companion.

“Elegant,” replied she, but in a tone which indicated that she was not in the full enjoyment of the sail or the day.

“Would you like to take the helm and steer, Miss Collingsby?”

“No, I thank you; not now.”

“You enjoyed it so much when we sailed last time, that I thought you were cut out for a sailor.”

“Half the pleasure of sailing is the company you have with you,” added Marian.

“And you think you are losing one half of the pleasure of the present occasion?” said Mr. Waterford.

“I did not say that, but I did expect a lively party, as you told me you had invited half a dozen ladies and gentlemen.”

“I did; and they all promised to come if it was possible,” pleaded the skipper.  “I am very sorry they did not, and that you are so much dissatisfied with your present company.”

“Why, no, Mr. Waterford; I did not say that, and did not mean it,” interposed Marian.  “I only say that half the fun on the water is having a good lively party.  You know what a nice time we had singing and chatting the last time we went.”

“We had a pleasant time.  I thought, from what you said, that you considered your present company rather disagreeable, and the excursion a failure.”

“You know I did not mean any such thing as that, Mr. Waterford,” said Marian, reproachfully.  “You are very kind to invite me at all, and it is very ungrateful for me to say anything; but I do like a lively party.”

“I am afraid it is only a selfish thing on my part,” added the skipper, as he bestowed upon his beautiful companion a look of admiration, beneath which she blushed even as she gazed into the clear waters of the lake.  “Phil,” called he, turning to me.

“Here,” I replied, springing up from my reclining posture on the forward deck.

“I wish you would hoist the new burgee.  We ought to wear our gayest colors to-day.”

“Where is it?”

“In the cabin after locker, starboard side.  Run it up, if you please.”

I went into the cabin, and found the flag.  It was a gay affair, in bright colors, with the new name of the yacht inscribed upon it.  I attached it to the halyards, and ran it up to the mast-head.  Miss Collingsby took no notice of it, but continued to gaze into the water.

“What do you think of my new burgee, Miss Collingsby?” asked the skipper.

“It is very pretty indeed,” she replied, with more indifference than it seemed quite polite to display.  “It is as gay as the rest of the boat.  You are fond of bright colors, Mr. Waterford.”

“In a boat, I am.  Do you see the name which is upon it?”

“Marian!” exclaimed she, after spelling out the name upon the flag.  “What does that mean?”

“It is the name of the boat.”

“Why, the last time I sailed in her, she was called the Michigan.”

“That is very true, but she is called the Marian now,” replied Mr. Waterford, trying to look very amiable and modest.

“That’s my name.”

“Certainly; and that’s the reason why I gave it to my boat.”

“Indeed, you do me a very great honor, and I am grateful to you for it.”

“No; the honor is done to me, if you don’t object to the name.”

“Of course I cannot object to my own name.”

“You may object to having it upon my boat.”

“It is a very beautiful boat, and I am sorry you did not give it a better name.”

“There is no better or prettier name in the whole world.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do,” answered Mr. Waterford, with emphasis.  “I was sick of the old name-the Michigan.”

“Probably you will soon be sick of the new one-the Marian,” added Miss Collingsby, still gazing into the water.

“Never!” protested the gallant skipper.

“I am afraid you will, as you were of the old one.”

“Never, Miss Collingsby!  Of course the name itself is but a word, but the association will cause me to cherish it forever.”

“How very fine you talk, Mr. Waterford!”

“But I say just what I mean, and utter only what is nearest to my heart.”

“It is a pity you were not a lawyer, for you always make out a very good case.”

“I am afraid I should only succeed as a lawyer when I was interested in my client, as in the present instance.”

“How long will it be before we overtake Mr. Whippleton?” asked Miss Collingsby, as though she deemed it prudent to change the conversation, which I thought was becoming just a little silly, as such talk always is to all but those who are immediately interested.

“That will depend upon which boat sails the fastest.”

“You always said the Michigan-”

“No, the Marian,” interposed the skipper.  “Please to call the boat by her right name.”

“Well, the Marian; you always said she was the fastest boat on the lake.”

“I think so, though she has never had a fair trial with the Florina.”

“I wish you would hurry her up, for I really wish to see Julia Lord, and have her in the boat with me.  I suppose that neither Mr. Whippleton nor Florina will object to the transfer.”

“Perhaps not.  If any one has the right to object, I am the person,” replied the skipper, in a low tone, though I heard what he said.

“You promised to provide me with company, or I should not have come,” pouted Miss Collingsby, blushing.

“I hoped you would deem me sufficient company.”

“Why, what impudence!  I want the company of young ladies.”

“But you don’t object to my company-do you?”

“Certainly not, in your proper place, at the helm of the yacht.”

Though I was not skilled at all in woman’s ways, I thought the fair girl was struggling between two fires.  She rather liked Mr. Waterford, on the one hand, and was very unwilling to commit herself by accepting any of his delicate attentions, or by appearing to be pleased by his compliments.  In a word, I thought she liked him, but was afraid of him.  He was, as I have before intimated, a very good-looking fellow, elegant and agreeable in his manners and speech.  If he had been half as good as he looked, he would have been worthy the beautiful girl at his side.  It was not very difficult for me to believe, after what I had heard her father say, that she had been warned against him, and that duty and inclination were struggling against each other in her mind.

“It is half past eleven, Phil,” said Mr. Waterford, consulting his watch.  “Shall we have any dinner to-day?”

“Certainly, if you desire it,” I replied, presenting myself before the skipper in the standing-room.

“Whippleton says you are a cook, Phil.  Is that so?”

“I can cook,” I replied, modestly.

“Can you get up a dinner fit for a lady?” laughed Mr. Waterford.

“I can roast, bake, boil, broil, and fry.  If the lady will be suited with any of these, I will do the best I can to please her.”

“I thought you were my father’s clerk,” added Miss Collingsby.

“I am.”

“How do you happen to know how to cook, then?”

“I was brought up on the upper Missouri, where we had to do our own cooking.”

“Yes, Phil is a regular Indian fighter,” laughed the skipper.

“What, this young man?”

“Yes, he has shot a thousand Indians in his day, and scalped them?”

“Phil?”

“Call it two or three,” I added.  “And we never were in the habit of scalping them.”

“Don’t spoil a good story, Phil.”

“We used to speak the truth in the woods, even when we were joking.”

“Well, don’t be too severe on us.  We only speak the truth here when we are addressing ladies.”

“Just reverse the proposition, and it would be more correct,” said Marian.

“What shall we have for dinner?” I asked.

“Miss Collingsby must settle that point,” answered the skipper.

“Give us a fricandeau de veau, and beignets de pomme.”

“Nous n’avons pas des pommes,” I replied.

“Is it possible!  Do you speak French?” exclaimed Miss Collingsby.

“Un peu.”

“Of course I did not mean what I said,” laughed the gay young lady.  “I will have just what you happen to have.  I did not think any one would understand what I said.”

“I certainly did not,” added Mr. Waterford.  “I know no language but English, and only a little of that.”

“I think I can make a fricandeau,” I continued, “if I have the material.”

“We have beef, ham, mutton, pork, potatoes, bread, cake, and crackers on board.”

“Let us have a plain beefsteak, then,” said the lady.

“Avec pommes de terre, frits?” I asked.

“Oui, Monsieur Cuisinier.  What a prodigy you must be, Mr. Phil!  You can keep books, cook, and talk French.”

“And sail a boat as well as the best of them,” added Mr. Waterford.  “By the way, Phil, have you any of those things on board that you mentioned?”

“What things?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pommes de terre,” suggested Miss Collingsby.

“You said we had.  I haven’t looked over the stores.”

“I said so?  Not if I was awake.”

“You stupid!” laughed the lady.  “They are potatoes.”

“O, are they?  Then we have plenty of them.  They say that a rose by any other name smells as sweet; and I suppose a potato in any other language tastes the same.  Very well.  Get up a good dinner, Phil; one fit for a queen-for a queen is to eat it.”

“How silly!” said Miss Collingsby, as I went below.

“Better and fairer than any queen.”

“I declare, Mr. Waterford, you are becoming insufferable.  I shall have to go down there and help Phil get dinner.  Besides, I want to talk French with him.  And I want to see the kitchen.”

I passed through the cabin into the little cook-room, in the forecastle, where I lighted the fire.