The Chauffeur and the Chaperon. C. N. Williamson
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forks and spoons. On one of the seats (which could be turned into berths at night) stood a smart tea-basket. We peeped inside, and it was the nicest tea-basket imaginable, which must have come from some grand shop in Bond Street, with its gold and white cups, and its gleaming nickel and silver. In the locker were sheets and blankets; on a bracket by the clock was a book-shelf with glass doors, and attractive-looking novels inside.
"How pathetic it is!" I cried. "Poor Captain Noble! He must have enjoyed getting together these nice things; and now they are all for us."
"And here—oh, this is too sad! His poor, dear shirts and things," sighed Phil, making further discoveries in another, smaller cabin beyond. "Drawers full of them. Fancy his leaving them here all winter—and they don't seem a bit damp."
I followed her into a green-and-pink cabin, a tiny den, but pretty enough for an artist instead of an old retired sea-captain.
"What shall we do with them?" she asked. "We might keep them all to remember him by, perhaps; only—they would be such odd sorts of souvenirs for girls to have, and—oh, my goodness, Nell, who could have dreamed of Captain Noble in—in whatever it is?"
Whatever it was, it was pale-blue silk, with lovely pink stripes of several shades, and there was a jacket which Phil was just holding out by its shoulders, to admire, when a slight cough made us turn our heads.
It is strange what individuality there can be in a cough. We would have sworn if we'd heard it while locked up with Mr. Paasma in a dark cell, where there was no other human being to produce it, that he couldn't have uttered such an interesting cough.
Before we turned, we knew that there was a stranger on "Lorelei," but we were surprised when we saw what sort of stranger he was.
He stood in the narrow doorway between the two cabins, looking at us with bright, dark eyes, like Robert Louis Stevenson's, and dressed in smart flannels and a tall collar, such as Robert Louis Stevenson would never have consented to wear.
"I beg your pardon," said he, in a nice, drawling voice, which told me that he'd first seen the light in one of the Southern States of America.
"I beg yours," said I. (Somehow Phil generally waits for me to speak first in emergencies, though she's a year older.) "Are you looking for any one—the caretaker of our boat, perhaps?"
His eyes traveled from me to Phil; from Phil to the blue garment to which she still clung; from the blue garment to the pile of stiff white shirts in an open drawer.
"No—o, I wasn't exactly looking for any one," he slowly replied. "I just came on board to—er——"
"To what, if you please?" I demanded, beginning to stiffen. "I've a right to know, because this is our boat. If you're a newspaper reporter, or anything of that sort, please go away; but if you have business——"
"No, it was only pleasure," said the young man, his eyes like black diamonds. "I didn't know the boat was yours."
"Whose did you think it was?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I—er—thought it was mine."
"What do you mean?" I cried, while Phil threw a wild, questioning look at the shirts, and dropped the blue silk jacket.
"That is, temporarily. But there must be some mistake."
"There must—a big mistake. Where's the caretaker? He came on board with us."
The young man's eyes twinkled even more. "Did he know it was your boat?"
"Why, of course, we told him. It was left to us in a will. We've just come to claim it."
"Oh, I think I begin to see. I shouldn't wonder if Paasma has now taken to his bed with a sudden attack of—whatever the Dutch have instead of nervous prostration. He didn't know you were coming?"
"Not till we came."
"It must have been quite a surprise. By Jove, the old fox! I suppose he hadn't got the shadow of a right, then, to let the boat to me?"
"My gracious!" breathed Phyllis, and shut up the drawer of shirts with a snap. I don't know what she did with the blue silk object, except that it suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from the floor. Perhaps she stood on it.
"What an awful thing," said I. "You're sure you're not in the wrong boat? You're sure he didn't let you some other one?"
"Sure. There is no other one in Holland exactly like this. I've been on board nearly every day for a week, ever since I began to——"
"Since you began——"
"To have her done up. Nothing to speak of, you know; but she's been lying here all winter, and—er—I had a fancy to clean house——"
"Then—all these things are—yours?"
"Some of the things——"
"The Dutch clock, the deck-chairs, the silk cushions, the curtains, and decorations in the cabin——"
"I'm afraid you think I'm an awful meddler; but, you see, I didn't know. Paasma told me he had a right to let the boat, and that I could do her up as much as I liked."
"The old wretch!" I gasped. "And you walk on board to find two strange girls rummaging among your—your——" Then I couldn't help laughing when I remembered how Phil had suggested our keeping those things for souvenirs.
"I thought I must be having a dream—a beautiful dream."
I ignored the implied compliment. "What are we going to do about it?" I asked. "It is our boat. There's no doubt about that. But with these things of yours—do you want to go to law, or—or—anything?"
"Good heavens, no! I——"
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said I. "Let's get the caretaker here, and have it out with him. Perhaps he has an explanation."
"He's certain to have—several. Shall I go and fetch him?"
"Please do," urged Phil, speaking for the first time, and looking adorably pink.
The young man vanished, and we heard him running up the steep companion (if that's the right word for it) two steps at a time.
Phil and I stared at each other. "I knew something awful would happen," said she. "This is a judgment."
"He's too nice looking to be a judgment," said I. "I like his taste in everything—including shirts, don't you?"
"Don't speak of them," commanded Phil.
We shut the drawers tightly, and going into the other cabin, did the same there.
"Anyhow, I saw 'C. Noble' on the sheets and blankets," I said thankfully. "There are some things that belong to us."
"It will end in our going home at once, I suppose," said Phil.
"However else it ends, it won't end like that, I promise you," I assured her. "I must have justice."
"But he must have his things. Oh, Nell, have you really got relatives in Rotterdam, or did you make that up to frighten the caretaker?"
"No; they exist. I never spoke of them to you, because I never thought of them until we were coming here, and then I was afraid if I did you'd think it the proper thing to implore the females—if any—to chaperon us. Besides, relations so often turn out bores. All I know about mine is, that mother told me father had relations in Holland—in Rotterdam. And if she and I hadn't stopped in England to take care of you and your father, perhaps we should have come here and met them long ago."
"Well, do let's look them up and get them to help. I won't say a word about chaperons."
"Perhaps it would be a good thing. That wicked old caretaker seemed to be struck with respectful awe by the name of Van Buren."
"I never knew before that you were partly Dutch."
"You