Three Men and a Girl—and a Tempest on Lake Michigan
HERE was just one thing in the world that Jason Johnson, known in La Salle Street as “Steel Head,” wanted and did not know how to get. He would have given all his wealth to get it, but nobody knew this. Not even his daughter, the party most concerned, suspected it. Certainly Nan could not read it in his indomitable gaze as she braced herself to the swing of the yacht and faced his answer. She had come to think him bitter, hard and cold, implacable as granite.
“I'd sooner sink than run in to St. James for shelter,” he said, clamping down on his cigar. “I know why you want to land there, my girl. We'll go on to Mackinac spite of hell or high water. I wish you'd tell Gaunt to run down and tune in this cursed radio for me. I want to get the opening market from Chicago.”
Nan gave him look for look, a surge of anger lightening her gray eyes. Framed in silk oilskins, her face was a refinement of his own—the same wide, fearless gaze, the same heavy lids, the same thin nostrils and line of mouth; but all softened and beautified in a miraculous manner. At least, Jason Johnson thought it miraculous.
“Call the steward to run your errands,” she said deliberately, then turned and was gone.
Gaining the deck above, she held to the companion rail and gazed over the empty expanse of Lake Michigan. The morning fog was being driven and scattered by the rising wind out of the west. A gray cloud rack hung menacing; so low was the horizon that the Michigan coast to starboard was hidden from sight. Mighty rollers were smashing across from the Wisconsin shore until the motor cruiser wallowed and plunged as she drove north toward Mackinac.
Gaunt approached Nan from forward. He was tall, awkwardly built, with an undershot jaw and tenacious eyes. An ample inheritance allowed him to play amateur-mechanic with boats and engines of all kinds, and he believed strongly in himself. Nan could not blame him because her mother had picked him for the slaughter, as she expressed it, nor because her father had acquiesced. Mrs. Johnson, who was at present opening the summer cottage at Mackinac, attended to all domestic affairs. Nan even felt a trifle sorry for poor Gaunt. Now, despite her parting speech to her father, she nodded toward the companionway.
AD'S hungering for your company,” she said cheerfully. “Go down and get him tuned in, like a good chap. When he is occupied with wheat and oats, come up forward and talk to me about something very particular. Will you?”
“You bet,” returned Gaunt, and hurriedly vanished below. Nan smiled a little. She had disconnected the radio ground and knew she could count on a little delay. Meanwhile, she made her way forward to the tiny chart and pilot house. Cap'n Johnny Wright himself had the wheel, and welcomed her with a smile on his hearty brown cheeks.
“Wind's coming up fast, Miss Johnson! Before noon you'll get the blow you've wanted, though we'll be in the island lee by then.”
“You haven't sighted the island yet?”
Cap'n Johnny shook his head, shifted the spokes, glanced from binnacle to high-heaving seas, squinting as his gaze swept the horizon.
“Big blow coming up. With luck, we'll make Mackinac some time tonight.”
“How do you tell at night,” she asked, standing beside him, “'which side of the light to steer for? If there's a red light, how do you know which side of it is the channel?”
“Red to the right,” said Cap'n Johnny. “When I was in the Arnold line, I'd always make the wheelers remember that. Red to the right o' the channel, every time.”
“Oh! But what about Harbor Springs?”
“Well ”—Cap'n Johnny chuckled—“true enough. But every place else, red to the right. You look at the chart and see.”
AN settled herself comfortably on the seat behind him and tucked up one leg.
“Cap'n Johnny, I want you to do something for me. Something big.”
“Uh-huh.” Cap'n Johnny Wright did not lock around, but his tone was encouraging.
“At Mackinac, my engagement to Mr. Gaunt is to be announced—or so mother says,” confided Nan. “Now, I came along on the yacht because I knew you'd help me. You can't make Charlevoix in a heavy sea, and it's forty miles to Harbor Springs; so, if something breaks as we go up the channel, we'd have to put into St. James.”
“Stands to reason,” commented the skipper. Nan's gray eyes widened happily.
“Then you will!”
“If anything busts, sure. But they ain't liable to.”
“Yes, but I mean—make 'em bust! You've got to!”
To this Cap'n Johnny did not respond, and Nan was wise enough not to intrude on his silence.