Tish Marches On (2 page)

“Where I come from,” he said contemptuously, “we’d call that thing a minnow.”

“What do you fish for?” Tish inquired coldly. “Whales?”

Well, it turned out that he fished for sharks, and that—of all things—from a small dirigible. He said that it was perfectly simple. You merely cruised until you saw a large one, and then dropped the hook and bait more or less in its mouth.

“Greatest sport in the world,” he said. “Shoot them through the head, of course, before you pull them in.”

Tish was so interested that Aggie gave me a look of pure agony and sneezed violently.

“Get hib away, Lizzie,” she implored me. “Look at her!”

Certainly Tish was intensely interested. She had put down her knitting and was gazing at him thoughtfully.

“What bait do you use?” she inquired.

“A dead horse is good. White, if you can find one. But pork will do. They like pork.”

He talked about it for some time and poor Aggie was quite pale when, after a final glass of cordial, he prepared to depart—in Charlie Sands’ trousers.

If you ever want to try it, he said, just call up Johnnie Smith at Green Harbor. He’ll fix you so you can go and have yourselves a time.”

Yes, that was what he said. And my reply is that we did, and that we had!

I did not like the look in Tish’s face after Mr. Blane had gone; and to make matters worse, Aggie had a return of her jaundice that night and itched violently until morning.

Nevertheless, for a day or so all was quiet. Tish received a radiogram from Charlie Sands in that interval: “On no account alter decision,” which she resented somewhat; and both Aggie and I noticed that she had an absent look in her eyes. Also she complained of lumbago. But we were not suspicious until one evening Hannah, her maid, came to see us and reported a strange condition of affairs.

“I don’t believe it, Hannah,” I said severely.

“You ask the janitor,” Hannah said tearfully. “She dropped one, and some of it fell on his head. It cost her twenty dollars to square him. And as for that policeman—”

“What policeman?”

“He put his motorcycle down below and the hook caught it. When he saw it crawling up the wall he yelled like anything. Then the line broke, and it as near as anything killed him, Miss Lizzie.”

(I may interpolate here that this was an overstatement. The man was merely bruised. As for the city claiming damages for the motorcycle, that is ridiculous. Why do we pay taxes?)

It was some time before we got the entire story. Apparently Tish had been practicing hauling heavy weights up to her apartment, doing so at night when the courtyard was empty. For this purpose she had employed a pail filled with coal, fishing for the handle with a large hook on a line. Then—the night before—the motorcycle incident had occurred, and we gathered from Hannah that she had given up the idea.

“And what is she doing tonight, Hannah?” I inquired.

Hannah sniffled.

“That’s what I came about,” she said. “She’s cleaning her rifle. That means trouble, Miss Lizzie. I know her.”

We sent Hannah home after that, but we both spent a wretched evening. With Charlie Sands on the high seas we felt completely helpless, and when the next morning Tish sent for us we knew that protest would be useless.

We found her surprisingly cheerful, and the entire place seemed to be littered with fishing lines, ropes, chains, and enormous hooks. She put down a large hook when we entered.

“Lizzie,” she said abruptly. “What do you know about sharks?”

It had come! But I pretended to ignore it.

“What sort of sharks?” I said. “Bridge sharks? Loan sharks? Or stock market sharks?”

“Don’t be a fool,” she observed. “Ordinary sharks.”

“Only that they have teeth. Too many teeth.”

“Do you know that their skins are valuable?”

“So is mine, Tish,” I said tartly. “And I don’t intend to risk it. I go in no dirigible, and I dangle no piece of pork before a shark’s nose. As far as I am concerned, there are no sharks.”

I am glad that I made that protest, useless as it proved to be. For things had gone further than I had anticipated. Not only had she written to Mr. Smith. She had already engaged the
Snark
—which was the blimp: shall I ever forget it?—for the next day.

She eyed us both sternly.

“You have your choice,” she said. “Either you come or I go alone.”

What could we do? Never before had we deserted her, and so at last we agreed. But Aggie was in such an acute state of terror that evening that during the night I heard a crash and found that she had fallen out of bed. When I found her she was on the floor, apparently trying to swim in the water from an upset pitcher.

“Help!” she said, in a smothered voice. “Help! I’m drowdig!”

It was some time before I could convince her that she was still safe in her room, and not in the Atlantic Ocean.

Fortunately we were kept busy the next day. There was not only the matter of food to arrange. Tish had reminded us that the upper levels of the air were cool, which explains Aggie’s red flannel petticoat later. We also purchased a small alcohol stove and a kettle for tea, a frying pan, and packed a substantial amount of food, including a quantity of eggs. This, with bottled water, some blackberry cordial, and Tish’s rifle, completed our equipment; and we left late in the afternoon by car for Green Harbor.

The last thing we did was to purchase our bait, forty pounds of pork cut into two pound pieces, and Mr. Beilstein looked rather surprised.

“That’s a lot of pork, Miss Carberry,” he said. “What are you going to do? Start a barbecue stand?”

“We are going fishing,” said Tish with her usual dignity, and he was still on the pavement staring after us as we drove away.

Tish was her optimistic self during the journey. She had already calculated that she could increase her income considerably, and that fish caught beyond the three-mile limit should not be taxable.

“It may be,” she said, “that we have at last found a method of legal evasion which the Congress has not discovered. And there are millions of sharks in the sea.”

Aggie, however, refused to be comforted.

“Thed let theb stay there,” she said hollowly. “
I
dod’t wadt ady.”

Yet, looking back, I realize that Aggie was in better condition than I had expected. She was sneezing less, for one thing, and at the hotel that night she ate quite a good dinner. I know the reason now, and can understand her perfidy. Yet, in view of the fact that she had already sent that warning radiogram to Charlie Sands, I can only feel that she deserved some of her later misfortunes. To blame Letitia Carberry, as she has, is most unfair.

We were up quite early, and after a breakfast of scrambled eggs—which Aggie ate over my protest—we drove to the flying field. Mr. Smith was there, and so was the dirigible which he called the
Snark
. It was already out in the open with the engines going, and a dozen men or so were holding it down by what he called the handling lines, or ropes. Mr. Smith seemed very proud of it.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” he said. “And willing! She’d go on forever if you’d let her.”

Willing! As I write that word my hand fairly trembles. If ever a dirigible was willing it was that one.

Tish was the first to get into the thing, and while the lunch et cetera was being carried aboard he explained to her how the dirigible was operated. It had a wheel to the right of the pilot seat, to raise and lower it, and two foot pedals to steer by. Also it had two engines, he said, and when fishing for sharks one of them had to be stopped or the line would be caught.

“Well, that’s the ship,” he said. “Safe and comfortable. You’ll never forget this experience, ladies. And the boys say there’s a lot of sharks offshore. … Hello!” he said suddenly. “What’s all this?”

I looked, and a girl was driving up in a small car. She got out in a hurry and rushed toward us.

“Johnnie!” she called.

I knew her at once. It was the blond girl at the Ostermaiers’, and she had been crying.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Smith inquired.

“Listen, Johnnie. It’s Jeff. He’s lost. You’ll have to find him.”

“You couldn’t lose Jeff Blane anywhere in the Atlantic,” said Mr. Smith.

“He wants to be lost,” said the girl desperately. “We had a quarrel yesterday and he started out to sea in his boat. He said he’d go straight out until the gas ran out. And he hasn’t come back. You know him, Johnnie,” she added. “He’s stubborn. He’ll do it.”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Smith thoughtfully. “Jeff’s stubborn, all right. He might do it.”

“You could throw him a rope and tow him back, couldn’t you?” And here she said something which I find hard to forgive, and which was responsible for much of our later trouble. “Hurry, Johnnie,” she said. “Get those awful old women out and hurry.”

I saw Tish stiffen. But at that moment a messenger boy rode up on a bicycle, and Aggie looked cheerful for the first time that morning.

“Got a radiogram for Mr. Smith,” said the boy. “Where is he?”

“Here,” said Mr. Smith.

“Got to come down and sign for it.”

I believe that Tish even then had an inkling of the truth. Mr. Smith went down the ladder, signed the slip and read the message. Then he took off his cap and, scratching his head, walked over slowly and shouted up to Tish.

“I’ve got a message here, Miss Carberry. Seems like somebody named Sands says you’re not to go. Says he’s your nephew. Says he absolutely forbids it. Seems like a pity, doesn’t it? Good day and everything.”

“Nonsense,” said Tish sharply. “I am of legal age.”

He scratched his head again.

“Still and all,” he said, “we like the consent of the family. If your nephew doesn’t like the idea—”

“Does that mean you refuse to take us?”

“I guess it does.”

I should have known what would happen. I have known Tish Carberry for many years. I know her courage and her strength of will. But who could have guessed that she would turn away from that window, grab the wheel, press a number of things at random, and suddenly shoot that wretched contraption up into the air as if it had been fired out of a gun? …

When I picked myself up I saw the men on the field below laid out flat like a row of ninepins. We shaved the top of a barn, and a moment later I had the anguish of seeing one of our dangling ropes whip around a clothesline and jerk an entire family washing high in the air. There was a woman beside it with her arms up, ready to hang a garment on it; and she simply remained in that position, as if it could not have occurred.

How can I express my sensations at that time, alone as we were in the air and moving rapidly in various directions as Tish experimented with the mechanism? Or my horror when, on looking for Aggie, I could not see her at all? But at that moment a faint sneeze reassured me, and I found her wedged under the rear seats of the cabin, with the basket of eggs on her chest and her eyes closed.

“Aggie!” I cried in terror.

She did not open her eyes.

“By chest is crushed, Lizzie,” she said sadly. “I caddot breathe. Let be die id peace.”

I removed the basket, but she still remained as she was.

“Why should I get up?” she demanded. “I have years ad years to get up id.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“How are we goig to get dowd?” she inquired, still with her eyes shut.

“We seem to be going down this minute,” I retorted with some irritation.

This, however, was a mistake. Tish was merely experimenting with the controls, and as a result the ship was behaving like a bucking horse, rising, dropping, and then shooting ahead in a most terrifying manner.

She was her usual calm self, though.

“I see now how it works,” she said. “It is entirely simple.”

As Aggie chose this moment to be violently airsick, I made no reply. Holding our poor companion as she leaned out of a window, I was able to see that Tish had at least been able to bring up the ropes. But also I discovered that she was not turning back. That she was indeed headed directly toward the open sea. As soon as possible, therefore, I went to her and entered a protest.

“I am in no mood, Tish,” I said, “to fish for sharks. I insist that you turn around and go back.”

“And leave Mr. Blane to die?” she inquired. “You surprise me, Lizzie. When have I ever evaded a plain duty, especially where youth and its problems are involved?”

Unfortunately Aggie had heard her, and went even paler.

“Mr. Blade!” she said. “Ad what will we do with hib whed we get hib?”

I must confess that the same thought was in my mind, but Tish remaining silent and the
Snark
now on even keel, I had only my own thoughts for company.

It was not long before we passed over the beach and were at last above the sea. With what anguish I watched the shores recede! With what torture of mind did I see far beneath us a gray line of battleships, our protection in time of war but of no use to us at that time. With what envy did I see here and there a fishing boat, busy with its peaceful occupation of capturing the finny creatures of the deep.

Feeling as I did, I was shocked an hour or so later to have Tish request me to prepare the shark tackle.

“Really, Tish,” I protested.

But I had no time for more. She was pointing far ahead.

“Unless I am wrong,” she said, “that is Mr. Blane. We must prepare to save him.”

Well, there was a small boat there, and through the glasses we could see it had an occupant, a man bare above the waist and wearing only bathing trunks. I have since read Mr. Blane’s statement, that he had plenty of gas and was quietly fishing when—as he calls it—he was attacked. This may be true, but there can be no doubt that he stood up when he saw the
Snark
and waved to it. If we were mistaken in regarding this as a signal of distress, I am sorry. He suffered, I admit; but we suffered more. Much, much more.

However that may be, Tish at once instructed me to prepare the shark tackle and, after securing one end of the line to the structure of the dirigible, to lower it from the open door to the surface of the water.

“I shall slacken speed,” she said, “and it will then be your duty to engage the hook in the bow of the boat. In this manner we can tow him back to land, and all will be well.”