The Log Of The "Jolly Polly"

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.

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