“My dear boy, there is no such thing as a cheap yacht, any more than there is a cheap elephant.”

“It’s better to buy than build,” Jack insisted.  “A man’s got to have some recreation.”

“Recreation!  Why don’t you charter a Fifth Avenue stage and take your friends on a voyage to the Battery?  That’ll make ’em sick enough.”  It was a misery of the Major’s life that, in order to keep in with necessary friends, he had to accept invitations for cruises on yachts, and pretend he liked it.  Though he had the gout, he vowed he would rather walk to Newport than go round Point Judith in one of those tipping tubs.  He had tried it, and, as he said afterwards, “The devil of it was that Mrs. Henderson and Miss Tavish sympathized with me.  Gad! it takes away a person’s manhood, that sort of thing.”

The Major sipped his bitters, and then added:  “Or I’ll tell you what; if you must do something, start a newspaper—­the drama, society, and letters, that sort of thing, with pictures.  I heard Miss Tavish say she wished she had a newspaper.”

“But,” said Jack, with gravity, “I’m not buying a yacht for Miss Tavish.”

“I didn’t suppose you were.  Devilish fine girl, though.  I don’t care who you buy it for if you don’t buy it for yourself.  Why don’t you buy it for Henderson?  He can afford it.”

“I’d like to know what you mean, Major Fairfax!” cried Jack.  “What business—­”

“There!” exclaimed the Major, sinking back in his chair, with a softened expression in his society beaten face.  “It’s no use of nonsense, Jack.  I’m an average old sinner, and I’m not old enough yet to like a milksop.  But I’ve known you since you were so high, and I knew your father; he used to stay weeks on my plantation when we were both younger.  And your mother—­that was a woman!—­did me a kindness once when I was in a d—–­d tight place, and I never forgot it.  See here, Jack, if I had money enough I’d buy a yacht and put Carmen and Miss Tavish on it, and send them off on the longest voyage there is.”

“Who’s been talking?” exclaimed Jack, touched a little, but very much offended.

“The town, Jack.  Don’t mind the talk.  People always talk.  I suppose people talk about me:  At your age I should have been angry too at a hint even from an old friend.  But I’ve learned.  It doesn’t pay.  I don’t get angry any more.  Now there’s Henderson—­”

“What have you got against Henderson?”

“Nothing.  He is a very good fellow, for that sort of man.  But, Lord!  Henderson is a big machine.  You might as well try to stand in with a combination of gang-saws, or to make friends with the Department of the Interior.  Look at the men who have gone in with Henderson from time to time.  The ground is strewn with them.  He’s got no more feeling in business than a reaper-and-binder.”

“I don’t know what Henderson’s got to do with my having a yacht.”

“I beg your pardon, Jack; it’s none of my business.  Only I do not put my investments”—­Jack smiled faintly, as if the conversation were taking a humorous turn—­“at the mercy of Henderson’s schemes.  If I did, I wouldn’t try to run a yacht at the same time.  I should be afraid that some day when I got to sea I should find myself out of coal.  You know, my boy, that the good book says you cannot serve two masters.”