Three to Be Read

by Philip Wylie

  “Which brings me to the worst thing of all. You know how athletic my family is.”

  Who didn’t? Crunch thought.

  Wherever there were amateur sports, there were Brushes. Wherever the Great Outdoors beckoned, Brushes—father and four sons—cousins and nephews—responded.

  When Olympic Games were held—the name of Brush was read off, usually in first place, in this event or that. The Brushes were rich-they had been for generations. And the Brushes were interested in science as well as the subsidy of science. But the Brushes were also interested in every known physical challenge—and they seemed to be born with a uniform aptitude for taking up any gage. High mountains, square with cliffs, had been first scaled by Brushes. Track records had repeatedly collapsed under Brush assault.

  College coaches yearned for the matriculation of Brushes. Princeton once had three enrolled at the same time. A great year for sports at Princeton. Two worlds records for deep-sea fishing bore the name of Marylin’s father—and of these, one had been established on board the Poseidon.

  The picture occupied the skipper’s mind for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Your folks are sure athletic.”

  “Ramsay isn’t.”

  Crunch allowed himself the, “Oh.” He pronounced it flatly.

  The girl ground out her cigarette. Her eyes flashed greenly—and in this case, the color was a signal of danger. “Is that all that matters in a man? Beef? Brawn? How far he can throw a discus? How high he can toss himself with a pole? How big a mountain goat he can shoot how far away? How hard he can swat a ball with a stick? Is that the only important thing?”

  “You’re a little bit athletic, yourself. And your family—”

  “—eats and sleeps physical culture! So what! Ramsay grew up on a tropical island.

  He never saw a game—a sport—till he was eighteen. He doesn’t like physical competition.

  He’s serious minded—and very bright. He has an I.Q.—alone—of a hundred and sixty-seven! He has a B.S., an M.A., a Ph.D., and an M.D.—and some of my brothers had to beat their brains out to get merely a lousy A.B. Ramsay can talk seven languages, including Malay and Chinese, and my family can’t even shop in Paris without being gypped. He likes me because he said so and he told me he wished he was good at something so the family would think better of him.”

  Crunch began to see light. “Is he—healthy? I mean—?”

  “Of course he’s healthy! He’s no weight lifter, like Clayton. No Hercules, like Dodson. No born blacksmith, like Pierce and Davidson. But my brothers make me sick!

  They ought to organize a vaudeville act—tearing up telephone books and building human pyramids! Letting elephants walk on their stomachs… !”

  “When’s he coming down?”

  “Next week.”

  “And you want me to make a big game angler out of him?”

  The girl stared. “How on earth did you guess that?”

  “People think,” Crunch answered rather unsympathetically, “that fishing is mostly luck—and that the right skipper can bring the luck. You ought to know better. I might fish this boyfriend of yours all autumn—and he could still wind up a dub. If you’re planning to make him a present of a charter—and expecting me to hang him onto something that will go over big with your brothers—”

  “Present? Did I say that?” She had blushed a little. “Ramsay’s uncle owned railroads. That’s why his parents were missionaries and that’s why he went into research: conscience toward humanity—paying the debt back to society. I simply persuaded Ramsay that he ought to try fishing because he might like it—and he said he’d look you up. Beyond that—I haven’t anything but a little hope. And if you could see the beating I’m taking at home about Ramsay, you’d know I have precious little hope, too! I love him—and I’m going to make him marry me—but I just wish—wish and wish—that he would do something that made him a little more popular with everybody else I care for in this world!”

  Two tears slid down Marylin’s cheeks. She wiped at them with the back of her hand and walked to the cockpit. “If you can help me,’ all right! If you won’t, that’s all right! It’s my mess.” She leaped lightly back onto the dock. Nearby skippers and mates looked at her with appreciation.

  The sight of a Brush in tears—even a female Brush—profoundly shocked Crunch.

  He started after her, calling, “Marylin! I didn’t mean to upset you … !”

  But she went, without looking back.

  Ramsay Binney made a very poor initial impression. Before Crunch knew who he was, he caught Binney stealing, and stealing from a child, at that.

  It happened some days later.

  The Poseidon had come in from a successful day in the Gulf Stream. Her customers had departed, leaving three sailfish, tagged for the taxidermist, on a fish rack which thus became the cynosure for small boys, mothers, fathers, pretty girls, girls not pretty, less lucky anglers, and others. Des, the mate, had gone to make a phone call.

  Crunch was relaxing on the stern of his cruiser in the warm, pre-sunset glow. His eye fell upon a man—a stranger—sitting on one of the dock benches.

  The stranger held his head tilted back and sidewise—staring up into the roof which covered a part of the dock. Not staring, Crunch presently decided, but deliberately posing a profile that might have interested a film producer. Hawklike nose, firm chin, full lips, lofty brow, and a tangle of chestnut hair that looked—in the skipper’s disdainful opinion—

  like the feathers of an enraged partridge. Not far from the stranger were three attractive girls and it was Crunch’s opinion that the man had assumed the Byronic attitude for their benefit. The guy was well built—maybe twenty-eight years old—and the women were covertly aware of him. Dopes, Crunch felt.

  Now, however, the man moved his head. He searched in the crowd-apparently looking for something or somebody previously observed. He rose and moved toward a boy who was ardently viewing the sailfish. He took some object—surreptitiously—from the boy’s back pocket. He hurried along the dock railing, then, to the open locker of the Clara. He glanced about warily and reached into the locker.

  By that time, Crunch was on his feet. A pickpocket, evidently. A sneak thief of some sort. But the man went back to the bench—so Crunch waited for developments. In a minute, the gent brought up a slingshot—which was evidently what he had swiped from the boy—and fired at the rafters a metal bolt or nut or screw—which must have been what he took from the Clara’s locker. The man was not satisfied by his shot—so he tried again—and then again. The third time, something besides ammunition fell to the dock. The man leaped forward and apparently assaulted it. Then, rather to the skipper’s amazement, he carefully collected the bolts and nuts, slipped them back into the locker, advanced upon the boy stealthily, and returned the slingshot. The boy gazed unknowing at the fish.

  Crunch wondered what had dropped. He hopped ashore and sauntered along the dock. Where the man had rushed was a large, squashed scorpion. Crunch turned. The man was watching him.

  “Good hunting,” Crunch said.

  The man flushed slightly. “I was afraid if I went clear to the dockhouse for a pole--it would get away. Scrabbling around up there—it could drop any time on some one, and they sting. I’d noticed that kid had a shooter—”

  “They sure do sting. My name’s Adams.”

  “I know,” the man said. “I watched you dock. Nice catch. I’m Ramsay Binney.”

  Crunch concealed a marked surprise. They shook hands. “Come aboard.”

  Ramsay Binney started aboard, failed to notice the fishbox in the stern, caught his heel, and went into the cockpit like a cavalryman dismounting without command. He sprawled, that is -whacking knees, elbows, forehead and shoulder. Crunch helped Binney to his feet.

  “You hurt?”

  Certainly he was hurting. And his trousers were torn.

  “Hurt? Tut-tut! I hope I haven’t damaged the boat.”

  “The boat? Man—we throw live marlin into thi
s cockpit! You’re sure you’re all right?”

  Ramsey tested himself, smiling embarrassedly. “I’m used to falls. Born clumsy.

  Father was clumsy, too, and his father before him. It’s hereditary.”

  “Well—sit.” Crunch indicated the fighting chair. Ramsay Binney looked at it for some time, shook his head perplexedly, and sat in it cautiously. Crunch lounged against the fishbox. “Cigarette?”

  “Don’t smoke, thanks.”

  Crunch struck a match—and inhaled. He gave Ramsay Binney a chance to start a conversation—which was disregarded; his attention seemed concentrated—rather apprehensively—on the equipment of the Poseidon. Finally the skipper said, “Marylin Brush told us to be on the lookout for you.”

  “Oh, yes.” “Said you might be interested in doing a little fishing.”

  “H’m’m’m’m.”

  “She”—Crunch tried another tack—“thinks a lot of you.”

  The young doctor flushed. Even his ears turned red. But he said nothing.

  “Des and I—Des is my mate and he’ll be along soon-have done a good deal of fishing with her.”

  “So she told me.”

  “And, of course, her father and brothers.”

  The flush, up until then, had deepened on the face of the doctor. At the word “brothers,” however, it left like a switched-off light. A whiteness replaced it—the whiteness of an indoor man, further paled by emotion.

  Crunch felt a reaction that was part sympathy and part amusement. Dr. Binney’s stratagem with the swiped slingshot and bolts had changed the skipper’s initial feeling of wrath. But the Brush boys were the best. Furthermore, there was no real excuse for a man with Binney’s build to be completely a bookworm and student. Crunch didn’t insist that all men should be anglers—although it seemed a sensible idea to him; but he did feel that a man in good health should have some facility at some sport or game. That’s what muscles were for, in a modern world.

  Since Binney said nothing, Crunch went on, deliberately, “The boys have hauled in a lot of big fish, doctor. Their old man has two world’s records. One, for mako on medium tackle, made on this spot.” He thumped the gunwale.

  Ramsay Binney stood up-tripping a little on the footrest. He was exceedingly pale, now. “See here,” he said. Crunch waited. Nothing followed. “Yes?”

  “See here, captain. Can any thumb-fingered galoot learn fishing?”

  “Anyone can try. Des and I are good coaches. Whether he learns or not is in the lap of himself—and Providence.”

  “If just once—just one time—in anything—I could—!” He had spoken under great stress. He broke off.

  “Could what?”

  “Clayton! Dodson! Pierce! Davidson!” He said the four names fiercely. “Egad!”

  His large eyes were a studious brown, but they flashed now. “I’d trade anything but my medical education to beat anyone of the Brush boys at anything! Anything, captain. Even table tennis. Yes. Even croquet! They knocked me off the lawn so many times I tore my pants”—he glanced down—“worse than this, going back and forth through the rosebushes!”

  “Marylin said—” Crunch began peaceably, but he was interrupted by pure indignation.

  “What in Sam Hill has this to do with Marylin? It’s far past that! I suppose I did fall in love with Marylin. It does happen, evidently. She wanted me to ‘take up’ something—for her family’s sake. I tried golf. Egad! Sickened me! Grown man—chasing a pill. Dodson’s a champ—the idiot! I cracked my ankle with a seven iron. Fishing, she said.

  Anybody can do it. Women under a hundred pounds catch monstrous tunas, she said.

  Deuce take what she said! I don’t even know how I feel about her, any more. Spoiled.

  She’d have to be handled firmly, in any case. It’s those four boys—!” He strangled.

  Crunch thought, for a moment, that Binney was going to burst into tears. Rage was shaking him. He smote the arm of the fighting chair such a blow that Crunch had to tighten it, later.

  “Inferiority complex,” Dr. Binney went on. “Everything in the United States gives me an inferiority complex! Never saw an automobile till I arrived here at eighteen. Don’t drive. Don’t skate. Don’t dance. Don’t bowl. Can’t play bridge. Never on a baseball team—or track, football, hockey. I’ve got the biggest inferiority complex on the eastern seaboard! Never would have known it, if I hadn’t met that girl. Had it covered over with books. Buried myself in studies. Then—I encountered her—and these four Olympian brothers! I wonder how they’d stand up on Poaki? I’d like to get them—and their dratted games—on a head-hunt!”

  “Huh?” Crunch said. “Head-hunt?”

  Dr. Ramsay Binney’s burst came to an end. He blushed again. “Forget I ever mentioned it. Dad never knew. It was outlawed—long ago. The natives took me along on one-that’s all.”

  “What happened?”

  He sat back in the fighting chair. “Nothing. For a minute, we threw spears at each other-then everybody ran-and I cut my foot.”

  Crunch was disappointed. “Oh.”

  The doctor nodded. “Island life’s not very exciting. Nothing glamorous. I’ve told Marylin that—over and over.” He sighed. “I’ll mosey along, now, I guess.”

  “What about the fishing?” He rubbed his face with his hands. “Futile, don’t you think?”

  “Never find out on shore.”

  “I’ve got about three weeks before Dr. Jarvis arrives to start work here. Still …”

  “Why not try it—tomorrow? Just the day?”

  Ramsay pondered. “Why not?” He sounded listless. He rose listlessly. “Crack of dawn?”

  “Any time you like. Seven? Eight?”

  “Seven’s fine. I’ll be here.” He went—without falling.

  Des arrived.

  “Who was that bird? The one just stepped ashore?”

  “Marylin’s boyfriend.”

  Des thought that over. “Looked upset.”

  “Yeah. Funny guy. Last word in research. But about a generation behind in the language. When he’s excited, he says ‘egad’—and means it. He also says ‘galoot’ and ‘mosey along’ and ‘dratted.’”

  “No kidding!”

  “Guess that’s what missionaries say when they’re riled clear through. Nine years of college and medical school haven’t changed him any.”

  “Marylin will, though—in a lot less time.”

  “I’m not so sure she will.”

  “Meaning what?” Des asked. “Search me. He’s a new type on our logbook.”

  “Stand by for our passenger,” Crunch said in a low tone, “and get ready not to laugh.”

  Des peered and murmured, “Wahooo!”

  Dr. Binney was striding down the dock. As he passed each of the moored charterboats, silence fell—an awed, incredulous Silence.

  It was a hot morning, but it was not a hot morning on a remote, Pacific island which had felt the influence of Spain, Holland, England and France. It was a hot morning in the American city of Miami, Florida.

  The Poseidon’s customer carried, on one arm, a huge wicker hamper. This, presumably, was lunch: Marylin had undoubtedly explained that the customer brings lunch for all. In his right hand, the doctor carried a large, red silk parasol, open, and casting upon his person a pale, crimson light. About his loins, he wore knee-covering, British shorts. Above these was a shirt of native design and material which looked, one of the captains later said, as if it had been made from old battle flags. The belt supporting the shorts was of reptile skin and, hitched to it, on the left hip, was a large Boy Scout knife in a leather sheath. The man’s legs were bare. He wore native sandals, woven of straw. His head covering, however, was the most conspicuous item in his costume—a sola topee, freshly clayed to whiteness, fixed by a strap that crossed the upper lip and stuffed with small green leaves which, as the doctor walked, kept falling on his shoulders in a verdant shower.

  “No lei,” Des croaked and dived down the ladder to hide his mirth
from the doctor.

  Crunch went gravely to the stern.

  “Top of the morning to you!” Binney cried.

  “Wonderful day,” Crunch replied without showing any other sentiment than amiability. “Come aboard.” He braced himself for any emergency. Binney leaped, tottered, and made it.

  “This is about what we wear,” he said, as if he realized his haberdashery might need clarification, “on Poaki.”

  “Looks comfortable.”

  There was some sort of sound below. “My mate,” Crunch went on imperturbably.

  “Sneezing. Hay fever. This is—allergy of some sort. Oh, Des! We’re all set. Come and meet Dr. Binney.”

  The Poseidon fled the dock. She churned through the Government Cut and past the buoys. Des lowered the outriggers while Crunch began to explain the rudiments of big game fishing. There was a mild easterly breeze and, in consequence, a slight chop.

  Binney listened to the lecture and experimented with rod-tip, reel brake, and gimbal. He quickly understood the workings of the outriggers—intellectually, at least. And Crunch noticed, as the Poseidon took the motion of the waves, that his passenger showed none of the misgivings which indicate easy liability to seasickness. He kept his balance readily, unconsciously. It was evident that he had been on the water before.

  The baits went out. A big mullet on the starboard outrigger, a whole balao on the port—and a strip bait on the center line. Twenty-four-thread line on both sides-nine-thread in the middle.

  “All you do,” Crunch said, “is keep your eyes on the baits. If you feel a fish—hit it.

  If you see one following-with a fin up or a bill out-it looks like a stick-holler for one of us and we’ll coach you. Just watch the baits.”

  Dr. Binney watched the baits. Crunch had never seen anybody watch baits as Binny did. He sat in one position—moving gently with the boat. His eyes were glued to the sea. He did not wiggle, twist, ask a question, say a word, or move an unnecessary muscle. His parasol had been folded and discarded but he still wore knife and helmet.