Produced by Suzanne Shell, Taavi Kalju and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net THE TURTLES OF TASMAN BY JACK LONDON AUTHOR OF THE CALL OF THE WILD, TERRY, ADVENTURE, ETC. NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1916. Reprinted October, November, 1916; February, 1917, December, 1919. TABLE OF CONTENTS BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN THE ETERNITY OF FORMS TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY THE PRODIGAL FATHER THE FIRST POET FINIS THE END OF THE STORY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN I Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was the strong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power with wisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and the lines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left its wholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told the same story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair, light brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straight across above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed man, and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alert years, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise the possessor of numerous millions of dollars and property. For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited outside for him under the porte-cochere was sober black. It was the most expensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its price or horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also was mostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacific breakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the far summits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud. A rustle of skirts caused him to look over his shoulder. Just the faintest hint of irritation showed in his manner. Not that his daughter was the object, however. Whatever it was, it seemed to lie on the desk before him. "What is that outlandish name again?" she asked. "I know I shall never remember it. See, I've brought a pad to write it down." Her voice was low and cool, and she was a tall, well-formed, clear-skinned young woman. In her voice and complacence she, too, showed the drill-marks of order and restraint. Frederick Travers scanned the signature of one of two letters on the desk. "Bronislawa Plaskoweitzkaia Travers," he read; then spelled the difficult first portion, letter by letter, while his daughter wrote it down.