At 9 a.m. on May 14, 1905, the auxiliary schooner Dolphin weighed anchor from the port of New Islip, capital of a certain small country, and set out to sea. Half an hour later, Mr. Duncan Fitzmorris heard a discreet knock at the door of his cabin, and this simple act provoked a reasonable amount of pleasure in him, since Duncan had in fact been waiting for that knock at his door. To be more explicit, he was expecting the arrival of Miss Clotilda Troll. Quite logical for him to expect her, after the unique letter he'd received the night before:

Who had the face to turn down a kiss from Clotilda Troll, the most beautiful, most famous, and richest girl in New Islip? Only Duncan Fitzmorris-- if he'd found himself in normal circumstances-- would have been in a position to refuse her kiss. In fact, in different circumstances, he most certainly would have done so. But now, because of a single glass of castor oil, Duncan found himself in the most abnormal circumstances.

~~~~~

Duncan Fitzmorris was the scion of an extremely rich New Islip family and, more important, a man of character, something he'd inherited in equal parts from his father and his mother. From his father, Thomas Fitzmorris, he'd contracted the dislike for convention which caused the elder Fitzmorris to leave Duncan an orphan several months after he was born: Thomas was fed up with the extreme banality of drawing breath.

Considering the excessive dullness of life, Duncan hadn't had much fun. By the time he was nineteen and living with his uncle Philip, Duncan, despite the fact that he had all his uncle's money to spend, was thoroughly bored. But one day he came across a pastime which began to intrigue him: the profession of medicine. Duncan immersed himself in anatomy and bio-chemistry books for two years, at the end of which he crawled into bed groaning.

The three most famous surgeons in the city were called together, and to them Duncan described his symptoms so meticulously, located them so precisely, explained the irregularities provoked by the malady in his system so exactly that finally the three great surgeons looked at each other in triumph and intoned in chorus: "This is the most clear-cut, positively the most well-defined case of appendicitis in the annals of medical history!"

Then they assembled the medical student body in the university operating theater to demonstrate this most classic case of appendicitis. The day of the operation arrived. The most famous of the three medical geniuses took up his scalpel, cut open Duncan's abdomen, and almost fainted with surprise. There, in front of his expert eyes, was the healthiest intestine he had ever observed. Not the shadow of appendicitis was apparent.

That time Duncan had enjoyed himself, but what hard work to manage those few entertaining moments! He'd had to study for an eternity to be able to describe an imaginary ailment with enough finesse to convince three prominent men of science. He'd also had to let himself be opened up, just to see the looks on the faces of the three most respected surgeons in the world.

Duncan really hadn't had many good times in his life. It might be said that he'd only truly enjoyed himself twice: the first time with this joke on the three surgeons; the second time when he put something over on the whole population of New Telford. At that point Duncan was twenty-five. He moved to New Telford under an assumed name and bought a large store downtown He papered the avenues with posters, filled the newspapers with announcements, and of course the people ran to have a look. They were stunned.

Duncan's store didn't have a thing in it. Not so much as a tack in the walls, not a safety pin in the showcases. The signboard outside had one word printed in bold letters: N0THING.

The people laughed at first, thinking it was a good joke; then they started to think it might be a publicity stunt. Then they began to get annoyed. Every morning Duncan, in deadly seriousness, would open out the shutters and the awnings and install himself on a stool--the only piece of furniture--in the center of the huge store. Not a word, not a gesture. The people were offended. "Nothing," they read out loud to each other, snorting in disapproval. Every once in a while one of them would close in for a better look.

"All right, why don't you tell us what you really sell here?" these onlookers invariably shouted at Duncan.

"Nothing," Duncan would reply with great dignity.

This went on for three months and every day the people grew more indignant. Finally one morning a ruddy-faced fat man walked into the store and planted himself menacingly in front of Duncan.

"Nothing?" he asked grimly.

"That's right, nothing," replied Duncan, nodding.

"For how much?" the ruddy man asked, still grim.

"From ten pounds and up."

"Give me some for thirty pounds," the man demanded, showing his teeth and pulling out his wallet.

Duncan pocketed the money and blew on the man's open hand.

"There you are," he said. "All right?"

"Fine, thank you." The ruddy man sighed, as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

That time Duncan enjoyed himself. But even then it was a complicated, tiring, and above all noisy adventure, more trouble than it was worth.

These episodes--the joke on the doctors and the New Telford nothing store, eccentric in themselves--point up Duncan's firmness of character, and it was this firmness of character which was to cause him endless trouble.

~~~~~

Duncan lived quietly in his mansion in New. Islip with his widowed mother until he was six years and fifteen days old. The morning Duncan was preparing himself to enter his sixteenth day plus six years of life, his mother, Mrs. Jasmine Fitzmorris, appeared in his room, a glass of castor oil in hand.

"Duncan dear," said Mrs. Fitzmorris, "drink up, it'll do you good."

"Not a chance," said Duncan. "I'd rather starve for a year than drink that awful stuff."

"Very well," Mrs. Fitzmorris said flatly. "You won't get anything to eat until you've drunk this glass of castor oil."

Mrs. Fitzmorris was a lady of strong character and kept her promise. Whenever Duncan asked for something to eat, she waved the castor oil under his nose. Duncan resisted for three days; then he stuffed all his toys into a suitcase, fled to Daisy Street, and moved in with his uncle Philip Fitzmorris, who loathed his sister-in-law and adored his nephew.

Duncan lived with his uncle Philip from that time until he was twenty-seven. Then he said, "Unc, I think I'd better go on home now, I've been away too long."

Duncan went home and knocked at the door. Mrs. Fitzmorris came out: she'd aged somewhat in the twenty-one years.

Her right hand was wrapped tightly around the glass of castor oil.

"No, Mother," said Duncan, shaking his head.

Mrs. Fitzmorris slammed the door in his face and let him know what she thought through the window: "You won't set foot inside this house until the day you drink that castor oil!"

Duncan knocked again a couple of times, with the same result. He sat in front of the door for three days. Then he gave up and went back to his uncle Philip.

He lived three more years with Uncle Philip: then Uncle Philip died with a smile on his face.

"Duncan," said he as he expired, "bless you. You've been a delight in my old age and you've saved me the trouble of drawing up a will. Thanks to you, my books are perfectly balanced. After the doctor and the funeral, I will have about half a pound left. It's all yours. Do anything you want with it."

Duncan stayed with his uncle to the bitter end and then distributed the half pound among some charities and found himself flat broke. But he hung around the Daisy Street house for a few days. After a week he received a telegram from the family lawyer: "On the way to Stratton your mother died of apoplexy. Be present at reading of will.--Dickson."

Duncan showed up in the lawyer's office and the seal on the will was opened. It was very short: "To my son Duncan Fitzmorris I leave all my worldly possessions on the condition that he drink, in the presence of my lawyer Herman Dickson and the two witnesses indicated below, one glass of castor oil."

The lawyer, having read the document, called in the witnesses, took the glass of castor oil out of the safe, and handed it to Duncan.

Duncan shook his head.

"No," he said softly, but with great determination. Then he walked out.

Duncan Fitzmorris was a man of character above all, and then one has to take into consideration that after twenty-four years the castor oil had turned green in its glass and was thick as petroleum.

"In any case," the lawyer called after him, "whenever you want it, it's here." And he put the castor oil back into the safe.

This happened at 4 p.m., May 13, 1905. At 4:30 Duncan took quick inventory of his own worldly possessions and decided that to provide for his future he had about a hundred dollars and a couple of trunkfuls of elegant suits. There was merely the matter of the hotel bill. So, having received Clotilda Troll's letter at 7 p.m., Duncan called the porter and said, "Have the bill made up and send a carriage round to take me down to the harbor at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning"

After all, he didn't find himself in normal circumstances. Otherwise he would have thought twice about vague invitations to yacht cruises and little kisses from Clotilda Troll.

Clotilda, the rich, eccentric, wild Clo that young and old in New Islip made cow eyes at, had always seemed a clumsy, extremely irritating little girl to our hero. Yet in this particular situation a cruise on Miss Troll's yacht could be a jumping-off point for a glorious future. One thing often leads to another.

Duncan cringed at the thought of marriage, and not a little at the thought of Clotilda Troll. But between a clumsy millionairess and the twenty-four-year-old glass of castor oil, Duncan found marriage the lesser of two disasters.

This is to explain why, upon hearing the discreet knock at his door, Duncan Fitzmorris was very pleased.

"Come in," said Duncan, getting up and tossing his cigarette butt through the porthole.

In came an enormous man with a well-tended black mustache and a gold boutonniere on his high-collared jacket. Even taking stock of Clotilda Troll's not infrequent lapses into eccentricity, this personage absolutely could not be Clotilda Troll.

Evidently he was the captain of the yacht. "Would you be good enough to follow me to our parlor?" the captain said, and Duncan acquiesced, nodding his head toward the door. After all, it was proper that Clotilda Troll hadn't come down to Duncan's cabin, rather had asked him to come up to the parlor, and Duncan, although he was no friend to convention, understood.

Inside the parlor, Duncan found himself in the presence of two young men he'd never seen before, neither of whom could be Clotilda Troll. Duncan didn't make an issue of it. He merely nodded to both.

There followed a few moments of silence. Then the captain deposited a letter on the table. "As you can see, the envelope is addressed to Messrs. Duncan Fitzmorris, Septimius North, and Barton Clegg. I was asked to bring you together in the same room so that the letter might be read simultaneously by all of you." The captain saluted and withdrew.

Duncan, aside from being a man of character, was a man of exemplary calm. Therefore, before doing another thing, he lit a cigarette and settled himself in an armchair. After a while he turned to the other two, who were still standing around looking rather embarrassed. "Gentlemen," said Duncan, "after what the captain said, introductions don't seem necessary. We all know very well that I'm Duncan Fitzmorris, you are Septimius North, and he is Barton Clegg."

Septimius and Clegg agreed.

"Therefore there is nothing for me to do but ask one of you to open the letter and read it out loud. If, on the other hand, this solution displeases you, I'm perfectly willing to tear the envelope in thirds and each can withdraw to his cabin with his own third."

Septimius shrugged his shoulders but Barton Clegg quickly made it clear that the first was the more acceptable alternative. So he tore open the envelope with trembling hands and read aloud.

Clegg dropped the letter and looked at Duncan in dismay. Septimius covered his face with his hands.

"That's all?" said Duncan, looking at his fingernails.

"That's all," whimpered Clegg.

"Fine. Let's take a stroll around the deck," said Duncan, standing up and walking toward the door.

But Septimius jumped up and blocked his way. "Mr. Fitzmorris," said he, very excited, "really this is most irregular. We must do something."

"I was just about," smiled Duncan, "to take a stroll around the deck. That's doing something."

"I suppose," said Septimius, a little calmer, "that's the only thing one can do. However, I would like to point out that I think this a very poor joke indeed."

Duncan shook his head. "I assure you it's not a joke at all. We really are sailing who knows where, we really will not be coming back to New Islip for quite some time, and it's really in earnest."

"Thank heavens," sighed Septimius, mollified. "I'm not keen for jokes, never have been. Can you imagine, I haven't spoken to my father for three years because he pulled a chair out from under me?"

Duncan approved of Septimius North: a man of character. He liked men of character.

"Not a word since, you know," Septimius repeated. "And we live in the same house. When I have something urgent to say to him, I write it down, even if we're at table. Then I call the butler and ask him to take the note over to my father."

Barton Clegg, who up to that point had been staring dejectedly through the porthole at the ocean, tried to collect himself. "It's dreadful," he sobbed. "Never to see her again, never to smell her perfume, never to be able to send her the sweet poems I composed nights! Oh, how I love her!"

Duncan patted him on the back affectionately. "Console yourself, Mr. Clegg. You'll find another girl."

But Barton Clegg shook his head. "Never!" he shouted, wringing his hands. "Never. There's not a woman in the world like Clotilda Troll."

Septimius's eyes bulged out. "You mean to say you're still in love with Clotilda Troll?"

"Yes, yes, yes," wept Barton Clegg. "I love her more now, even as Petrarch loved Laura more after her death. She's a creature from heaven!"

Duncan patted Clegg on the back again. "Poor Mr. Clegg," he said consolingly. "I understand your dilemma. You're so stupid you probably deserve to marry Clotilda Troll."

That sent Septimius into gales of laughter.

Then somebody knocked at the door. "Clotilda?" exclaimed Clegg, looking hopefully toward the door. Septimius started to smile, and then, seeing Duncan slouched in an armchair in an attitude of complete unconcern, he turned to the porthole wearily and began whistling. Septimius was a likable chap, very observant, but completely lacking in critical sensibility.