Meantime, the _Skipping Goone_ was taking on a lively appearance indeed,
as the great sailing day drew close. She had hugged her wharf so long
in apathetic solitude that it had begun to look as though she might be
destined just to settle down in the peaceful calm of the harbour for
the remainder of her days. She seemed a little weary and careless of
reputation. Small urchins of the wharf played familiarly all over her
decks, while a shore cat, who would have raised her paws in horror at the
thought of becoming a ship’s cat, had strayed aboard through pardonable
misapprehension and become parent to a generous brood of kittens. The
hawsers had taken on a staid and permanent look. But lo! a great change
was come about, and the _Skipping Goone_ strained at her moorings, ready
to launch forth upon the most strenuous period of her career.
It was at length the very eve of departure. Jerome had been feeling very
sad, with the hour of severance so nearly arrived; but as the night wore
on he felt less and less sad in proportion to the augmenting glasses of
claret poured out for him by the incomparable Lili, who, herself in a
distinctly uplifted state, didn’t leave off beaming at all. His, just
now, were sensations he could wish to prolong into an eternity; they
eased his hurt at the same time that they encouraged in him a feeling
that he might, if he would, cut a tremendous figure in life. Could Stella
look in upon him now here in the dazzling midst of Girardin’s French
table d’hôte, surrounded by gay opera singers making the most of their
last night on shore, she would think there had been strides since the day
they had quarrelled in the fog.
“Pass the bottle along down, dear old dear!” somebody shouted.
All things considered, it was a remarkably democratic aggregation of
songbirds. Naturally when he boasted about its being one big family, the
impresario exaggerated a little; for of course there was a perpetual
swarm of petty jealousies and artistic differences—though what are most
families like, anyhow? By and large, the troupe was an extraordinary
model of ruined caste.
When the fun was at its height, Curry waved a gem-encrusted hand, gave
his songbirds a departing smile, and removed himself to a distant corner
of the restaurant where he could spread out all those “dreadful lists and
things” which Captain Bearman insisted must be checked up. His retreat
was deplored by a prodigious groan, and impulsively covered by Lili, who
chased after him with a slopping goblet of wine and a depleted plate of
sandwiches. “So you won’t starve to death, old dear!” And she flung her
arms spontaneously round his neck before returning to beam upon her clerk.
“You’d think it ought to be an easy thing to run a schooner,” Curry
smiled up wanly at M. Girardin, who had strolled over from his little
cash booth in a relaxed mood. “But Lord! there’s been nothing but
trouble from the word go!” Captain Bearman was turning out to be a master
full of whines and unforeseen exactions. There had been endless fault
to find with the _Shipping Goone_. “What a vessel! Sails rotten, hull
rotten! Rudder in the last stages!” Apparently there was nothing quite
right about the poor old _Skipping Goone_, of which the impresario had
been so proud, except perhaps the new coat of paint—and even the colour
of that had been grumblingly objected to as unnautical. “And then,”
Girardin was told, “the cargo!”
“But _mon dieu_, do you intend to handle it all yourself? Have you no
business manager, _par example_?”
“Well, perhaps not in the strict sense,” admitted Mr. Curry in his
petitioning, confidential way. “There’s a sort of treasurer—you see that
man just waving the bottle? But he just handles the box office receipts.
Then I’ve got a kind of assistant, too, who’s supposed to do things; but
he’s been so crazy to go on the stage that I’ve had to let him sing in
the chorus, and that seems to make him not much good for anything else.”
An unusual amount of commotion on the other side of the restaurant made
them look across. Most of the troupers had had sense, but a few were in a
very mellow condition—notably Jerome, who wasn’t used to stimulants and
so reacted to them with awful completeness. The songbirds were grouped
in a crowding and boisterous circle. One of the men was whistling a jig
tune, and several were clapping their hands in syncopated time, while in
the centre, very much flushed and largely unable to keep his balance, was
Jerome, doing the sailor’s hornpipe.