Naturally the _Skipping Goone_ didn’t possess a lounge in any true ocean
liner sense. But there was a rough space aft, out of which improvised
sleeping quarters opened; and into this cabin, forlorn enough in itself,
and lighted only by a couple of very smoky lamps, had been introduced
certain truly voluptuous notes. There were benches with bright red
cushions, and—yes, there actually was a piano. It seemed a wonderful
thing indeed, coming upon a piano in such a dismal coop of a place. But
there it was—a perky, cheap little upright, not quite full grown and
apparently lined with tin. It was shabby and perky at the same time; Mr.
Curry had purchased it at second hand, and it looked as though it had
passed through rather a good many hands even before it reached the dealer
at all. But it was still indomitable, and possessed a red felt scarf with
an amazing border of yellow and green stitching. As for the “soft” pedal,
it no longer worked; but the “loud” pedal was perfectly intact—and that,
as the impresario joyously pointed out to Miss Valentine, was “just fifty
per cent. better than no pedal of any description.”
Round the piano they gathered after dinner and made as much merry noise
as they could in an effort to keep their spirits from sagging. It was
a very different picture from that framed by the tiny lone cabin where
Captain Bearman, surrounded by august nautical implements and with the
impressive book of the log spread open before him, sat busy with his
finger nails, gnawing them in sullen solitude. The perky piano dominated
another scene altogether. Mr. Curry himself sat at the piano, pounding
with incorrigible cheerfulness. The drummer from Kentucky had brought
out his queer little old snare drum for the occasion—no room, alas, for
the kinglier kettles here! And the temperamental violinist from Vienna
vigorously added his best technique to swell the melodic pleasures of the
convivial hour.
The family of songbirds pressed close about them, bawling old comic songs
and parodies at the top of their lungs, laughing with many symptoms of
hysteria, and having the gayest sort of time imaginable. Yes, gayety was
the rule and goal of the hour; and if any one, in a moment of unfortunate
abstraction, had struck up _Home Sweet Home_ or _Rocked in the Cradle of
the Deep_ there would have been a riot indeed. The offender would have
been put right off the ship.
It was a glorious night—sheer and immortal—this first night at sea.
All about spread darkness and lonely ocean, with stars burning dimly
overhead. The stars looked down through empyreans of silence and saw
the _Skipping Goone_ nosing along under full sail with her romantic
miscellany of merchandise and songbirds, dogged and unafraid, conquering
through plain cheek. In the cabin with the smoky lamps the impresario and
his children blithely challenged the elements to do their worst.
Jerome, of course, was in the cabin with them. “Lord, Lord!” Curry had
exclaimed, his kindly face a real pageant of perplexity, “it’s just one
of those things that happen. Boy, it might be worse, though I guess
you’re in for a little taste of the world, eh? You’ll have to take pot
luck with us, but the Lord knows you’re welcome!” In the midst of the
spritely din Jerome and Lili were discussing the predicament.
“Oh,” gurgled Lili, “it will come out in all the papers: ‘Last seen
departing for Girardin’s.’ What grand publicity—if you only needed it,
like me! Gawd knows I could use a little of that kind!” Then she added:
“How are you going to let them know where you are?”
It was a question indeed. The comedian cupped his hands and shouted
across the hubbub: “Write a note and put it in a bottle!” It would be
somehow painfully appropriate—in a bottle—though the chances of delivery
couldn’t be reckoned very brilliant.
Jerome thought of his people—his home—saw everything perhaps more vividly
than ever before in his life. If this amazing calamity hadn’t befallen
him, where would he be now? At the movies, probably. Yes, he was pretty
likely to be at the movies of an evening now that Stella had slipped out
of his life. It seemed unlikely he would ever have need of the movies
again!
Lili began singing along with the others, her strong and somewhat brazen
voice entering in with irrepressible verve. Jerome gazed at her. His
heart grew furtively undaunted. As a matter of fact, before long the
clerk was almost openly applauding his calamity. And then he even began
looking upon it as something he had accomplished himself, in a sense.
Certainly nothing could have been accomplished without him.
He had been an obscure clerk, and was an obscure clerk no longer. What
would come of all this in the end? Perplexity held him in a rather
shivery embrace. But Lili slipped an affectionate arm through his and
made him sway with her to the rhythm.
“_You can’t have any of my peanuts,_
_When your peanuts are gone!_”
She clapped time with her large, rather beautiful hands.
They romped from song to song, growing more abandoned all the time. “Come
on, now!” shouted the impresario joyously, dominating in his irresistible
way even the deafening din about him. “Strong on the chorus—swell out on
the second bar, and then—piano—_piano_! Tum te tum tum! Now, then, all
together:
‘_Little Annie Roonie is my sweetheart!_’
Bravo!”