Peace reigned over that portion of the Atlantic occupied by the Clan
Macgregor. The wind had died away in fitful puffs. The waves had
subsided. Marked accessions to the deck population were in evidence.
Everybody looked cheerful. But Achilles, which is to say the Tyro,
sulked in his tent, otherwise Stateroom 123 D.
On deck, Little Miss Grouch sat, outwardly radiant of countenance but
privately nursing her second grievance against her slave for that he
had failed to obey her behest and appear at the previous evening's
dance. Around her, in various attitudes of adoration, sat her court.
Mrs. Charlton Denyse tramped back and forth like a sentinel, watching,
not too unobtrusively, the possibly future Mrs. Remsen Van Dam, for she
expected developments. In the smoking-room Judge Enderby and Dr.
Alderson indulged in bridge of a concentrated, reflective, and
contentious species. As each practiced a different system, their views
at the end of every rubber were the delight of their opponents. They had
finished their final fiasco, and were standing at the door, exchanging
mutual recriminations, when the Tyro with a face of deepest gloom bore
down upon them.
"How much of the ship does the captain own, Dr. Alderson?" he asked,
without any preliminaries.
"He doesn't own any of it."
"How much of it does he boss, then?"
"All of it."
"And everybody on board?"
"Yes."
"No one has any rights at all?"
"None that the captain can't overrule."
"Then he can put me in irons if he likes."
"Why, yes, if there be any such thing aboard, which I doubt. What on
earth does he want to put you in irons for?"
"He doesn't. At least he didn't look as if he did. But he seems to think
he has to, unless I obey orders. He threatened to have me shut up in my
cabin."
"Hullo! And what have you been doing that you shouldn't do?"
"Talking to Little Miss Gr--Wayne."
"If that were a punishable offense," put in Judge Enderby, in his
weighty voice, "half the men aboard would be in solitary confinement."
"I wish they were," said the Tyro fervently.