Nothing especially worthy of mention occurred during that day. We left
the pier punctually, and it was very pleasant to be fairly under way,
for the weather was warm and sultry, and the motion of the steamer
produced a refreshing breeze. Everybody knows what the first day at sea
is like. People pace the decks and stare at each other, and occasionally
meet acquaintances whom they did not know to be on board. There is the
usual uncertainty as to whether the food will be good, bad, or
indifferent, until the first two meals have put the matter beyond a
doubt; there is the usual uncertainty about the weather, until the ship
is fairly off Fire Island. The tables are crowded at first, and then
suddenly thinned. Pale-faced people spring from their seats and
precipitate themselves towards the door, and each old sailor breathes
more freely as his seasick neighbour rushes from his side, leaving him
plenty of elbow-room and an unlimited command over the mustard.
One passage across the Atlantic is very much like another, and we who
cross very often do not make the voyage for the sake of novelty. Whales
and icebergs are indeed always objects of interest, but, after all, one
whale is very much like another whale, and one rarely sees an iceberg at
close quarters. To the majority of us the most delightful moment of the
day on board an ocean steamer is when we have taken our last turn on
deck, have smoked our last cigar, and having succeeded in tiring
ourselves, feel at liberty to turn in with a clear conscience. On that
first night of the voyage I felt particularly lazy, and went to bed in
105 rather earlier than I usually do. As I turned in, I was amazed to
see that I was to have a companion. A portmanteau, very like my own, lay
in the opposite corner, and in the upper berth had been deposited a
neatly folded rug, with a stick and umbrella. I had hoped to be alone,
and I was disappointed; but I wondered who my room-mate was to be, and I
determined to have a look at him.
Before I had been long in bed he entered. He was, as far as I could see,
a very tall man, very thin, very pale, with sandy hair and whiskers and
colourless grey eyes. He had about him, I thought, an air of rather
dubious fashion; the sort of man you might see in Wall Street, without
being able precisely to say what he was doing there--the sort of man who
frequents the Café Anglais, who always seems to be alone and who drinks
champagne; you might meet him on a racecourse, but he would never appear
to be doing anything there either. A little over-dressed--a little odd.
There are three or four of his kind on every ocean steamer. I made up
my mind that I did not care to make his acquaintance, and I went to
sleep saying to myself that I would study his habits in order to avoid
him. If he rose early, I would rise late; if he went to bed late I would
go to bed early. I did not care to know him. If you once know people of
that kind, they are always turning up. Poor fellow! I need not have
taken the trouble to come to so many decisions about him, for I never
saw him again after that first night in 105.
I was sleeping soundly when I was suddenly waked by a loud noise. To
judge from the sound, my room-mate must have sprung with a single leap
from the upper berth to the floor. I heard him fumbling with the latch
and bolt of the door, which opened almost immediately, and then I heard
his footsteps as he ran at full speed down the passage, leaving the door
open behind him. The ship was rolling a little, and I expected to hear
him stumble or fall, but he ran as though he were running for his life.
The door swung on its hinges with the motion of the vessel, and the
sound annoyed me. I got up and shut it, and groped my way back to my
berth in the darkness. I went to sleep again; but I have no idea how
long I slept.
When I awoke it was still quite dark, but I felt a disagreeable
sensation of cold, and it seemed to me that the air was damp. You know
the peculiar smell of a cabin which has been wet with sea-water. I
covered myself up as well as I could and dozed off again, framing
complaints to be made the next day, and selecting the most powerful
epithets in the language. I could hear my room-mate turn over in the
upper berth. He had probably returned while I was asleep. Once I thought
I heard him groan, and I argued that he was sea-sick. That is
particularly unpleasant when one is below. Nevertheless I dozed off and
slept till early daylight.
The ship was rolling heavily, much more than on the previous evening,
and the grey light which came in through the porthole changed in tint
with every movement according as the angle of the vessel's side turned
the glass seawards or skywards. It was very cold--unaccountably so for
the month of June. I turned my head and looked at the porthole, and saw
to my surprise that it was wide open and hooked back. I believe I swore
audibly. Then I got up and shut it. As I turned back I glanced at the
upper berth. The curtains were drawn close together; my companion had
probably felt cold as well as I. It struck me that I had slept enough.
The state-room was uncomfortable, though, strange to say, I could not
smell the dampness which had annoyed me in the night. My room-mate was
still asleep--excellent opportunity for avoiding him, so I dressed at
once and went on deck. The day was warm and cloudy, with an oily smell
on the water. It was seven o'clock as I came out--much later than I had
imagined. I came across the doctor, who was taking his first sniff of
the morning air. He was a young man from the West of Ireland--a
tremendous fellow, with black hair and blue eyes, already inclined to be
stout; he had a happy-go-lucky, healthy look about him which was rather
attractive.
"Fine morning," I remarked, by way of introduction.
"Well," said he, eyeing me with an air of ready interest, "it's a fine
morning and it's not a fine morning. I don't think it's much of a
morning."
"Well, no--it is not so very fine," said I.
"It's just what I call fuggly weather," replied the doctor.
"It was very cold last night, I thought," I remarked. "However, when I
looked about, I found that the porthole was wide open. I had not noticed
it when I went to bed. And the state-room was damp, too."
"Damp!" said he. "Whereabouts are you?"
"One hundred and five--"
To my surprise the doctor started visibly, and stared at me.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"Oh--nothing," he answered; "only everybody has complained of that
state-room for the last three trips."
"I shall complain, too," I said. "It has certainly not been properly
aired. It is a shame!"
"I don't believe it can be helped," answered the doctor. "I believe
there is something--well, it is not my business to frighten passengers."
"You need not be afraid of frightening me," I replied. "I can stand any
amount of damp. If I should get a bad cold, I will come to you."
I offered the doctor a cigar, which he took and examined very
critically.
"It is not so much the damp," he remarked. "However, I dare say you will
get on very well. Have you a room-mate?"
"Yes; a deuce of a fellow, who bolts out in the middle of the night, and
leaves the door open."
Again the doctor glanced curiously at me. Then he lit the cigar and
looked grave.
"Did he come back?" he asked presently.
"Yes. I was asleep, but I waked up, and heard him moving. Then I felt
cold and went to sleep again. This morning I found the porthole open."
"Look here," said the doctor quietly, "I don't care much for this ship.
I don't care a rap for her reputation. I tell you what I will do. I have
a good-sized place up here. I will share it with you, though I don't
know you from Adam."
I was very much surprised at the proposition. I could not imagine why he
should take such a sudden interest in my welfare. However, his manner,
as he spoke of the ship, was peculiar.
"You are very good, doctor," I said. "But, really, I believe even now
the cabin could be aired, or cleaned out, or something. Why do you not
care for the ship?"
"We are not superstitious in our profession, sir," replied the doctor,
"but the sea makes people so. I don't want to prejudice you, and I don't
want to frighten you, but if you will take my advice you will move in
here. I would as soon see you overboard," he added earnestly, "as know
that you or any other man was to sleep in 105."
"Good gracious! Why?" I asked.
"Just because on the three last trips the people who have slept there
actually have gone overboard," he answered gravely.
The intelligence was startling and exceedingly unpleasant, I confess. I
looked hard at the doctor to see whether he was making game of me, but
he looked perfectly serious. I thanked him warmly for his offer, but
told him I intended to be the exception to the rule by which every one
who slept in that particular state-room went overboard. He did not say
much, but looked as grave as ever, and hinted that, before we got
across, I should probably reconsider his proposal. In the course of time
we went to breakfast, at which only an inconsiderable number of
passengers assembled. I noticed that one or two of the officers who
breakfasted with us looked grave. After breakfast I went into my
state-room in order to get a book. The curtains of the upper berth were
still closely drawn. Not a sound was to be heard. My room-mate was
probably still asleep.
As I came out I met the steward whose business it was to look after me.
He whispered that the captain wanted to see me, and then scuttled away
down the passage as if very anxious to avoid any questions. I went
toward the captain's cabin, and found him waiting for me.
"Sir," said he, "I want to ask a favour of you."
I answered that I would do anything to oblige him.
"Your room-mate has disappeared," he said. "He is known to have turned
in early last night. Did you notice anything extraordinary in his
manner?"
The question, coming as it did in exact confirmation of the fears the
doctor had expressed half an hour earlier, staggered me.
"You don't mean to say he has gone overboard?" I asked.
"I fear he has," answered the captain.
"This is the most extraordinary thing--" I began.
"Why?" he asked.
"He is the fourth, then?" I explained. In answer to another question
from the captain, I explained, without mentioning the doctor, that I had
heard the story concerning 105. He seemed very much annoyed at hearing
that I knew of it. I told him what had occurred in the night.
"What you say," he replied, "coincides almost exactly with what was told
me by the room-mates of two of the other three. They bolt out of bed and
run down the passage. Two of them were seen to go overboard by the
watch; we stopped and lowered boats, but they were not found. Nobody,
however, saw or heard the man who was lost last night--if he is really
lost. The steward, who is a superstitious fellow, perhaps, and expected
something to go wrong, went to look for him this morning, and found his
berth empty, but his clothes lying about, just as he had left them. The
steward was the only man on board who knew him by sight, and he has
been searching everywhere for him. He has disappeared! Now, sir, I want
to beg you not to mention the circumstance to any of the passengers; I
don't want the ship to get a bad name, and nothing hangs about an
ocean-goer like stories of suicides. You shall have your choice of any
one of the officers' cabins you like, including my own, for the rest of
the passage. Is that a fair bargain?"
"Very," said I; "and I am much obliged to you. But since I am alone, and
have the state-room to myself, I would rather not move. If the steward
will take out that unfortunate man's things, I would as lief stay where
I am. I will not say anything about the matter, and I think I can
promise you that I will not follow my room-mate."
The captain tried to dissuade me from my intention, but I preferred
having a state-room alone to being the chum of any officer on board. I
do not know whether I acted foolishly, but if I had taken his advice I
should have had nothing more to tell. There would have remained the
disagreeable coincidence of several suicides occurring among men who had
slept in the same cabin, but that would have been all.
That was not the end of the matter, however, by any means. I
obstinately made up my mind that I would not be disturbed by such tales,
and I even went so far as to argue the question with the captain. There
was something wrong about the state-room, I said. It was rather damp.
The porthole had been left open last night. My room-mate might have been
ill when he came on board, and he might have become delirious after he
went to bed. He might even now be hiding somewhere on board, and might
be found later. The place ought to be aired and the fastening of the
port looked to. If the captain would give me leave, I would see that
what I thought necessary were done immediately.
"Of course you have a right to stay where you are if you please," he
replied, rather petulantly; "but I wish you would turn out and let me
lock the place up, and be done with it."
I did not see it in the same light, and left the captain, after
promising to be silent concerning the disappearance of my companion. The
latter had had no acquaintances on board, and was not missed in the
course of the day. Towards evening I met the doctor again, and he asked
me whether I had changed my mind. I told him I had not.
"Then you will before long," he said, very gravely.