MR. AND MRS. WATSON OF NEW YORK
It was their third day out, and Mr. Sabin was enjoying the voyage very
much indeed. The _Calipha_ was a small boat sailing to Boston instead of
New York, and contemptuously termed by the ocean-going public an old
tub. She carried, consequently, only seven passengers besides Mr. Sabin,
and it had taken him but a very short time to decide that of those seven
passengers not one was interested in him or his affairs. He had got
clear away, for the present at any rate, from all the complications and
dangers which had followed upon the failure of his great scheme. Of
course by this time the news of his departure and destination was known
to every one whom his movements concerned. That was almost a matter of
course, and realising even the impossibility of successful concealment,
Mr. Sabin had made no attempt at any. He had given the name of Sabin to
the steward, and had secured the deck's cabin for his own use. He
chatted every day with the captain, who treated him with respect, and in
reply to a question from one of the stewards who was a Frenchman, he
admitted that he was the Duc de Souspennier, and that he was travelling
incognito only as a whim. He was distinctly popular with every one of
the seven passengers, who were a little doubtful how to address him,
but whom he succeeded always in putting entirely at their ease. He
entered, too, freely into the little routine of steamer life. He played
shuffleboard for an hour or more every morning, and was absolutely
invincible at the game; he brought his golf clubs on deck one evening
after dinner, and explained the manner of their use to an admiring
little circle of the seven passengers, the captain, and doctor. He
rigorously supported the pool each day, and he even took a hand at a
mild game of poker one wet afternoon, when timidly invited to do so
by Mr. Hiram Shedge, an oil merchant of Boston. He had in no way the
deportment or manner of a man who had just passed through a great
crisis, nor would any one have gathered from his conversation or
demeanour that he was the head of one of the greatest houses in Europe
and a millionaire. The first time a shadow crossed his face was late one
afternoon, when, coming on deck a little behind the others after lunch,
he found them all leaning over the starboard bow, gazing intently at
some object a little distance off, and at the same time became aware
that the engines had been put to half-speed.
He was strolling towards the little group, when the captain, seeing him,
beckoned him on to the bridge.
"Here's something that will interest you, Mr. Sabin," he called out.
"Won't you step this way?"
Mr. Sabin mounted the iron steps carefully but with his eyes turned
seawards; a large yacht of elegant shape and painted white from stern
to bows was lying-to about half a mile off flying signals.
Mr. Sabin reached the bridge and stood by the captain's side.
"A pleasure yacht," he remarked. "What does she want?"
"I shall know in a moment," the captain answered with his glass to his
eye. "She flew a distress signal at first for us to stand by, so I
suppose she's in trouble. Ah! there it goes. 'Mainshaft broken,' she
says."
"She doesn't lie like it," Mr. Sabin remarked quietly.
The captain looked at him with a smile.
"You know a bit about yachting too," he said, "and, to tell you the
truth, that's just what I was thinking."
"Holmes."
"Yes, sir."
"Ask her what she wants us to do."
The signalman touched his hat, and the little row of flags ran
fluttering up in the breeze.
"She signals herself the _Mayflower_, private yacht, owner Mr. James
Watson of New York," he remarked. "She's a beautiful boat."
Mr. Sabin, who had brought his own glasses, looked at her long and
steadily.
"She's not an American built boat, at any rate," he remarked.
An answering signal came fluttering back. The captain opened his book
and read it.
"She's going on under canvas," he said, "but she wants us to take her
owner and his wife on board."
"Are you compelled to do so?" Mr. Sabin asked.
The captain laughed.
"Not exactly! I'm not expected to pick up passengers in mid ocean."
"Then I shouldn't do it," Mr. Sabin said. "If they are in a hurry the
_Alaska_ is due up to-day, isn't she? and she'll be in New York in three
days, and the _Baltimore_ must be close behind her. I should let them
know that."
"Well," the captain answered, "I don't want fresh passengers bothering
just now."
The flags were run up, and the replies came back as promptly. The
captain shut up his glass with a bang.
"No getting out of them," he remarked to Mr. Sabin. "They reply that the
lady is nervous and will not wait; they are coming on board at once--for
fear I should go on, I suppose. They add that Mr. Watson is the largest
American holder of Cunard stock and a director of the American Board, so
have them we must--that's pretty certain. I must see the purser."
He descended, and Mr. Sabin, following him, joined the little group of
passengers. They all stood together watching the long rowing boat which
was coming swiftly towards them through the smooth sea. Mr. Sabin
explained to them the messages which had passed, and together they
admired the disabled yacht.
Mr. Sabin touched the first mate on the arm as he passed.
"Did you ever see a vessel like that, Johnson?" he remarked.
The man shook his head.
"Their engineer is a fool, sir!" he declared scornfully. "Nothing but my
own eyes would make me believe there's anything serious the matter with
her shaft."
"I agree with you," Mr. Sabin said quietly.
The boat was now within hailing distance. Mr. Sabin leaned down over the
side and scanned its occupants closely. There was nothing in the least
suspicious about them. The man who sat in the stern steering was a
typical American, with thin sallow face and bright eyes. The woman
wore a thick veil, but she was evidently young, and when she stood up
displayed a figure and clothes distinctly Parisian. The two came up the
ladder as though perfectly used to boarding a vessel in mid ocean, and
the lady's nervousness was at least not apparent. The captain advanced
to meet them, and gallantly assisted the lady on to the deck.
"This is Captain Ackinson, I presume," the man remarked with extended
hand. "We are exceedingly obliged to you, sir, for taking us off. This
is my wife, Mrs. James B. Watson."
Mrs. Watson raised her veil, and disclosed a dark, piquant face with
wonderfully bright eyes.
"It's real nice of you, Captain," she said frankly. "You don't know how
good it is to feel the deck of a real ocean-going steamer beneath your
feet after that little sailing boat of my husband's. This is the very
last time I attempt to cross the Atlantic except on one of your
steamers."
"We are very glad to be of any assistance," the captain answered, more
heartily than a few minutes before he would have believed possible.
"Full speed ahead, John!"
There was a churning of water and dull throb of machinery restarting.
The little rowing boat, already well away on its return journey, rocked
on the long waves. Mr. Watson turned to shout some final instructions.
Then the captain beckoned to the purser.
"Mr. Wilson will show you your state rooms," he remarked. "Fortunately
we have plenty of room. Steward, take the baggage down."
The lady went below, but Mr. Watson remained on deck talking to the
captain. Mr. Sabin strolled up to them.
"Your yacht rides remarkably well, if her shaft is really broken," he
remarked.
Mr. Watson nodded.
"She's a beautifully built boat," he remarked with enthusiasm. "If the
weather is favourable her canvas will bring her into Boston Harbour two
days after us."
"I suppose," the captain asked, looking at her through his glass, "you
satisfied yourself that her shaft was really broken?"
"I did not, sir," Mr. Watson answered. "My engineer reported it so, and,
as I know nothing of machinery myself, I was content to take his word.
He holds very fine diplomas, and I presume he knows what he is talking
about. But anyway Mrs. Watson would never have stayed upon that boat one
moment longer than she was compelled. She's a wonderfully nervous woman
is Mrs. Watson."
"That's a somewhat unusual trait for your countrywoman, is it not?" Mr.
Sabin asked.
Mr. J. B. Watson looked steadily at his questioner.
"My wife, sir," he said, "has lived for many years on the Continent. She
would scarcely consider herself an American."
"I beg your pardon," Mr. Sabin remarked courteously. "One can see at
least that she has acquired the polish of the only habitable country
in the world. But if I had taken the liberty of guessing at her
nationality, I should have taken her to be a German."
Mr. Watson raised his eyebrows, and somehow managed to drop the match he
was raising to his cigar.
"You astonish me very much, sir," he remarked. "I always looked upon the
fair, rotund woman as the typical German face."
Mr. Sabin shook his head gently.
"There are many types," he said "and nationality, you know, does not
always go by complexion or size. For instance, you are very like many
American gentlemen whom I have had the pleasure of meeting, but at the
same time I should not have taken you for an American."
The captain laughed.
"I can't agree with you, Mr. Sabin," he said. "Mr. Watson appears to
me to be, if he will pardon my saying so, the very type of the modern
American man."
"I'm much obliged to you, Captain," Mr. Watson said cheerfully. "I'm a
Boston man, that's sure, and I believe, sir, I'm proud of it. I want to
know for what nationality you would have taken me if you had not been
informed?"
"I should have looked for you also," Mr. Sabin said deliberately, "in
the streets of Berlin."