The White Star liner _Atlantic_ lay at her pier with steam up and
gangway down ready for her trip to Southampton. The hour of departure
was near and there was a good deal of mixed activity going on. Sailors
fiddled about with ropes. Junior officers flitted to and fro.
White-jacketed stewards wrestled with trunks. Probably the captain,
though not visible, was also employed on some useful work of a nautical
nature and not wasting his time. Men, women, boxes, rugs, dogs, flowers
and baskets of fruit were flowing on board in a steady stream.
The usual drove of citizens had come to see the travellers off. There
were men on the passenger-list who were being seen off by fathers, by
mothers, by sisters, by cousins, and by aunts. In the steerage there was
an elderly Jewish lady who was being seen off by exactly thirty-seven
of her late neighbours in Rivington Street. And two men in the
second cabin were being seen off by detectives, surely the crowning
compliment a great nation can bestow. The cavernous customs shed was
congested with friends and relatives, and Sam Marlowe, heading for the
gang-plank, was only able to make progress by employing all the muscle
and energy which Nature had bestowed upon him, and which during the
twenty-five years of his life he had developed by athletic exercise.
However, after some minutes of silent endeavour, now driving his shoulder
into the midriff of some obstructing male, now courteously lifting some
stout female off his feet, he had succeeded in struggling to within a few
yards of his goal, when suddenly a sharp pain shot through his right arm
and he spun round with a cry.
It seemed to Sam that he had been bitten, and this puzzled him, for New
York crowds, though they may shove and jostle, rarely bite.
He found himself face to face with an extraordinarily pretty girl.
She was a red-haired girl with the beautiful ivory skin which goes with
red hair. Her eyes, though they were under the shadow of her hat, and
he could not be certain, he diagnosed as green, or maybe blue, or
possibly grey. Not that it mattered, for he had a catholic taste in
feminine eyes. So long as they were large and bright, as were
the specimens under his immediate notice, he was not the man to
quibble about a point of colour. Her nose was small, and on the very
tip of it there was a tiny freckle. Her mouth was nice and wide, her
chin soft and round. She was just about the height which every girl
ought to be. Her figure was trim, her feet tiny, and she wore one of
those dresses of which a man can say no more than that they look pretty
well all right.
Nature abhors a vacuum. Samuel Marlowe was a susceptible young man, and
for many a long month his heart had been lying empty, all swept and
garnished, with "Welcome" on the mat. This girl seemed to rush in and
fill it. She was not the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She was the
third prettiest. He had an orderly mind, one capable of classifying and
docketing girls. But there was a subtle something about her, a sort of
how-shall-one-put-it, which he had never encountered before. He
swallowed convulsively. His well-developed chest swelled beneath its
covering of blue flannel and invisible stripe. At last, he told
himself, he was in love, really in love, and at first sight, too, which
made it all the more impressive. He doubted whether in the whole
course of history anything like this had ever happened before to
anybody. Oh, to clasp this girl to him and--
But she had bitten him in the arm. That was hardly the right spirit.
That, he felt, constituted an obstacle.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried.
Well, of course, if she regretted her rash act ... After all, an
impulsive girl might bite a man in the arm in the excitement of the
moment and still have a sweet, womanly nature....
"The crowd seems to make Pinky-Boodles so nervous."
Sam might have remained mystified, but at this juncture there proceeded
from a bundle of rugs in the neighbourhood of the girl's lower ribs a
sharp yapping sound, of such a calibre as to be plainly audible over
the confused noise of Mamies who were telling Sadies to be sure and
write, of Bills who were instructing Dicks to look up old Joe in Paris
and give him their best, and of all the fruit-boys, candy-boys,
magazine-boys, American-flag-boys, and telegraph boys who were honking
their wares on every side.
"I hope he didn't hurt you much. You're the third person he's bitten
to-day." She kissed the animal in a loving and congratulatory way on the
tip of his black nose. "Not counting bell-boys, of course," she added.
And then she was swept from him in the crowd and he was left thinking
of all the things he might have said--all those graceful, witty,
ingratiating things which just make a bit of difference on these
occasions.
He had said nothing. Not a sound, exclusive of the first sharp yowl of
pain, had proceeded from him. He had just goggled. A rotten exhibition!
Perhaps he would never see this girl again. She looked the sort of girl
who comes to see friends off and doesn't sail herself. And what memory
of him would she retain? She would mix him up with the time when she
went to visit the deaf-and-dumb hospital.
Sam reached the gang-plank, showed his ticket, and made his way through
the crowd of passengers, passengers' friends, stewards, junior
officers, and sailors who infested the deck. He proceeded down the main
companion-way, through a rich smell of india-rubber and mixed pickles,
as far as the dining-saloon: then turned down the narrow passage
leading to his stateroom.
Staterooms on ocean liners are curious things. When you see them on the
chart in the passenger-office, with the gentlemanly clerk drawing rings
round them in pencil, they seem so vast that you get the impression
that, after stowing away all your trunks, you will have room left over
to do a bit of entertaining--possibly an informal dance or something.
When you go on board you find that the place has shrunk to the
dimensions of an undersized cupboard in which it would be impossible to
swing a cat. And then, about the second day out, it suddenly expands
again. For one reason or another the necessity for swinging cats does
not arise and you find yourself quite comfortable.
Sam, balancing himself on the narrow, projecting ledge which the chart
in the passenger-office had grandiloquently described as a lounge,
began to feel the depression which marks the second phase. He almost
wished now that he had not been so energetic in having his room changed
in order to enjoy the company of his cousin Eustace. It was going to be
a tight fit. Eustace's bag was already in the cabin, and it seemed to
take up the entire fairway. Still, after all, Eustace was a good sort,
and would be a cheerful companion. And Sam realised that if that girl
with the red hair was not a passenger on the boat he was going to have
need of diverting society.
A footstep sounded in the passage outside. The door opened.
"Hullo, Eustace!" said Sam.
Eustace Hignett nodded listlessly, sat down on his bag and emitted a
deep sigh. He was a small, fragile-looking young man with a pale,
intellectual face. Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He
looked like a man who would write _vers libre_, as indeed he did.
"Hullo!" he said, in a hollow voice.
Sam regarded him blankly. He had not seen him for some years, but,
going by his recollections of him at the University, he had expected
something cheerier than this. In fact, he had rather been relying on
Eustace to be the life and soul of the party. The man sitting on the
bag before him could hardly have filled that role at a gathering of
Russian novelists.
"What on earth's the matter?" said Sam.
"The matter?" Eustace Hignett laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, nothing.
Nothing much. Nothing to signify. Only my heart's broken." He eyed with
considerable malignity the bottle of water in the rack above his head,
a harmless object provided by the White Star Company for clients who
might desire to clean their teeth during the voyage.
"If you would care to hear the story?" he said.
"Go ahead."
"It is quite short."
"That's good."
"Soon after I arrived in America I met a girl...."
"Talking of girls," said Marlowe with enthusiasm. "I've just seen the
only one in the world that really amounts to anything. It was like
this. I was shoving my way through the mob on the dock, when
suddenly...."
"Shall I tell you my story, or will you tell me yours?"
"Oh, sorry! Go ahead."
Eustace Hignett scowled at the printed notice on the wall informing
occupants of the stateroom that the name of their steward was J. B.
Midgeley.
"She was an extraordinarily pretty girl...."
"So was mine. I give you my honest word I never in all my life saw
such...."
"Of course, if you would prefer that I postponed my narrative?" said
Eustace coldly.
"Oh, sorry! Carry on."
"She was an extraordinarily pretty girl...."
"What was her name?"
"Wilhelmina Bennett. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl and highly
intelligent. I read her all my poems and she appreciated them
immensely. She enjoyed my singing. My conversation appeared to interest
her. She admired my...."
"I see. You made a hit. Now get on with the rest of the story."
"Don't bustle me," said Eustace querulously.
"Well, you know, the voyage only takes eight days."
"I've forgotten where I was."
"You were saying what a devil of a chap she thought you. What happened?
I suppose, when you actually came to propose, you found she was engaged
to some other johnny?"
"Not at all. I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. We both
agreed that a quiet wedding was what we wanted--she thought her father
might stop the thing if he knew, and I was dashed sure my mother
would--so we decided to get married without telling anybody. By now,"
said Eustace, with a morose glance at the porthole, "I ought to have
been on my honeymoon. Everything was settled. I had the license and
the parson's fee. I had been breaking in a new tie for the wedding."
"And then you quarrelled?"
"Nothing of the kind. I wish you would stop trying to tell me the
story. I'm telling _you_. What happened was this: somehow--I can't
make out how--mother found out. And then, of course, it was all over.
She stopped the thing."
Sam was indignant. He thoroughly disliked his Aunt Adeline, and his
cousin's meek subservience to her revolted him.
"Stopped it? I suppose she said, 'Now, Eustace, you mustn't!' and you
said, 'Very well, mother!' and scratched the fixture?"
"She didn't say a word. She never has said a word. As far as that goes
she might never have heard anything about the marriage."
"Then how do you mean she stopped it?"
"She pinched my trousers!"
"Pinched your trousers?"
Eustace groaned. "All of them! The whole bally lot! She gets up long
before I do, and she must have come into my room and cleaned it out
while I was asleep. When I woke up and started to dress I couldn't find
a solitary pair of bags anywhere in the whole place. I looked
everywhere. Finally, I went into the sitting-room where she was writing
letters and asked if she had happened to see any anywhere. She said she
had sent them all to be pressed. She said she knew I never went out in
the mornings--I don't as a rule--and they would be back at lunch-time.
A fat lot of use that was! I had to be at the church at eleven. Well, I
told her I had a most important engagement with a man at eleven, and
she wanted to know what it was and I tried to think of something, but
it sounded pretty feeble and she said I had better telephone to the man
and put it off. I did it, too. Rang up the first number in the book and
told some fellow I had never seen in my life that I couldn't meet him!
He was pretty peeved, judging from what he said about my being on the
wrong line. And mother listening all the time, and I knowing that she
knew--something told me that she knew--and she knowing that I knew she
knew--I tell you it was awful!"
"And the girl?"
"She broke off the engagement. Apparently she waited at the church from
eleven till one-thirty and then began to get impatient. She wouldn't
see me when I called in the afternoon, but I got a letter from her
saying that what had happened was all for the best as she had been
thinking it over and had come to the conclusion that she had made a
mistake. She said something about my not being as dynamic as she had
thought I was. She said that what she wanted was something more like
Lancelot or Sir Galahad, and would I look on the episode as closed."
"Did you explain about the trousers?"
"Yes. It seemed to make things worse. She said that she could forgive a
man anything except being ridiculous."
"I think you're well out of it," said Sam judicially. "She can't have
been much of a girl."
"I feel that now. But it doesn't alter the fact that my life is ruined.
I have become a woman-hater. It's an infernal nuisance, because
practically all the poetry I have ever written rather went out of its
way to boost women, and now I'll have to start all over again and
approach the subject from another angle. Women! When I think how mother
behaved and how Wilhelmina treated me I wonder there isn't a law
against them. 'What mighty ills have not been done by Woman! Who was it
betrayed the Capitol!'"
"In Washington?" said Sam puzzled. He had heard nothing of this. But
then he generally confined his reading of the papers to the sporting
page.
"In Rome, you ass! Ancient Rome."
"Oh, as long ago as that?"
"I was quoting from Thomas Otway's 'Orphan.' I wish I could write like
Otway. He knew what he was talking about. 'Who was't betrayed the
Capitol? A woman. Who lost Marc Antony the world? A woman. Who was the
cause of a long ten years' war and laid at last old Troy in ashes?
Woman! Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman!'"
"Well, of course, he may be right in a way. As regards some women, I
mean. But the girl I met on the dock--"
"Don't!" said Eustace Hignett. "If you have anything bitter and
derogatory to say about women, say it and I will listen eagerly. But if
you merely wish to gibber about the ornamental exterior of some dashed
girl you have been fool enough to get attracted by, go and tell it to
the captain or the ship's cat or J. B. Midgeley. Do try to realise that
I am a soul in torment! I am a ruin, a spent force, a man without a
future! What does life hold for me? Love? I shall never love again.
My work? I haven't any. I think I shall take to drink."
"Talking of that," said Sam, "I suppose they open the bar directly we
pass the three-mile limit. How about a small one?"
Eustace shook his head gloomily.
"Do you suppose I pass my time on board ship in gadding about and
feasting? Directly the vessel begins to move I go to bed and stay
there. As a matter of fact I think it would be wisest to go to bed now.
Don't let me keep you if you want to go on deck."
"It looks to me," said Sam, "as if I had been mistaken in thinking that
you were going to be a ray of sunshine on the voyage."
"Ray of sunshine!" said Eustace Hignett, pulling a pair of mauve
pyjamas out of the kit-bag. "I'm going to be a volcano!"
* * * * *
Sam left the state-room and headed for the companion. He wanted to get
on deck and ascertain if that girl was still on board. About now the
sheep would be separating from the goats: the passengers would be on
deck and their friends returning to the shore. A slight tremor on the
boards on which he trod told him that this separation must have already
taken place. The ship was moving. He ran lightly up the companion. Was
she on board or was she not? The next few minutes would decide. He
reached the top of the stairs and passed out on to the crowded deck.
And, as he did so, a scream, followed by confused shouting, came from
the rail nearest the shore. He perceived that the rail was black with
people hanging over it. They were all looking into the water.
Samuel Marlowe was not one of those who pass aloofly by when there is
excitement toward. If a horse fell down in the street, he was always
among those present: and he was never too busy to stop and stare at a
blank window on which were inscribed the words "Watch this space!" In
short, he was one of Nature's rubbernecks, and to dash to the rail and
shove a fat man in a tweed cap to one side was with him the work of a
moment. He had thus an excellent view of what was going on--a view
which he improved the next instant by climbing up and kneeling on the
rail.
There was a man in the water, a man whose upper section, the only one
visible, was clad in a blue jersey. He wore a Derby hat, and from time
to time as he battled with the waves, he would put up a hand and adjust
this more firmly on his head. A dressy swimmer.
Scarcely had he taken in this spectacle when Marlowe became aware of
the girl he had met on the dock. She was standing a few feet away
leaning out over the rail with wide eyes and parted lips. Like
everybody else she was staring into the water.
As Sam looked at her the thought crossed his mind that here was a
wonderful chance of making the most tremendous impression on this girl.
What would she not think of a man who, reckless of his own safety,
dived in and went boldly to the rescue? And there were men, no doubt,
who would be chumps enough to do it, he thought, as he prepared to
shift back to a position of greater safety.
At this moment, the fat man in the tweed cap, incensed at having been
jostled out of the front row, made his charge. He had but been
crouching, the better to spring. Now he sprang. His full weight took
Sam squarely in the spine. There was an instant in which that young man
hung, as it were, between sea and sky; then he shot down over the rail
to join the man in the blue jersey, who had just discovered that his
hat was not on straight and had paused to adjust it once more with a
few skilful touches of the finger.
* * * * *
In the brief interval of time which Marlowe had spent in the state-room,
chatting with Eustace about the latter's bruised soul, some
rather curious things had been happening above. Not extraordinary,
perhaps, but curious. These must now be related. A story, if it is to
grip the reader, should, I am aware, go always forward. It should
march. It should leap from crag to crag like the chamois of the Alps.
If there is one thing I hate, it is a novel which gets you interested
in the hero in chapter one and then cuts back in chapter two to tell
you all about his grandfather. Nevertheless, at this point we must go
back a space. We must return to the moment when, having deposited her
Pekinese dog in her state-room, the girl with the red hair came out
again on deck. This happened just about the time when Eustace Hignett
was beginning his narrative.
By now the bustle which precedes the departure of an ocean liner was at
its height. Hoarse voices were crying, "All for the shore!" The gangway
was thronged with friends of passengers returning to land. The crowd on
the pier waved flags and handkerchiefs and shouted unintelligibly.
Members of the crew stood alertly by the gang-plank ready to draw it in
as soon as the last seer-off had crossed it.
The girl went to the rail and gazed earnestly at the shore. There was
an anxious expression on her face. She had the air of one who was
waiting for someone to appear. Her demeanour was that of Mariana at the
Moated Grange. "He cometh not!" she seemed to be saying. She glanced at
her wrist-watch, then scanned the dock once more.
There was a rattle as the gang-plank moved inboard and was deposited on
the deck. The girl uttered a little cry of dismay. Then suddenly her
face brightened and she began to wave her arm to attract the attention
of an elderly man with a red face made redder by exertion, who had just
forced his way to the edge of the dock and was peering up at the
passenger-lined rail.
The boat had now begun to move slowly out of its slip, backing into the
river. Ropes had been cast off, and an ever widening strip of water
appeared between the vessel and the shore. It was now that the man on
the dock sighted the girl. She gesticulated at him. He gesticulated at
her. She appeared helpless and baffled, but he showed himself a person
of resource of the stuff of which great generals are made. Foch is just
like that, a bird at changing pre-conceived plans to suit the exigencies
of the moment.
The man on the dock took from his pocket a pleasantly rotund wad of
currency bills. He produced a handkerchief, swiftly tied up the bills
in it, backed to give himself room, and then, with all the strength of
his arm, he hurled the bills in the direction of the deck. The action
was greeted by cheers from a warm-hearted populace. Your New York crowd
loves a liberal provider.
One says that the man hurled the bills in the direction of the deck,
and that was exactly what he did. But the years had robbed his
pitching-arm of the limber strength which, forty summers back, had made
him the terror of opposing boys' baseball teams. He still retained a
fair control but he lacked steam. The handkerchief with its precious
contents shot in a graceful arc towards the deck, fell short by a good
six feet and dropped into the water, where it unfolded like a lily,
sending twenty-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, five-dollar bills, and
an assortment of ones floating over the wavelets. The cheers of the
citizenry changed to cries of horror. The girl uttered a plaintive
shriek. The boat moved on.
It was at this moment that Mr. Oscar Swenson, one of the thriftiest
souls who ever came out of Sweden, perceived that the chance of a
lifetime had arrived for adding substantially to his little savings. By
profession he was one of those men who eke out a precarious livelihood
by rowing dreamily about the waterfront in skiffs. He was doing so now:
and, as he sat meditatively in his skiff, having done his best to give
the liner a good send-off by paddling round her in circles, the
pleading face of a twenty-dollar bill peered up at him. Mr. Swenson was
not the man to resist the appeal. He uttered a sharp bark of ecstasy,
pressed his Derby hat firmly upon his brow and dived in. A moment later
he had risen to the surface and was gathering up money with both hands.
He was still busy with this congenial task when a tremendous splash at
his side sent him under again; and, rising for a second time, he
observed with not a little chagrin that he had been joined by a young
man in a blue flannel suit with an invisible stripe.
"Svensk!" exclaimed Mr. Swenson, or whatever it is that natives of
Sweden exclaim in moments of justifiable annoyance. He resented the
advent of this newcomer. He had been getting along fine and had had the
situation well in hand. To him Sam Marlowe represented Competition, and
Mr. Swenson desired no competitors in his treasure-seeking enterprise.
He travels, thought Mr. Swenson, the fastest who travels alone.
Sam Marlowe had a touch of the philosopher in him. He had the ability
to adapt himself to circumstances. It had been no part of his plans to
come whizzing down off the rail into this singularly soup-like water
which tasted in equal parts of oil and dead rats; but, now that he was
here he was prepared to make the best of the situation. Swimming, it
happened, was one of the things he did best, and somewhere among his
belongings at home was a tarnished pewter cup which he had won at
school in the "Saving Life" competition. He knew exactly what to do.
You get behind the victim and grab him firmly under his arms, and then
you start swimming on your back. A moment later the astonished Mr.
Swenson, who, being practically amphibious, had not anticipated that
anyone would have the cool impertinence to try and save him from
drowning, found himself seized from behind and towed vigorously away
from a ten-dollar bill which he had almost succeeded in grasping. The
spiritual agony caused by this assault rendered him mercifully dumb;
though, even had he contrived to utter the rich Swedish oaths which
occurred to him, his remarks could scarcely have been heard, for the
crowd on the dock was cheering as one man. They had often paid good
money to see far less gripping sights in the movies. They roared
applause. The liner, meanwhile, continued to move stodgily out into
mid-river.
The only drawback to these life-saving competitions at school,
considered from the standpoint of fitting the competitors for the
problems of after-life, is that the object saved on such occasions is a
leather dummy, and of all things in this world a leather dummy is
perhaps the most placid and phlegmatic. It differs in many respects
from an emotional Swedish gentleman, six foot high and constructed
throughout of steel and india rubber, who is being lugged away from
cash which he has been regarding in the light of a legacy. Indeed, it
would not be hard to find a respect in which it does not differ. So far
from lying inert in Sam's arms and allowing himself to be saved in a
quiet and orderly manner, Mr. Swenson betrayed all the symptoms of one
who feels that he has fallen among murderers. Mr. Swenson, much as he
disliked competition, was ready to put up with it, provided that it was
fair competition. This pulling your rival away from the loot so that
you could grab it yourself--thus shockingly had the man misinterpreted
Sam's motives--was another thing altogether and his stout soul would
have none of it. He began immediately to struggle with all the violence
at his disposal. His large, hairy hands came out of the water and swung
hopefully in the direction where he assumed his assailant's face to be.
Sam was not unprepared for this display. His researches in the art of
life-saving had taught him that your drowning man frequently struggled
against his best interests. In which case, cruel to be kind, one simply
stunned the blighter. He decided to stun Mr. Swenson, though, if he had
known that gentleman more intimately and had been aware that he had the
reputation of possessing the thickest head on the water-front he would
have realised the magnitude of the task. Friends of Mr. Swenson, in
convivial moments, had frequently endeavoured to stun him with bottles,
boots, and bits of lead piping, and had gone away depressed by failure.
Sam, ignorant of this, attempted to do the job with clenched fist,
which he brought down as smartly as possible on the crown of the
other's Derby hat.
It was the worst thing he could have done. Mr. Swenson thought highly
of his hat and this brutal attack upon it confirmed his gloomiest
apprehensions. Now thoroughly convinced that the only thing to do was
to sell his life dearly he wrenched himself round, seized his assailant
by the neck, twined his arms about his middle, and accompanied him
below the surface.
By the time he had swallowed his first pint and was beginning his
second, Sam was reluctantly compelled to come to the conclusion that
this was the end. The thought irritated him unspeakably. This, he felt,
was just the silly, contrary way things always happened. Why should it
be he who was perishing like this? Why not Eustace Hignett? Now there was
a fellow whom this sort of thing would just have suited. Broken-hearted
Eustace Hignett would have looked on all this as a merciful release.
He paused in his reflections to try to disentangle the more prominent
of Mr. Swenson's limbs from about him. By this time he was sure that he
had never met anyone he disliked so intensely as Mr. Swenson--not even
his Aunt Adeline. The man was a human octopus. Sam could count seven
distinct legs twined round him and at least as many arms. It seemed to
him that he was being done to death in his prime by a solid platoon of
Swedes. He put his whole soul into one last effort ... something seemed
to give ... he was free. Pausing only to try to kick Mr. Swenson in the
face Sam shot to the surface. Something hard and sharp prodded him in
the head. Then something caught the collar of his coat; and, finally,
spouting like a whale, he found himself dragged upwards and over the
side of a boat.
* * * * *
The time which Sam had spent with Mr. Swenson below the surface had
been brief, but it had been long enough to enable the whole floating
population of the North River to converge on the scene in scows,
skiffs, launches, tugs and other vessels. The fact that the water in
that vicinity was crested with currency had not escaped the notice of
these navigators and they had gone to it as one man. First in the race
came the tug _Reuben S. Watson_, the skipper of which, following a
famous precedent, had taken his little daughter to bear him company. It
was to this fact that Marlowe really owed his rescue. Women have often
a vein of sentiment in them where men can only see the hard business
side of a situation; and it was the skipper's daughter who insisted
that the family boat-hook, then in use as a harpoon for spearing dollar
bills, should be devoted to the less profitable but humaner end of
extricating the young man from a watery grave.
The skipper had grumbled a bit at first, but had given way--he always
spoiled the girl--with the result that Sam found himself sitting on the
deck of the tug engaged in the complicated process of restoring his
faculties to the normal. In a sort of dream he perceived Mr. Swenson
rise to the surface some feet away, adjust his Derby hat, and, after
one long look of dislike in his direction, swim off rapidly to intercept
a five which was floating under the stern of a near-by skiff.
Sam sat on the deck and panted. He played on the boards like a public
fountain. At the back of his mind there was a flickering thought that
he wanted to do something, a vague feeling that he had some sort of an
appointment which he must keep; but he was unable to think what it was.
Meanwhile, he conducted tentative experiments with his breath. It was
so long since he had last breathed that he had lost the knack of it.
"Well, aincher wet?" said a voice.
The skipper's daughter was standing beside him, looking down
commiseratingly. Of the rest of the family all he could see was the
broad blue seats of their trousers as they leaned hopefully over the
side in the quest for wealth.
"Yessir! You sure are wet! Gee! I never seen anyone so wet! I seen wet
guys, but I never seen anyone so wet as you. Yessir, you're certainly
_wet_!"
"I _am_ wet," admitted Sam.
"Yessir, you're wet! Wet's the word all right. Good and wet, that's
what you are!"
"It's the water," said Sam. His brain was still clouded; he wished he
could remember what that appointment was. "That's what has made me
wet."
"It's sure made you wet all right," agreed the girl. She looked at him
interestedly. "Wotcha do it for?" she asked.
"Do it for?"
"Yes, wotcha do it for? How come? Wotcha do a Brodie for off'n that
ship? I didn't see it myself, but pa says you come walloping down off'n
the deck like a sack of potatoes."
Sam uttered a sharp cry. He had remembered.
"Where is she?"
"Where's who?"
"The liner."
"She's off down the river, I guess. She was swinging round, the last I
seen of her."
"She's not gone?"
"Sure she's gone. Wotcha expect her to do? She's gotta to get over to
the other side, ain't she? Cert'nly she's gone." She looked at him
interested. "Do you want to be on board her?"
"Of course I do."
"Then, for the love of Pete, wotcha doin' walloping off'n her like a
sack of potatoes?"
"I slipped. I was pushed or something." Sam sprang to his feet and
looked wildly about him. "I must get back. Isn't there any way of
getting back?"
"Well, you could catch up with her at quarantine out in the bay. She'll
stop to let the pilot off."
"Can you take me to quarantine?"
The girl glanced doubtfully at the seat of the nearest pair of
trousers.
"Well, we _could_," she said. "But pa's kind of set in his ways,
and right now he's fishing for dollar bills with the boat-hook. He's
apt to get sorta mad if he's interrupted."
"I'll give him fifty dollars if he'll put me on board."
"Got it on you?" inquired the nymph coyly. She had her share of
sentiment, but she was her father's daughter and inherited from him the
business sense.
"Here it is." He pulled out his pocket-book. The book was dripping, but
the contents were only fairly moist.
"Pa!" said the girl.
The trouser-seat remained where it was--deaf to its child's cry.
"Pa! Commere! Wantcha!"
The trousers did not even quiver. But this girl was a girl of decision.
There was some nautical implement resting in a rack convenient to her
hand. It was long, solid, and constructed of one of the harder forms of
wood. Deftly extracting this from its place she smote her inoffensive
parent on the only visible portion of him. He turned sharply,
exhibiting a red, bearded face.
"Pa, this gen'man wants to be took aboard the boat at quarantine. He'll
give you fifty berries."
The wrath died out of the skipper's face like the slow turning down of
a lamp. The fishing had been poor, and so far he had only managed to
secure a single two-dollar bill. In a crisis like the one which had so
suddenly arisen you cannot do yourself justice with a boat-hook.
"Fifty berries!"
"Fifty seeds!" the girl assured him. "Are you on?"
"Queen," said the skipper simply, "you said a mouthful!"
Twenty minutes later Sam was climbing up the side of the liner as it
lay towering over the tug like a mountain. His clothes hung about him
clammily. He squelched as he walked.
A kindly looking old gentleman who was smoking a cigar by the rail
regarded him with open eyes.
"My dear sir, you're very wet," he said.
Sam passed him with a cold face and hurried through the door leading to
the companion-way.
"Mummie, why is that man wet?" cried the clear voice of a little child.
Sam whizzed by, leaping down the stairs.
"Good Lord, sir! You're very wet!" said a steward in the doorway of the
dining-saloon.
"You _are_ wet," said a stewardess in the passage.
Sam raced for his state-room. He bolted in and sank on the lounge. In
the lower berth Eustace Hignett was lying with closed eyes. He opened
them languidly--then stared.
"Hullo!" he said. "I say! You're wet."
* * * * *
Sam removed his clinging garments and hurried into a new suit. He was
in no mood for conversation, and Eustace Hignett's frank curiosity
jarred upon him. Happily, at this point, a sudden shivering of the
floor and a creaking of woodwork proclaimed the fact that the vessel
was under way again, and his cousin, turning pea-green, rolled over on
his side with a hollow moan. Sam finished buttoning his waistcoat and
went out.
He was passing the Enquiry Bureau on the C-Deck, striding along with
bent head and scowling brow, when a sudden exclamation caused him to
look up, and the scowl was wiped from his brow as with a sponge. For
there stood the girl he had met on the dock. With her was a superfluous
young man who looked like a parrot.
"Oh, _how_ are you?" asked the girl breathlessly.
"Splendid, thanks," said Sam.
"Didn't you get very wet?"
"I did get a little damp."
"I thought you would," said the young man who looked like a parrot.
"Directly I saw you go over the side I said to myself: 'That fellow's
going to get wet!'"
There was a pause.
"Oh!" said the girl, "may I--Mr.--?"
"Marlowe."
"Mr. Marlowe. Mr. Bream Mortimer."
Sam smirked at the young man. The young man smirked at Sam.
"Nearly got left behind," said Bream Mortimer.
"Yes, nearly."
"No joke getting left behind."
"No."
"Have to take the next boat. Lose a lot of time," said Mr. Mortimer,
driving home his point.
The girl had listened to these intellectual exchanges with impatience.
She now spoke again.
"Oh, Bream!"
"Hello?"
"Do be a dear and run down to the saloon and see if it's all right
about our places for lunch."
"It is all right. The table steward said so."
"Yes, but go and make certain."
"All right."
He hopped away and the girl turned to Sam with shining eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Marlowe, you oughtn't to have done it! Really, you oughtn't!
You might have been drowned! But I never saw anything so wonderful. It
was like the stories of knights who used to jump into lions' dens after
gloves!"
"Yes?" said Sam, a little vaguely. The resemblance had not struck him.
It seemed a silly hobby and rough on the lions, too.
"It was the sort of thing Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad would have done!
But you shouldn't have bothered, really! It's all right now."
"Oh, it's all right now?"
"Yes. I'd quite forgotten that Mr. Mortimer was to be on board. He has
given me all the money I shall need. You see it was this way. I had to
sail on this boat in rather a hurry. Father's head clerk was to have
gone to the bank and got some money and met me on board and given
it to me, but the silly old man was late, and when he got to the dock
they had just pulled in the gang-plank. So he tried to throw the money to
me in a handkerchief and it fell into the water. But you shouldn't have
dived in after it."
"Oh, well!" said Sam, straightening his tie, with a quiet brave smile.
He had never expected to feel grateful to that obese bounder who had
shoved him off the rail, but now he would have liked to seek him out
and offer him his bank-roll.
"You really are the bravest man I ever met!"
"Oh, no!"
"How modest you are! But I suppose all brave men are modest!"
"I was only too delighted at what looked like a chance of doing you a
service."
"It was the extraordinary quickness of it that was so wonderful. I do
admire presence of mind. You didn't hesitate for a second. You just
shot over the side as though propelled by some irresistible force!"
"It was nothing, nothing really. One just happens to have the knack of
keeping one's head and acting quickly on the spur of the moment. Some
people have it, some haven't."
"And just think! As Bream was saying...."
"It _is_ all right," said Mr. Mortimer, re-appearing suddenly. "I
saw a couple of stewards and they both said it was all right. So it's
all right."
"Splendid," said the girl. "Oh, Bream!"
"Hello?"
"Do be an angel and run along to my stateroom and see if Pinky-Boodles
is quite comfortable."
"Bound to be."
"Yes. But do go. He may be feeling lonely. Chirrup to him a little."
"Chirrup?"
"Yes, to cheer him up."
"Oh, all right."
"Run along!"
Mr. Mortimer ran along. He had the air of one who feels that he only
needs a peaked cap and a uniform two sizes too small for him to be a
properly equipped messenger boy.
"And, as Bream was saying," resumed the girl, "you might have been left
behind."
"That," said Sam, edging a step closer, "was the thought that tortured
me, the thought that a friendship so delightfully begun...."
"But it hadn't begun. We have never spoken to each other before now."
"Have you forgotten? On the dock...."
Sudden enlightenment came into her eyes.
"Oh, you are the man poor Pinky-Boodles bit!"
"The lucky man!"
Her face clouded.
"Poor Pinky is feeling the motion of the boat a little. It's his first
voyage."
"I shall always remember that it was Pinky who first brought us
together. Would you care for a stroll on deck?"
"Not just now, thanks. I must be getting back to my room to finish
unpacking. After lunch, perhaps."
"I will be there. By the way, you know my name, but...."
"Oh, mine?" She smiled brightly. "It's funny that a person's name is the
last thing one thinks of asking. Mine is Bennett."
"Bennett!"
"Wilhelmina Bennett. My friends," she said softly as she turned away,
"call me Billie!"