All over the saloon you could see fair women and brave men wilting in
their seats. Imitation...! The word, as Keats would have said, was
like a knell! Many of these people were old travellers, and their minds
went back wincingly, as one recalls forgotten wounds, to occasions when
performers at ships' concerts had imitated whole strings of Dickens'
characters or, with the assistance of a few hats and a little false
hair, had endeavored to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare and
others of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme there
was nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which this
S. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and wait
and hope that it would be short.
There was a sinking of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the room
and took his place at the piano. A pianist! This argued more singing.
The more pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to be
one of those imitations of well-known opera artistes which, though
rare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships' concerts. They
stared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to them something
ominous in the man's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the
face of one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders. They
could not know that the pallor of Eustace Hignett was due entirely to
the slight tremor which, even on the calmest nights, the engines of an
ocean liner produce in the flooring of a dining saloon and to that
faint, yet well-defined, smell of cooked meats which clings to a room
where a great many people have recently been eating a great many meals.
A few beads of cold perspiration were clinging to Eustace Hignett's
brow. He looked straight before him with unseeing eyes. He was thinking
hard of the Sahara.
So tense was Eustace's concentration that he did not see Billie
Bennett, seated in the front row. Billie had watched him enter with a
little thrill of embarrassment. She wished that she had been content
with one of the seats at the back. But her friend Jane Hubbard, who
accompanied her, had insisted on the front row.
In order to avoid recognition for as long as possible, Billie now put
up her fan and turned to Jane. She was surprised to see that her friend
was staring eagerly before her with a fixity almost equal to that of
Eustace.
"What _is_ the matter, Jane?"
Jane Hubbard was a tall, handsome girl with large brown eyes. About
her, as Bream Mortimer had said, there was something dynamic. The
daughter of an eminent explorer and big-game hunter, she had frequently
accompanied her father on his expeditions. An out-doors girl.
"Who is that man at the piano?" she whispered. "Do you know him?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," said Billie. "His name is Hignett. Why?"
"I met him on the Subway not long ago. Poor little fellow, how
miserable he looks!"
At this moment their conversation was interrupted. Eustace Hignett,
pulling himself together with a painful effort, raised his hands and
struck a crashing chord: and, as he did so, there appeared through the
door at the far end of the saloon a figure at the sight of which the
entire audience started convulsively with a feeling that a worse thing
had befallen them than even they had looked for.
The figure was richly clad in some scarlet material. Its face was a
grisly black and below the nose appeared what seemed a horrible gash.
It advanced towards them, smoking a cigar.
"Hullo, Ernest," it said.
And then it seemed to pause expectantly, as though desiring some reply.
Dead silence reigned in the saloon.
"Hullo, Ernest!"
Those nearest the piano--and nobody more quickly than Jane Hubbard--now
observed that the white face of the man on the stool had grown whiter
still. His eyes gazed out glassily from under his damp brow. He looked
like a man who was seeing some ghastly sight. The audience sympathised
with him. They felt like that, too.
In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some little
miscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment's thought
should have told Eustace Hignett that a half-smoked cigar was one of
the essential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney:
but he had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as an
absolute surprise to him and it could not have affected him more
powerfully if it had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it
pallidly, like Macbeth at the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively
young cigar, and its curling smoke played lightly about his nostrils.
His jaw fell. His eyes protruded. He looked for a long moment like one
of those deep-sea fishes concerning which the recent lecturer had
spoken so searchingly. Then with the cry of a stricken animal, he
bounded from his seat and fled for the deck.
There was a rustle of millinery at Billie's side as Jane Hubbard rose
and followed him. Jane was deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking so
pale and piteous, at the piano, her big heart had gone out to him, and
now, in his moment of anguish, he seemed to bring to the surface
everything that was best and most compassionate in her nature.
Thrusting aside a steward who happened to be between her and the door,
she raced in pursuit.
Sam Marlowe had watched his cousin's dash for the open with a
consternation so complete that his sense seemed to have left him. A
general, deserted by his men on some stricken field, might have felt
something akin to his emotion. Of all the learned professions, the
imitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can least easily be
carried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the leader of the
orchestra, is essential. He is the life-blood of the entertainment.
Without him, nothing can be done.
For an instant Sam stood there, gaping blankly. Then the open door of
the saloon seemed to beckon an invitation. He made for it, reached it,
passed through it. That concluded his efforts in aid of the Seamen's
Orphans and Widows.
The spell which had lain on the audience broke. This imitation seemed
to them to possess in an extraordinary measure the one quality which
renders amateur imitations tolerable, that of brevity. They had seen
many amateur imitations, but never one as short as this. The saloon
echoed with their applause.
It brought no balm to Samuel Marlowe. He did not hear it. He had fled
for refuge to his stateroom and was lying in the lower berth, chewing
the pillow, a soul in torment.