“BUTTER FINGER.”
Stroth started to lead me toward another door at the forward end of the
stateroom; then he caught the interest in my eyes, now that I had
opportunity to turn attention to the room itself.
“It’s no Chinese puzzle to guess my hobby, is it?”
“Well, hardly!” I exclaimed, for there wasn’t a square inch of wall
space that wasn’t actually papered with photographs of the oldest, most
freakish type.
Every trick of overexposure, and underexposure, blending, “ghost
prints,” compositions, moonlight--every weird effect of which I had ever
heard was there--and done in a wonderful knowledge of the art.
“Superb!” I exclaimed.
“Then you know the game,” he said delightedly.
“I’ve done little camera work for years,” said I, “but my memory tells
me what splendid results these are.”
“I thought we’d get along, Grey,” he answered. “Something seemed to tell
me so. Come on, then, and I’ll show you where I love to be.” And, once
more, he approached the door.
“Just a minute,” I interposed, as my eye caught sight of a five-by-seven
print which fitted into the panel of a small locker door about
breast-high. I never have been able to see how the photograph was taken.
The subject was simple enough. It was Stroth himself, looking down, it
seemed, into the very heart of a negative coming to life. It was as
though the lens was situated in the developing tray itself, and that the
dawning picture was looking out wonderingly at its creator. The setting
was that of the dark room’s somberness--a bottle or two of dull
reflection, a glass graduate. But greatest of all was the deep hue of
the ruby lamp as it brought out the eager tension of his features.
I have dwelt on that crane of the neck and stoop of the shoulders; it
was there--intensified, unmistakable. The look in the eyes I cannot
describe clearer than to say that they lived--actually lived and glowed
on that bit of lifeless paper.
“Oh, that thing,” said he carelessly. “Just yours truly at his hobby.
But come, here we have the dark room itself.”
And he swung open the door.
Such equipment I have never seen equaled, and I could feel the old glow
of the camera crank stealing over me again.
The door which he closed behind us excluded the light entirely, and,
with the click of a wall switch, Stroth flooded the small apartment with
a soft ruddiness which I saw was effected by a cunningly devised scheme
of lighting.
A sort of bowl containing red electric bulbs depended from the ceiling,
which itself was tinted to the hue, and the resultant ability to
distinguish everything one needed in an absolutely safe light was a
joy.
“Pretty sweet, eh, Grey?” he said, at the exclamation of pleasure I
didn’t restrain.
“Great!” said I. “And aboard a vessel, at that!”
His brow clouded a second as he replied:
“And right there you’ve hit upon my greatest difficulty. Of course,
right now, with booms broad off, and scarcely any sea, I can work to
perfection. But heavy weather is apt to put me out of commission. I’ve
tried every possible scheme to overcome the trouble--even to having a
swinging table, but no go. But, oh, here!”
And he snapped over to another tone--a brighter one.
“I believe we’ve got time,” he added, as he rummaged into the interior
of a small cabinet, “and, strange as it may seem, it’s the first time I
ever tried the thing. It’ll certainly interest you.”
I said nothing in reply, but watched him closely as his nimble fingers,
with the facility of long practice, flew from plate holder to tray, from
bottle to graduate. And next moment we were standing side by side,
craning over a negative coming to life.
“To my way of thinking,” said he, as he gently rocked the fluid across
the dull face of the plate, “you can’t beat the old tray development;
I’ll have none of that tank stuff in mine.”
“I agree with you heartily there,” I replied. “But what is this,
anyway?”
The lines on the negative were beginning to take a significance
distinctly reminiscent.
Stroth chuckled. “My first snapshot by searchlight looks as if it were
going to be a success.”
“And do you mean to say,” I cried, “that last night----”
“Too good a chance to lose,” said he, with continued mirth. “And I got
on deck just about the right minute, didn’t I?” Whereupon he withdrew
the plate from its bath, and held it up between me and the red glow of
the developing lamp.
And there, unmistakable, I saw depicted the punt, the hydroplane
shunting from its course, Pawlinson’s arms not yet lowered from the hurl
he had given me, and I myself just striking the water, a bit of spray
fouling a line or two.
“Remarkable!” said I, not without a touch of wrath, for the picture
brought back the moment.
“It’ll be one of my best!” cried Stroth enthusiastically, “and, right
this minute, I wouldn’t take fifty dollars for it. It’s great!”
He stepped a bit to one side, and bathed the plate, preparatory to the
“fixing bath.” But just as he slipped the negative into the “hypo” there
came a cheery, but decided, rapping at the dark-room door.
“Dad, oh, daddy!” came through the panel, in a voice of bell-like,
girlish clearness.
With a bound almost feline, Stroth sprang forward, whispering sharply:
“I forgot the lock!”
But he didn’t reach the door in time, for she had tried the knob,
concluded it was right enough to enter. And a hasty reflection assured
me that the picture wouldn’t suffer, anyway, now that it had reached the
fixing tray.
The girl, her eyes getting accustomed to the lesser light, caught sight
of me, and started; then whirled suddenly upon her father.
“Then we lost, dad?”
“Well, scarcely, Stella!” Stroth put a lightness to his answer, which
thinly veiled decided uneasiness. “We won, and won well. So much so, in
fact, that Mr. Grey here is to be our guest for the trip. You see, I
just thought it would be a nice thing to kidnap him for company.”
Even in the darkness surrounding us, I could feel his eyes drilling at
me, as if defying me to contradict by word or manner.
Silence was my only course, and the girl quickly lifted the suspense by
recognizing the introduction. She even stepped forward, and shook my
hand, as she said:
“It was great fun, wasn’t it, Mr. Grey? And I was certainly put out when
dad made me stick to my stateroom last night, when we were getting under
way.”
Here Stroth interrupted:
“You know you were all tired out, dear, and I thought it best that you
should----”
“Oh, I knew enough to realize that a captain of a ship has the right of
life and death over all aboard,” she bantered, taking me along with her
infectious laughter, “and I just obeyed.”
Stroth smiled whimsically as he retorted:
“I certainly am boss when you’re around, honey. There can be no denying
that; I’m just positively tyrannical.”
She greeted this with a delightful hilarity, that fully riveted any
verdict of the love between this father and daughter.
But for all his excellent acting, I could read considerable perturbation
in Stroth.
“Well, sure enough, dad, I didn’t really mean to interrupt you, but Saki
told me that dinner would be ready in about five minutes, and I
just----”
That instant she caught sight of the plate in the tray, and made a step
toward it, adding:
“I certainly hope I didn’t spoil----”
But, before she could get a fair look, Stroth sprang past her, and
caught up the tray.
“No, no, Stella,” said he, “you didn’t spoil anything. It’ll be all
right. You see, I----”
He kept whirling the solution across the face of the plate.
“Oh, daddy, let me see!” cried the girl ingenuously, and she checked his
arm in its gyration.
For one brief moment I saw mingled annoyance and consternation flash
over his features. Then they cleared to a decision, and the next second
I witnessed its carrying out.
“Wait!” he exclaimed suddenly, as she made as if to peer into the tray
itself. “You might get your dress or hands stained. Come now, I’ll take
the plate out itself. It’s about fixed, anyway.”
He reached his forefinger into the hypo in a measured groping for the
edge of the glass, but his eye held me full as he withdrew it.
“Here, now girlie,” and he lifted it clear of the liquid.
She stuck her little head out prettily, her arms back of her, against
possible drip.
But she saw nothing, for the negative fell to the floor, where it was
shattered to a thousand pieces!
“Oh, oh, daddy!” she cried, in genuine grief.
“Why, it’s nothing at all, honey,” said he. “I was just showing Mr. Grey
my method of developing, and the picture wasn’t a bit valuable. It’s no
matter, except to show how clumsy and butter-fingered I’ve got to be.
Come, let’s see what that yellow lad’s got for dinner.”
Once more I read my part for silence as we filed from the dark room and
across the outer stateroom, but mystery was gathering thick about me.
“Butter-fingered! He, indeed!” I muttered to myself, as I brought up the
rear. “His hand’s as steady as a rifleman’s, and he had just told me he
wouldn’t take fifty dollars for that negative. I guess I’d better go
slow in confab for a while.”