Mr. George Morris did not sleep well his first night on the _City of
Buffalo_. He dreamt that he was being chased around the deck by a
couple of young ladies, one a very pronounced blonde, and the other an
equally pronounced brunette, and he suffered a great deal because of
the uncertainty as to which of the two pursuers he desired the most to
avoid. It seemed to him that at last he was cornered, and the fiendish
young ladies began literally, as the slang phrase is, to mop the deck
with him. He felt himself being slowly pushed back and forward across
the deck, and he wondered how long he would last if this treatment were
kept up. By and by he found himself lying still in his bunk, and the
swish, swish above him of the men scrubbing the deck in the early
morning showed him his dream had merged into reality. He remembered
then that it was the custom of the smoking-room steward to bring a
large silver pot of fragrant coffee early every morning and place it on
the table of the smoking-room. Morris also recollected that on former
voyages that early morning coffee had always tasted particularly good.
It was grateful and comforting, as the advertisement has it. Shortly
after, Mr. Morris was on the wet deck, which the men were still
scrubbing with the slow, measured swish, swish of the brush he had
heard earlier in the morning. No rain was falling, but everything had a
rainy look. At first he could see only a short distance from the ship.
The clouds appeared to have come down on the water, where they hung,
lowering. There was no evidence that such a thing as a sun existed. The
waves rolled out of this watery mist with an oily look, and the air was
so damp and chilly that it made Morris shiver as he looked out on the
dreary prospect. He thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets, which
seemed to be an indolent habit of his, and walked along the slippery
deck to search for the smoking-room. He was thinking of his curious and
troublesome dream, when around the corner came the brunette, wrapped in
a long cloak that covered her from head to foot. The cloak had a couple
of side pockets set angleways in front, after the manner of the pockets
in ulsters. In these pockets Miss Earle’s hands were placed, and she
walked the deck with a certain independent manner which Mr. Morris
remembered that he disliked. She seemed to be about to pass him without
recognition, when the young man took off his cap and said pleasantly,
“Good morning, Miss Earle. You are a very early riser.”
“The habit of years,” answered that young lady, “is not broken by
merely coming on board ship.”
Mr. Morris changed step and walked beside her.
“The habit of years?” he said. “Why, you speak as if you were an old
woman.”
“I _am_ an old woman,” replied the girl, “in everything but one
particular.”
“And that particular,” said her companion, “is the very important one,
I imagine, of years.”
“I don’t know why that is so very important.”
“Oh, you will think so in after life, I assure you. I speak as a
veteran myself.”
The young lady gave him a quick side glance with her black eyes from
under the hood that almost concealed her face.
“You say you are a veteran,” she answered, “but you don’t think so. It
would offend you very deeply to be called old.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think such a remark is offensive only
when there is truth in it. A young fellow slaps his companion on the
shoulder and calls him ‘old man.’ The grey-haired veteran always
addresses his elderly friend as ‘my boy.’”
“Under which category do you think you come, then?”
“Well, I don’t come under either exactly. I am sort of on the middle
ground. I sometimes feel very old. In fact, to confess to you, I never
felt older in my life than I did yesterday. Today I am a great deal
younger.”
“Dear me,” replied the young lady, “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Sorry!” echoed her companion; “I don’t see why you should be sorry. It
is said that every one rejoices in the misfortunes of others, but it is
rather unusual to hear them admit it.”
“It is because of my sympathy for others that I am sorry to hear you
are younger today than you were yesterday. If you take to running along
the deck today then the results will be disastrous and I think you owe
it to your fellow passengers to send the steward with his gong ahead of
you so as to give people in steamer chairs warning.”
“Miss Earle,” said the young man, “I thought you had forgiven me for
yesterday. I am sure I apologised very humbly, and am willing to
apologise again to-day.”
“Did I forgive you? I had forgotten?”
“But you remembered the fault. I am afraid that is misplaced
forgetfulness. The truth is, I imagine, you are very unforgiving.”
“My friends do not think so.”
“Then I suppose you rank me among your enemies?”
“You forget that I have known you for a day only.”
“That is true, chronologically speaking. But you must remember a day on
shipboard is very much longer than a day on shore. In fact, I look on
you now as an old acquaintance, and I should be sorry to think you
looked on me as an enemy.”
“You are mistaken. I do not. I look on you now as you do on your own
age—sort of between the two.”
“And which way do you think I shall drift? Towards the enemy line, or
towards the line of friendship?”
“I am sure I cannot tell.”
“Well, Miss Earle, I am going to use my best endeavours to reach the
friendship line, which I shall make unless the current is too strong
for me. I hope you are not so prejudiced against me that the pleasant
effort will be fruitless.”
“Oh, I am strictly neutral,” said the young lady. “Besides, it really
amounts to nothing. Steamer friendships are the most evanescent things
on earth.”
“Not on earth, surely, Miss Earle. You must mean on sea.”
“Well, the earth includes the sea, you know.”
“Have you had experience with steamer friendships? I thought, somehow,
this was your first voyage.”
“What made you think so?”
“Well, I don’t know. I thought it was, that’s all.”
“I hope there is nothing in my manner that would induce a stranger to
think I am a verdant traveller.”
“Oh, not at all. You know, a person somehow classifies a person’s
fellow-passengers. Some appear to have been crossing the ocean all
their lives, whereas, in fact, they are probably on shipboard for the
first time. Have you crossed the ocean before?”
“Yes.”
“Now, tell me whether you think I ever crossed before?”
“Why, of course you have. I should say that you cross probably once a
year. Maybe oftener.”
“Really? For business or pleasure?”
“Oh, business, entirely. You did not look yesterday as if you ever had
any pleasure in your life.”
“Oh, yesterday! Don’t let us talk about yesterday. It’s to-day now, you
know. You seem to be a mind-reader. Perhaps you could tell my
occupation?”
“Certainly. Your occupation is doubtless that of a junior partner in a
prosperous New York house. You go over to Europe every year—perhaps
twice a year, to look after the interests of your business.”
“You think I am a sort of commercial traveller, then?”
“Well, practically, yes. The older members of the firm, I should
imagine, are too comfortably situated, and care too little for the
pleasures of foreign travel, to devote much of their time to it. So
what foreign travel there is to be done falls on the shoulders of the
younger partner. Am I correct?”
“Well, I don’t quite class myself as a commercial traveller, you know,
but in the main you are—in fact, you are remarkably near right. I think
you must be something of a mind-reader, as I said before, Miss Earle,
or is it possible that I carry my business so plainly in my demeanour
as all that?”
Miss Earle laughed. It was a very bright, pleasant, cheerful laugh.
“Still, I must correct you where you are wrong, for fear you become too
conceited altogether about your powers of observation. I have not
crossed the ocean as often as you seem to think. In the future I shall
perhaps do so frequently. I am the junior partner, as you say, but have
not been a partner long. In fact I am now on my first voyage in
connection with the new partnership. Now, Miss Earle, let me try a
guess at your occupation.”
“You are quite at liberty to guess at it.”
“But will you tell me if I guess correctly?”
“Yes. I have no desire to conceal it.”
“Then, I should say off-hand that you are a teacher, and are now taking
a vacation in Europe. Am I right?”
“Tell me first why you think so?”
“I am afraid to tell you. I do not want to drift towards the line of
enmity.”
“You need have no fear. I have every respect for a man who tells the
truth when he has to.”
“Well, I think a school teacher is very apt to get into a certain
dictatorial habit of speech. School teachers are something like
military men. They are accustomed to implicit obedience without
question, and this, I think, affects their manner with other people.”
“You think I am dictatorial, then?”
“Well, I shouldn’t say that you were dictatorial exactly. But there is
a certain confidence—I don’t know just how to express it, but it seems
to me, you know—well, I am going deeper and deeper into trouble by what
I am saying, so really I shall not say any more. I do not know just how
to express it.”
“I think you express it very nicely. Go on, please.”
“Oh, you are laughing at me now.”
“Not at all, I assure you. You were trying to say that I was very
dictatorial.”
“No, I was trying to say nothing of the kind. I was merely trying to
say that you have a certain confidence in yourself and a certain belief
that everything you say is perfectly correct, and is not to be
questioned. Now, do as you promised, and tell me how near right I am.”
“You are entirely wrong. I never taught school.”
“Well, Miss Earle, I confessed to my occupation without citing any
mitigating circumstances. So now, would you think me impertinent if I
asked you to be equally frank?”
“Oh, not at all! But I may say at once that I wouldn’t answer you.”
“But you will tell me if I guess?”
“Yes, I promise that.”
“Well, I am certainly right in saying that you are crossing the ocean
for pleasure.”
“No, you are entirely wrong. I am crossing for business.”
“Then, perhaps you cross very often, too?”
“No; I crossed only once before, and that was coming the other way.”
“Really, this is very mysterious. When are you coming back?”
“I am not coming back.”
“Oh, well,” said Morris, “I give it up. I think I have scored the
unusual triumph of managing to be wrong in everything that I have said.
Have I not?”
“I think you have.”
“And you refuse to put me right?”
“Certainly.”
“I don’t think you are quite fair, Miss Earle.”
“I don’t think I ever claimed to be, Mr. Morris. But I am tired of
walking now. You see, I have been walking the deck for considerably
longer than you have. I think I shall sit down for a while.”
“Let me take you to your chair.”
Miss Earle smiled. “It would be very little use,” she said.
The deck steward was not to be seen, and Morris, diving into a dark and
cluttered-up apartment, in which the chairs were piled, speedily picked
out his own, brought it to where the young lady was standing, spread it
out in its proper position, and said—
“Now let me get you a rug or two.”
“You have made a mistake. That is not my chair.”
“Oh yes, it is. I looked at the tag. This is your name, is it not?”
“Yes, that is my name; but this is not my chair.”
“Well, I beg that you will use it until the owner calls for it.”
“But who is the owner? Is this your chair?”
“It was mine until after I smashed up yours.”
“Oh, but I cannot accept your chair, Mr. Morris.”
“You surely wouldn’t refuse to do what you desired, in fact, commanded,
another to do. You know you practically ordered me to take your chair.
Well, I have accepted it. It is going to be put right to-day. So, you
see, you cannot refuse mine.”
Miss Earle looked at him for a moment.
“This is hardly what I would call a fair exchange,” she said. “My chair
was really a very cheap and flimsy one. This chair is much more
expensive. You see, I know the price of them. I think you are trying to
arrange your revenge, Mr. Morris. I think you want to bring things
about so that I shall have to apologise to you in relation to that
chair-breaking incident. However, I see that this chair is very
comfortable, so I will take it. Wait a moment till I get my rugs.”
“No, no,” cried Morris, “tell me where you left them. I will get them
for you.”
“Thank you. I left them on the seat at the head of the companion-way.
One is red, the other is more variegated; I cannot describe it, but
they are the only two rugs there, I think.”
A moment afterwards the young man appeared with the rugs on his arm,
and arranged them around the young lady after the manner of deck
stewards and gallant young men who are in the habit of crossing the
ocean.
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee?”
“I would, if it can be had.”
“Well, I will let you into a shipboard secret. Every morning on this
vessel the smoking-room steward brings up a pot of very delicious
coffee, which he leaves on the table of the smoking-room. He also
brings a few biscuits—not the biscuit of American fame, but the biscuit
of English manufacture, the cracker, as we call it—and those who
frequent the smoking-room are in the habit sometimes of rising early,
and, after a walk on deck, pouring out a cup of coffee for themselves.”
“But I do not expert to be a _habitué_ of the smoking-room,” said Miss
Earle.
“Nevertheless, you have a friend who will be, and so in that way, you
see, you will enjoy the advantages of belonging to the smoking club.”
A few moments afterwards, Morris appeared with a camp-stool under his
arm, and two cups of coffee in his hands. Miss Earle noticed the smile
suddenly fade from his face, and a look of annoyance, even of terror,
succeed it. His hands trembled, so that the coffee spilled from the cup
into the saucer.
“Excuse my awkwardness,” he said huskily; then, handing her the cup, he
added, “I shall have to go now. I will see you at breakfast-time. Good
morning.” With the other cup still in his hand, he made his way to the
stair.
Miss Earle looked around and saw, coming up the deck, a very handsome
young lady with blonde hair.