On the morning of the third day, Mr. George Morris woke up after a
sound and dreamless sleep. He woke up feeling very dissatisfied with
himself, indeed. He said he was a fool, which was probably true enough,
but even the calling himself so did not seem to make matters any
better. He reviewed in his mind the events of the day before. He
remembered his very pleasant walk and talk with Miss Earle. He knew the
talk had been rather purposeless, being merely that sort of preliminary
conversation which two people who do not yet know each other indulge
in, as a forerunner to future friendship. Then, he thought of his
awkward leave-taking of Miss Earle when he presented her with the cup
of coffee, and for the first time he remembered with a pang that he had
under his arm a camp-stool. It must have been evident to Miss Earle
that he had intended to sit down and have a cup of coffee with her, and
continue the acquaintance begun so auspiciously that morning. He
wondered if she had noticed that his precipitate retreat had taken
place the moment there appeared on the deck a very handsome and
stylishly dressed young lady. He began to fear that Miss Earle must
have thought him suddenly taken with insanity, or, worse still,
sea-sickness. The more Morris thought about the matter the more
dissatisfied he was with himself and his actions. At breakfast—he had
arrived very late, almost as Miss Earle was leaving—he felt he had
preserved a glum, reticent demeanour, and that he had the general
manner of a fugitive anxious to escape justice. He wondered what Miss
Earle must have thought of him after his eager conversation of the
morning. The rest of the day he had spent gloomily in the smoking-room,
and had not seen the young lady again. The more he thought of the day
the worse he felt about it. However, he was philosopher enough to know
that all the thinking he could do would not change a single item in the
sum of the day’s doing. So he slipped back the curtain on its brass rod
and looked out into his state-room. The valise which he had left
carelessly on the floor the night before was now making an excursion
backwards and forwards from the bunk to the sofa, and the books that
had been piled up on the sofa were scattered all over the room. It was
evident that dressing was going to be an acrobatic performance.
The deck, when he reached it, was wet, but not with the moisture of the
scrubbing. The outlook was clear enough, but a strong head-wind was
blowing that whistled through the cordage of the vessel, and caused the
black smoke of the funnels to float back like huge sombre streamers.
The prow of the big ship rose now into the sky and then sank down into
the bosom of the sea, and every time it descended a white cloud of
spray drenched everything forward and sent a drizzly salt rain along
the whole length of the steamer.
“There will be no ladies on deck this morning,” said Morris to himself,
as he held his cap on with both hands and looked around at the
threatening sky. At this moment one wave struck the steamer with more
than usual force and raised its crest amidship over the decks. Morris
had just time to escape into the companion-way when it fell with a
crash on the deck, flooding the promenade, and then rushing out through
the scuppers into the sea.
“By George!” said Morris. “I guess there won’t be many at breakfast
either, if this sort of thing keeps up. I think the other side of the
ship is the best.”
Coming out on the other side of the deck, he was astonished to see,
sitting in her steamer chair, snugly wrapped up in her rugs, Miss
Katherine Earle, balancing a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. The
steamer chair had been tightly tied to the brass stanchion, or
hand-rail, that ran along the side of the housed-in portion of the
companion-way, and although the steamer swayed to and fro, as well as
up and down, the chair was immovable. An awning had been put up over
the place where the chair was fastened, and every now and then on that
dripping piece of canvas the salt rain fell, the result of the waves
that dashed in on the other side of the steamer.
“Good morning, Mr. Morris!” said the young lady, brightly. “I am very
glad you have come. I will let you into a shipboard secret. The steward
of the smoking-room brings up every morning a pot of very fragrant
coffee. Now, if you will speak to him, I am sure he will be very glad
to give you a cup.”
“You do like to make fun of me, don’t you?” answered the young man.
“Oh, dear no,” said Miss Earle, “I shouldn’t think of making fun of
anything so serious. Is it making fun of a person who looks half frozen
to offer him a cup of warm coffee? I think there is more philanthropy
than fun about that.”
“Well, I don’t know but you are right. At any rate, I prefer to take it
as philanthropy rather than fun. I shall go and get a cup of coffee for
myself, if you will permit me to place a chair beside yours?”
“Oh, I beg you not to go for the coffee yourself. You certainly will
never reach here with it. You see the remains of that cup down by the
side of the vessel. The steward himself slipped and fell with that
piece of crockery in his hands. I am sure he hurt himself, although he
said he didn’t.”
“Did you give him an extra fee on that account?” asked Morris,
cynically.
“Of course I did. I am like the Government in that respect. I take care
of those who are injured in my service.”
“Perhaps, that’s why he went down. They are a sly set, those stewards.
He knew that a man would simply laugh at him, or perhaps utter some
maledictions if he were not feeling in very good humour. In all my
ocean voyages I have never had the good fortune to see a steward fall.
He knew, also, the rascal, that a lady would sympathise with him, and
that he wouldn’t lose anything by it, except the cup, which is not his
loss.”
“Oh yes, it is,” replied the young lady, “he tells me they charge all
breakages against him.”
“He didn’t tell you what method they had of keeping track of the
breakages, did he? Suppose he told the chief steward that you broke the
cup, which is likely he did. What then?”
“Oh, you are too cynical this morning, and it would serve you just
right if you go and get some coffee for yourself, and meet with the
same disaster that overtook the unfortunate steward. Only you are
forewarned that you shall have neither sympathy nor fee.”
“Well, in that case,” said the young man, “I shall not take the risk. I
shall sacrifice the steward rather. Oh, here he is. I say, steward,
will you bring me a cup of coffee, please?”
“Yes, sir. Any biscuit, sir?”
“No, no biscuit. Just a cup of coffee and a couple of lumps of sugar,
please; and if you can first get me a chair, and strap it to this rod
in the manner you do so well, I shall be very much obliged.”
“Yes, sir. I shall call the deck steward, sir.”
“Now, notice that. You see the rascals never interfere with each other.
The deck steward wants a fee, and the smoking-room steward wants a fee,
and each one attends strictly to his own business, and doesn’t
interfere with the possible fees of anybody else.”
“Well,” said Miss Earle, “is not that the correct way? If things are to
be well done, that is how they should be done. Now, just notice how
much more artistically the deck steward arranged these rugs than you
did yesterday morning. I think it is worth a good fee to be wrapped up
so comfortably as that.”
“I guess I’ll take lessons from the deck steward then, and even if I do
not get a fee, I may perhaps get some gratitude at least.”
“Gratitude? Why, you should think it a privilege.”
“Well, Miss Earle, to tell the truth, I do. It is a privilege that—I
hope you will not think I am trying to flatter you when I say—any man
might be proud of.”
“Oh, dear,” replied the young lady, laughing, “I did not mean it in
that way at all. I meant that it was a privilege to be allowed to
practise on those particular rugs. Now, a man should remember that he
undertakes a very great responsibility when he volunteers to place the
rugs around a lady on a steamer chair. He may make her look very neat
and even pretty by a nice disposal of the rugs, or he may make her look
like a horrible bundle.”
“Well, then, I think I was not such a failure after all yesterday
morning, for you certainly looked very neat and pretty.”
“Then, if I did, Mr. Morris, do not flatter yourself it was at all on
account of your disposal of the rugs, for the moment you had left a
very handsome young lady came along, and, looking at me, said, with
such a pleasant smile, ‘Why, what a pretty rug you have there; but how
the steward _has_ bungled it about you! Let me fix it,’ and with that
she gave it a touch here and a smooth down there, and the result was
really so nice that I hated to go down to breakfast. It is a pity you
went away so quickly yesterday morning. You might have had an
opportunity of becoming acquainted with the lady, who is, I think, the
prettiest girl on board this ship.”
“Do you?” said Mr. Morris, shortly.
“Yes, I do. Have you noticed her? She sits over there at the long table
near the centre. You must have seen her; she is so very, very pretty,
that you cannot help noticing her.”
“I am not looking after pretty women this voyage,” said Morris,
savagely.
“Oh, are you not? Well, I must thank you for that. That is evidently a
very sincere compliment. No, I can’t call it a compliment, but a
sincere remark, I think the first sincere one you have made to-day.”
“Why, what do you mean?” said Morris, looking at her in a bewildered
sort of way.
“You have been looking after me this morning, have you not, and
yesterday morning? And taking ever so much pains to be helpful and
entertaining, and now, all at once you say—Well, you know what you said
just now.”
“Oh yes. Well, you see—”
“Oh, you can’t get out of it, Mr. Morris. It was said, and with evident
sincerity.”
“Then you really think you are pretty?” said Mr. Morris, looking at his
companion, who flushed under the remark.
“Ah, now,” she said, “you imagine you are carrying the war into the
enemy’s country. But I don’t at all appreciate a remark like that. I
don’t know but I dislike it even more than I do your compliments, which
is saying a good deal.”
“I assure you,” said Morris, stiffly, “that I have not intended to pay
any compliments. I am not a man who pays compliments.”
“Not even left-handed ones?”
“Not even any kind, that I know of. I try as a general thing to speak
the truth.”
“Ah, and shame your hearers?”
“Well, I don’t care who I shame as long as I succeed in speaking the
truth.”
“Very well, then; tell me the truth. Have you noticed this handsome
young lady I speak of?”
“Yes, I have seen her.”
“Don’t you think she is very pretty?”
“Yes, I think she is.”
“Don’t you think she is the prettiest woman on the ship?”
“Yes, I think she is.”
“Are you afraid of pretty women?”
“No, I don’t think I am.”
“Then, tell me why, the moment she appeared on the deck yesterday
morning, you were so much agitated that you spilled most of my coffee
in the saucer?”
“Did I appear agitated?” asked Morris, with some hesitation.
“Now, I consider that sort of thing worse than a direct prevarication.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Why, a disingenuous answer. You _know_ you appeared agitated. You know
you _were_ agitated. You know you had a camp-stool, and that you
intended to sit down here and drink your coffee. All at once you
changed your mind, and that change was coincident with the appearance
on deck of the handsome young lady I speak of. I merely ask why?”
“Now, look here, Miss Earle, even the worst malefactor is not expected
to incriminate himself. I can refuse to answer, can I not?”
“Certainly you may. You may refuse to answer anything, if you like. It
was only because you were boasting about speaking the truth that I
thought I should test your truth-telling qualities. I have been
expecting every moment that you would say to me I was very impertinent,
and that it was no business of mine, which would have been quite true.
There, you see, you had a beautiful chance of speaking the truth which
you let slip entirely unnoticed. But there is the breakfast gong. Now,
I must confess to being very hungry indeed. I think I shall go down
into the saloon.”
“Please take my arm, Miss Earle,” said the young man.
“Oh, not at all,” replied that young lady; “I want something infinitely
more stable. I shall work my way along this brass rod until I can make
a bolt for the door. If you want to make yourself real useful, go and
stand on the stairway, or the companion-way I think you call it, and if
I come through the door with too great force you’ll prevent me from
going down the stairs.”
“‘Who ran to help me when I fell,’” quoted Mr. Morris, as he walked
along ahead of her, having some difficulty in maintaining his
equilibrium.
“I wouldn’t mind the falling,” replied the young lady, “if you only
would some pretty story tell; but you are very prosaic, Mr. Morris. Do
you ever read anything at all?”
“I never read when I have somebody more interesting than a book to talk
to.”
“Oh, thank you. Now, if you will get into position on the stairway, I
shall make my attempts at getting to the door.”
“I feel like a base-ball catcher,” said Morris, taking up a position
somewhat similar to that of the useful man behind the bat.
Miss Earle, however, waited until the ship was on an even keel, then
walked to the top of the companion-way, and, deftly catching up the
train of her dress with as much composure as if she were in a ballroom,
stepped lightly down the stairway. Looking smilingly over her shoulder
at the astonished baseball catcher, she said—
“I wish you would not stand in that ridiculous attitude, but come and
accompany me to the breakfast table. As I told you, I am very hungry.”
The steamer gave a lurch that nearly precipitated Morris down the
stairway, and the next moment he was by her side.
“Are you fond of base-ball?” she said to him.
“You should see me in the park when our side makes a home run. Do you
like the game?”
“I never saw a game in my life.”
“What! you an American girl, and never saw a game of base-ball? Why, I
am astonished.”
“I did not say that I was an American girl.”
“Oh, that’s a fact. I took you for one, however.”
They were both of them so intent on their conversation in walking up
the narrow way between the long table and the short ones, that neither
of them noticed the handsome blonde young lady standing beside her
chair looking at them. It was only when that young lady said, “Why, Mr.
Morris, is this you?” and when that gentleman jumped as if a cannon had
been fired beside him, that either of them noticed their fair
fellow-traveller.
“Y—es,” stammered Morris, “it is!”
The young lady smiled sweetly and held out her hand, which Morris took
in an awkward way.
“I was just going to ask you,” she said, “when you came aboard. How
ridiculous that would have been. Of course, you have been here all the
time. Isn’t it curious that we have not met each other?—we of all
persons in the world.”
Morris, who had somewhat recovered his breath, looked steadily at her
as she said this, and her eyes, after encountering his gaze for a
moment, sank to the floor.
Miss Earle, who had waited for a moment expecting that Morris would
introduce her, but seeing that he had for the time being apparently
forgotten everything on earth, quietly left them, and took her place at
the breakfast table. The blonde young lady looked up again at Mr.
Morris, and said—
“I am afraid I am keeping you from breakfast.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter.”
“I am afraid, then,” she continued sweetly, “that I am keeping you from
your very interesting table companion.”
“Yes, that _does_ matter,” said Morris, looking at her. “I wish you
good morning, madam.” And with that he left her and took his place at
the head of the small table.
There was a vindictive look in the blonde young lady’s pretty eyes as
she sank into her own seat at the breakfast table.
Miss Earle had noticed the depressing effect which even the sight of
the blonde lady exercised on Morris the day before, and she looked
forward, therefore, to rather an uncompanionable breakfast. She was
surprised, however, to see that Morris had an air of jaunty joviality,
which she could not help thinking was rather forced.
“Now,” he said, as he sat down on the sofa at the head of the table, “I
think it’s about time for us to begin our chutney fight.”
“Our what?” asked the young lady, looking up at him with open eyes.
“Is it possible,” he said, “that you have crossed the ocean and never
engaged in the chutney fight? I always have it on this line.”
“I am sorry to appear so ignorant,” said Miss Earle, “but I have to
confess I do not know what chutney is.”
“I am glad of that,” returned the young man. “It delights me to find in
your nature certain desert spots—certain irreclaimable lands, I might
say—of ignorance.”
“I do not see why a person should rejoice in the misfortunes of another
person,” replied the young lady.
“Oh, don’t you? Why, it is the most natural thing in the world. There
is nothing that we so thoroughly dislike as a person, either lady or
gentleman, who is perfect. I suspect you rather have the advantage of
me in the reading of books, but I certainly have the advantage of you
on chutney, and I intend to make the most of it.”
“I am sure I shall be very glad to be enlightened, and to confess my
ignorance whenever it is necessary, and that, I fear, will be rather
often. So, if our acquaintance continues until the end of the voyage,
you will be in a state of perpetual delight.”
“Well, that’s encouraging. You will be pleased to learn that chutney is
a sauce, an Indian sauce, and on this line somehow or other they never
have more than one or two bottles. I do not know whether it is very
expensive. I presume it is. Perhaps it is because there is very little
demand for it, a great number of people not knowing what chutney is.”
“Thank you,” said the young lady, “I am glad to find that I am in the
majority, at least, even in the matter of ignorance.”
“Well, as I was saying, chutney is rather a seductive sauce. You may
not like it at first, but it grows on you. You acquire, as it were, the
chutney habit. An old Indian traveller, whom I had the pleasure of
crossing with once, and who sat at the same table with me, demanded
chutney. He initiated me into the mysteries of chutney, and he had a
chutney fight all the way across.”
“I still have to confess that I do not see what there is to fight about
in the matter of chutney.”
“Don’t you? Well, you shall soon have a practical illustration of the
terrors of a chutney fight. Steward,” called Morris, “just bring me a
bottle of chutney, will you?”
“Chutney, air?” asked the steward, as if he had never heard the word
before.
“Yes, chutney. Chutney sauce.”
“I am afraid, sir,” said the steward, “that we haven’t any chutney
sauce.”
“Oh yes, you have. I see a bottle there on the captain’s table. I think
there is a second bottle at the smaller table. Just two doors up the
street. Have the kindness to bring it to me.”
The steward left for the chutney, and Morris looking after him, saw
that there was some discussion between him and the steward of the other
table. Finally, Morris’s steward came back and said, “I am very sorry,
sir, but they are using the chutney at that table.”
“Now look here, steward,” said Morris, “you know that you are here to
take care of us, and that at the end of the voyage I will take care of
you. Don’t make any mistake about that. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” said the steward. “Thank you, sir.”
“All right,” replied Morris. “Now you understand that I want chutney,
and chutney I am going to have.”
Steward number one waited until steward number two had disappeared
after another order, and then he deftly reached over, took the chutney
sauce, and placed it before Mr. Morris.
“Now, Miss Earle, I hope that you will like this chutney sauce. You see
there is some difficulty in getting it, and that of itself ought to be
a strong recommendation for it.”
“It is a little too hot to suit me,” answered the young lady, trying
the Indian sauce, “still, there is a pleasant flavour about it that I
like.”
“Oh, you are all right,” said Morris, jauntily; “you will be a victim
of the chutney habit before two days. People who dislike it at first
are its warmest advocates afterwards. I use the word warmest without
any allusion to the sauce itself, you know. I shall now try some
myself.”
As he looked round the table for the large bottle, he saw that it had
been whisked away by steward number two, and now stood on the other
table. Miss Earle laughed.
“Oh, I shall have it in a moment,” said the young man.
“Do you think it is worth while?”
“Worth while? Why, that is the excitement of a chutney fight. It is not
that we care for chutney at all, but that we simply are bound to have
it. If there were a bottle of chutney at every table, the delights of
chutney would be gone. Steward,” said Morris, as that functionary
appeared, “the chutney, please.”
The steward cast a rapid glance at the other table, and waited until
steward number two had disappeared. Then Morris had his chutney.
Steward number two, seeing his precious bottle gone, tried a second
time to stealthily obtain possession of it, but Morris said to him in a
pleasant voice, “That’s all right, steward, we are through with the
chutney. Take it along, please. So that,” continued Mr. Morris, as Miss
Earle rose from the table, “that is your first experience of a chutney
fight—one of the delights of ocean travel.”