“What do you mean?” he said huskily.
“I mean what I say. Why don’t you take your own wife walking on the
deck, and leave the young ladies alone. It’s none of your business with
whom they walk.”
Kensington seemed about to reply; but he thought better of it, turned
on his heel, and left Montague standing there.
The old _Tub_ worried her way across the ocean, and reached the bar at
Liverpool just in time to be too late to cross it that night. Word was
passed along that a tender would come out from Liverpool for us, which
was not a very cheering prospect, as we would have two hours’ sail at
least in what was practically an open boat.
Finally the tender came alongside, and the baggage was dumped down upon
it. All of us gathered together ready to leave _The Tub_. Mr.
Kensington, with his closely-veiled wife hanging on his arm, was
receiving the thanks and congratulations of the “dragon.” The fifteen
girls were all around her. Before any one started down the sloping
gangway plank, however, two policemen, accompanied by a woman, hurried
up on board _The Tub_.
“Now, madam,” said the policeman, “is he here?”
We saw that trouble was coming, and everybody looked at everybody else.
“Is he here?” cried the woman excitedly; “there he stands, the villain.
Oh, you villain, you scoundrel, you _mean_ rascal, to leave me, as you
thought, penniless in New York, and desert your own wife and family for
that—that creature!” We all looked at Kensington, and his face was
greenish-pale. The heavily veiled woman shrunk behind him and the
policeman tried to make the true wife keep quiet.
“Is your name Braughton?”
Kensington did not answer. His eyes were riveted on his wife. “In the
name of God,” he cried aghast, “how did _you_ come here?”
“How did I come here,” she shrieked. “Oh, you thought you slipped away
nicely, didn’t you? But you forgot that the _Clipper_ left the next
day, and I’ve been here two days waiting for you. You little thought
when you deserted me and my children in New York that we would be here
to confront you at Liverpool.”
“Come, come.” said the policeman, “there’s no use of this. I am afraid
you will have to come with us, sir.”
They took him in charge, and the irate wife then turned like a tigress
on the heavily veiled woman who was with him.
“No wonder you are ashamed to show your face,” she cried.
“Come, come,” said the policeman, “come, come.” And they managed to
induce her to say no more.
“Madam,” said young Montague to the speechless ‘dragon,’ “I want to ask
your permission to allow me to carry Miss Fleming’s hand- baggage
ashore.”
“How dare you speak to me, sir?” she answered.
“Because,” he said, in a low voice, “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t
like an account of this affair to go to the Boston newspapers. I’m a
newspaper man, you see,” he added, with unblushing mendacity. Then,
turning to Miss Fleming, he said, “Won’t you allow me to carry this for
you?”
Miss Fleming surrendered the natty little handbag she had with her, and
smiled. The “dragon” made no objection.
A Society For The Reformation Of Poker Players.
“O Unseen Hand that ever makes and deals us,
And plays our game!
That now obscures and then to light reveals us,
Serves blanks of fame
How vain our shuffling, bluff and weak pretending!
’Tis Thou alone can name the final ending”
The seductive game of poker is one that I do not understand. I do not
care to understand it, because it cannot be played without the putting
up of a good deal of the coin of the realm, and although I have nothing
to say against betting, my own theory of conduct in the matter is this,
that I want no man’s money which I do not earn, and I do not want any
man to get my money unless he earns it. So it happens, in the matter of
cards, I content myself with euchre and other games which do not
require the wagering of money.
On board the Atlantic steamers there is always more or less gambling. I
have heard it said that men make trips to and fro merely for the
purpose of fleecing their fellow-passengers; but, except in one
instance, I never had any experience with this sort of thing.
Our little society for the reformation of poker players, or to speak
more correctly, for the reformation of one particular poker player, was
formed one bright starlight night, latitude such a number, and
longitude something else, as four of us sat on a seat at the extreme
rear end of the great steamer. We four, with one other, sat at a small
table in the saloon. One of the small tables on a Transatlantic steamer
is very pleasant if you have a nice crowd with you. A seat at a small
table compares with a seat at the large table as living in a village
compares with living in a city. You have some individuality at the
short table; you are merely one of a crowd at the long table. Our small
table was not quite full. I had the honour of sitting at the head of
it, and on each side of me were two young fellows, making five
altogether. We all rather prided ourselves on the fact that there were
no ladies at our little table.
The young Englishman who sat at my right hand at the corner of the
table was going out to America to learn farming. I could, myself, have
taught him a good deal about it, but I refrained from throwing cold
water on his enthusiastic ideas about American agriculture. His notion
was that it was an occupation mostly made up of hunting and fishing,
and having a good time generally. The profits, he thought, were large
and easily acquired. He had guns with him, and beautiful fishing-rods,
and things of that sort. He even had a vague idea that he might be able
to introduce fox-hunting in the rural district to which he was going.
He understood, and regretted the fact, that we in the United States
were rather behind-hand in the matter of fox-hunting. He had a good
deal of money with him, I understood, and he had already paid a hundred
pounds to a firm in England that had agreed to place him on a farm in
America. Of course, now that the money had been paid, there was no use
in telling the young man he had been a fool. He would find that out
soon enough when he got to America. Henry Storm was his name, and a
milder mannered man with a more unsuitable name could hardly be found.
The first two or three days out he was the life of our party. We all
liked him, in fact, nobody could help liking him; but, as the voyage
progressed, he grew more and more melancholy, and, what was really
serious, took little food, which is not natural in an Englishman. I
thought somebody had been telling him what a fool he had been to pay
away his hundred pounds before leaving England, but young Smith of
Rochester, who sat at my left, told me what the trouble was one day as
we walked the deck. “Do you know,” he began, “that Henry Storm is being
robbed?”
“Being robbed?” I answered; “you mean he has been robbed.”
“Well, has been, and is being, too. The thing is going on yet. He is
playing altogether too much poker in the smoking-room, and has lost a
pile of money—more, I imagine, than he can well afford.”
“That’s what’s the trouble with him, is it? Well, he ought to know
better than to play for bigger stakes than he can afford to lose.”
“Oh, it’s easy to say that; but he’s in the hands of a swindler, of a
professional gambler. You see that man?” He lowered his voice as he
spoke, and I looked in the direction of his glance. By this time we
knew, in a way, everybody on board the ship. The particular man Smith
pointed out was a fellow I had noticed a good deal, who was very quiet
and gentlemanly, interfering with nobody, and talking with few. I had
spoken to him once, but he had answered rather shortly, and, apparently
to his relief, and certainly to my own, our acquaintance ceased where
it began. He had jet black beard and hair, both rather closely clipped;
and he wore a fore and aft cap, which never improves a man’s appearance
very much.
“That man,” continued Smith, as he passed us, “was practically under
arrest for gambling on the steamer in which I came over. It seems that
he is a regular professional gambler, who does nothing but go across
the ocean and back again, fleecing young fellows like Storm.”
“Does he cheat?” I asked.
“He doesn’t need to. He plays poker. An old hand, and a cool one, has
no occasion to cheat at that game to get a young one’s money away from
him.”
“Then why doesn’t some one warn young Storm?”
“Well, that’s just what I wanted to speak to you about. I think it
ought to be done. I think we should call a meeting of our table,
somewhere out here in the quiet, and have a talk over it, and make up
our mind what is to be done. It’s a delicate matter, you know, and I am
afraid we are a little late as it is. I do believe young Storm has lost
nearly all his money to that fellow.”
“Can’t he be made to disgorge?”
“How? The money has been won fairly enough, as that sort of thing goes.
Other fellows have played with them. It isn’t as if he had been caught
cheating—he hasn’t, and won’t be. He doesn’t cheat—he doesn’t need to,
as I said before. Now that gambler pretends he is a commercial
traveller from Buffalo. I know Buffalo down to the ground, so I took
him aside yesterday and said plumply to him, ‘What firm in Buffalo do
you represent?’ He answered shortly that his business was his own
affair. I said, ‘Certainly it is, and you are quite right in keeping it
dark. When I was coming over to Europe, I saw a man in your line of
business who looked very much like you, practically put under arrest by
the purser for gambling. You were travelling for a St. Louis house
then.’”
“What did he say to that?”
“Nothing; he just gave me one of those sly, sinister looks of his,
turned on his heel, and left me.”
The result of this conversation was the inauguration of the Society for
the Reforming of a Poker Player. It was agreed between us that if young
Storm had lost all his money we would subscribe enough as a loan to
take care of him until he got a remittance from home. Of course we knew
that any young fellow who goes out to America to begin farming, does
not, as a general rule, leave people in England exceedingly well off,
and probably this fact, more than any other, accounted for the remorse
visible on Storm’s countenance. We knew quite well that the offering of
money to him would be a very delicate matter, but it was agreed that
Smith should take this in hand if we saw the offer was necessary. Then
I, as the man who sat at the head of the table, was selected to speak
to young Storm, and, if possible, get him to abandon poker. I knew this
was a somewhat impudent piece of business on my part, and so I took
that evening to determine how best to perform the task set for me. I
resolved to walk the deck with him in the morning, and have a frank
talk over the matter.
When the morning came, I took young Storm’s arm and walked two or three
turns up and down the deck, but all the while I could not get up
courage enough to speak with him in relation to gambling. When he left
me, I again thought over the matter. I concluded to go into the
smoking-room myself, sit down beside him, see him lose some money and
use that fact as a test for my coming discourse on the evils of
gambling. After luncheon I strolled into the smoking-room, and there
sat this dark-faced man with his half-closed eyes opposite young Storm,
while two others made up the four-handed game of poker.
Storm’s face was very pale, and his lips seemed dry, for he moistened
them every now and then as the game went on. He was sitting on the
sofa, and I sat down beside him, paying no heed to the dark gambler’s
look of annoyance. However, the alleged Buffalo man said nothing, for
he was not a person who did much talking. Storm paid no attention to me
as I sat down beside him. The gambler had just dealt. It was very
interesting to see the way he looked at his hand. He allowed merely the
edges of the cards to show over each other, and then closed up his hand
and seemed to know just what he had. When young Storm looked at his
hand he gave a sort of gasp, and for the first time cast his eyes upon
me. I had seen his hand, but did not know whether it was a good one or
not. I imagined it was not very good, because all the cards were of a
low denomination. Threes or fours I think, but four of the cards had a
like number of spots. There was some money in the centre of the table.
Storm pushed a half-crown in front of him, and the next man did the
same. The gambler put down a half-sovereign, and the man at his left,
after a moment’s hesitation, shoved out an equal amount from the pile
of gold in front of him.
Young Storm pushed out a sovereign.
“I’m out,” said the man whose next bet it was, throwing down his cards.
The gambler raised it a sovereign, and the man at his left dropped out.
It now rested between Storm and the gambler. Storm increased the bet a
sovereign. The gambler then put on a five-pound note.
Storm said to me huskily, “Have you any money?”
“Yes,” I answered him.
“Lend me five pounds if you can.”
Now, the object of my being there was to stop gambling, not to
encourage it. I was the president _pro tem_, of the Society for the
Reformation of Poker Players, yet I dived into my pocket, pulled out my
purse under the table and slipped a five-pound note into his hand. He
put that on the table as if he had just taken it from his own pocket.
“I call you,” he said.
“What have you got?” asked the gambler.
“Four fours,” said Storm, putting down his hand.
The gambler closed up his and threw the cards over to the man who was
to deal. Storm paused a moment and then pulled towards him the money in
the centre of the table and handed me my five-pound note.
When the cards were next dealt, Storm seemed to have rather an ordinary
hand, so apparently had all the rest, and there was not much money in
the pile. But, poor as Storm’s hand was, the rest appeared to be
poorer, and he raked in the cash. This went on for two or three deals,
and finding that, as Storm was winning all the time, although not
heavily, I was not getting an object lesson against gambling, I made a
move to go.
“Stay where you are,” whispered Storm to me, pinching my knee with his
hand so hard that I almost cried out.
Then it came to the gambler’s turn to deal again. All the time he
deftly shuffled the cards he watched the players with that furtive
glance of his from out his half-shut eyes.
Storm’s hand was a remarkable one, after he had drawn two cards, but I
did not know whether it had any special value or not. The other players
drew three cards each, and the gambler took one.
“How much money have you got?” whispered Storm to me.
“I don’t know,” I said, “perhaps a hundred pounds.”
“Be prepared to lend me every penny of it,” he whispered.
I said nothing; but I never knew the president of a society for the
suppression of gambling to be in such a predicament.
Storm bet a sovereign. The player to his left threw down his hand. The
gambler pushed out two sovereigns. The other player went out.
Storm said, “I see your bet, and raise you another sovereign.” The
gambler, without saying a word, shoved forward some more gold.
“Get your money ready,” whispered Storm to I did not quite like his
tone, but I made allowance for the excitement under which he was
evidently labouring.
He threw on a five-pound note. The gambler put down another five-pound
note, and then, as if it were the slightest thing possible, put a
ten-pound note on top of that, which made the side players gasp. Storm
had won sufficient to cover the bet and raise it. After that I had to
feed in to him five-pound notes, keeping count of their number on my
fingers as I did so. The first to begin to hesitate about putting money
forward was the gambler. He shot a glance now and again from under his
eyebrows at the young man opposite. Finally, when my last five-pound
note had been thrown on the pile, the gambler spoke for the first time.
“I call you,” he said.
“Put down another five-pound note,” cried the young man.
“I have called you,” said the gambler.
Henry Storm half rose from his seat in his excitement. “Put down
another five-pound note, if you dare.”
“That isn’t poker,” said the gambler. “I have called you. What have you
got?”
“Put down another five-pound note, and I’ll put a ten-pound note on top
of it.”
“I say that isn’t poker. You have been called. What have you got?”
“I’ll bet you twenty pounds against your five-pound note, if you dare
put it down.”
By this time Storm was standing up, quivering with excitement, his
cards tightly clenched in his hand. The gambler sat opposite him calm
and imperturbable.
“What have you got?” said Storm.
“I called you,” said the gambler, “show your hand.”
“Yes; but when I called you, you asked me what I had, and I told you.
What have _you_ got?”
“I am not afraid to show my hand,” said the gambler, and he put down on
the table four aces.
“There’s the king of hearts,” said Storm, putting it down on the table.
“There’s the queen of hearts, there’s the knave of hearts, there’s the
ten of hearts. Now,” he cried, waving his other card in the air, “can
you tell me what this card is?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” answered the gambler, quietly, “probably the
nine of hearts.”
“It _is_ the nine of hearts,” shouted Storm, placing it down beside the
others.
The gambler quietly picked up the cards, and handed them to the man who
was to deal. Storm’s hands were trembling with excitement as he pulled
the pile of bank notes and gold towards him. He counted out what I had
given him, and passed it to me under the table. The rest he thrust into
his pocket.
“Come,” I said, “it is time to go. Don’t strain your luck.”
“Another five pounds,” he whispered; “sit where you are.”
“Nonsense,” I said, “another five pounds will certainly mean that you
lose, everything you have won. Come away, I want to talk with you.”
“Another five pounds, I have sworn it.”
“Very well, I shall not stay here any longer.”
“No, no,” he cried eagerly; “sit where you are, sit where you are.”
There was a grim thin smile on the lips of the gambler as this
whispered conversation took place.
When the next hand was dealt around and Storm looked at his cards, he
gave another gasp of delight. I thought that a poker player should not
be so free with his emotions; but of course I said nothing. When it
came his time to bet, he planked down a five-pound note on the table.
The other two, as was usual, put down their cards. They were evidently
very timorous players. The gambler hesitated for a second, then he put
a ten-pound note on Storm’s five-pounds. Storm at once saw him, and
raised him ten. The gambler hesitated longer this time, but at last he
said, “I shall not bet. What have you got?”
“Do you call me?” asked Storm. “Put up your money if you do.”
“No, I do not call you.”
Storm laughed and threw his cards face up on the table. “I have
nothing,” he said, “I have bluffed you for once.”
“It is very often done,” answered the gambler, quietly, as Storm drew
in his pile of money, stuffing it again in his coat pocket. “Your deal,
Storm.”
“No, sir,” said the young man, rising up; “I’ll never touch a poker
hand again. I have got my own money back and five or ten pounds over. I
know when I’ve had enough.”
Although it was Storm’s deal, the gambler had the pack of cards in his
hand idly shuffling them to and fro.
“I have often heard,” he said slowly without raising his eyes, “that
when one fool sits down beside another fool at poker, the player has
the luck of two fools—but I never believed it before.”
The Man Who was Not on the Passenger List.
“The well-sworn Lie, franked to the world with all
The circumstance of proof,
Cringes abashed, and sneaks along the wall
At the first sight of Truth.”
The _Gibrontus_ of the Hot Cross Bun Line was at one time the best ship
of that justly celebrated fleet. All steamships have, of course, their
turn at the head of the fleet until a better boat is built, but the
_Gibrontus_ is even now a reasonably fast and popular boat. An accident
happened on board the _Gibrontus_ some years ago which was of small
importance to the general public, but of some moment to Richard
Keeling—for it killed him. The poor man got only a line or two in the
papers when the steamer arrived at New York, and then they spelled his
name wrong. It had happened something like this: Keeling was wandering
around very late at night, when he should have been in his bunk, and he
stepped on a dark place that he thought was solid. As it happened,
there was nothing between him and the bottom of the hold but space.
They buried Keeling at sea, and the officers knew absolutely nothing
about the matter when inquisitive passengers, hearing rumours,
questioned them. This state of things very often exists both on sea and
land, as far as officials are concerned. Mrs. Keeling, who had been
left in England while her husband went to America to make his fortune,
and tumbled down a hole instead, felt aggrieved at the company. The
company said that Keeling had no business to be nosing around dark
places on the deck at that time of night, and doubtless their
contention was just. Mrs. Keeling, on the other hand, held that a
steamer had no right to have such mantraps open at any time, night or
day, without having them properly guarded, and in that she was also
probably correct. The company was very sorry, of course, that the thing
had occurred; but they refused to pay for Keeling unless compelled to
do so by the law of the land, and there matters stood. No one can tell
what the law of the land will do when it is put in motion, although
many people thought that if Mrs. Keeling had brought a suit against the
Hot Cross Bun Company she would have won it. But Mrs. Keeling was a
poor woman, and you have to put a penny in the slot when you want the
figures of justice to work, so the unfortunate creature signed
something which the lawyer of the company had written out, and accepted
the few pounds which Keeling had paid for Room 18 on the _Gibrontus_.
It would seem that this ought to have settled the matter, for the
lawyer told Mrs. Keeling he thought the company acted very generously
in refunding the passage money; but it didn’t settle the matter. Within
a year from that time, the company voluntarily paid Mrs. Keeling £2100
for her husband. Now that the occurrence is called to your mind, you
will perhaps remember the editorial one of the leading London dailies
had on the extraordinary circumstance, in which it was very ably shown
that the old saying about corporations having no souls to be condemned
or bodies to be kicked did not apply in these days of commercial honour
and integrity. It was a very touching editorial, and it caused tears to
be shed on the Stock Exchange, the members having had no idea, before
reading it, that they were so noble and generous.
How, then, was it that the Hot Cross Bun Company did this commendable
act when their lawyer took such pains to clear them of all legal
liability? The purser of the _Gibrontus_, who is now old and
superannuated, could probably tell you if he liked.
When the negotiations with Mrs. Keeling had been brought to a
satisfactory conclusion by the lawyer of the company, and when that
gentleman was rubbing his hands over his easy victory, the good ship
_Gibrontus_ was steaming out of the Mersey on her way to New York. The
stewards in the grand saloon were busy getting things in order for
dinner, when a wan and gaunt passenger spoke to one of them.
“Where have you placed me at table?” he asked.
“What name, sir?” asked the steward.
“Keeling.”
The steward looked along the main tables, up one side and down the
other, reading the cards, but nowhere did he find the name he was in
search of. Then he looked at the small tables, but also without
success.
“How do you spell it, sir?” he asked the patient passenger.
“K-double-e-l-i-n-g.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Then he looked up and down the four rows of names on the passenger list
he held in his hand, but finally shook his head.
“I can’t find your name on the passenger list,” he said. “I’ll speak to
the purser, sir.”
“I wish you would,” replied the passenger in a listless way, as if he
had not much interest in the matter. The passenger, whose name was not
on the list, waited until the steward returned. “Would you mind
stepping into the purser’s room for a moment, sir? I’ll show you the
way, sir.”
When the passenger was shown into the purser’s room that official said
to him, in the urbane manner of pursers—
“Might I look at your ticket, sir?”
The passenger pulled a long pocket-book from the inside of his coat,
opened it, and handed the purser the document it contained. The purser
scrutinized it sharply, and then referred to a list he had on the desk
before him.
“This is very strange,” he said at last. “I never knew such a thing to
occur before, although, of course, it is always possible. The people on
shore have in some unaccountable manner left your name out of my list.
I am sorry you have been put to any inconvenience, sir.”
“There has been no inconvenience so far,” said the passenger, “and I
trust there will be none. You find the ticket regular, I presume?”
“Quite so—quite so,” replied the purser. Then, to the waiting steward,
“Give Mr. Keeling any place he prefers at the table which is not
already taken. You have Room 18.”
“That was what I bought at Liverpool.”
“Well, I see you have the room to yourself, and I hope you will find it
comfortable. Have you ever crossed with us before, sir? I seem to
recollect your face.”
“I have never been in America.”
“Ah! I see so many faces, of course, that I sometimes fancy I know a
man when I don’t. Well, I hope you will have a pleasant voyage, sir.”
“Thank you.”
No. 18 was not a popular passenger. People seemed instinctively to
shrink from him, although it must be admitted that he made no advances.
All went well until the _Gibrontus_ was about half-way over. One
forenoon the chief officer entered the captain’s room with a pale face,
and, shutting the door after him, said—
“I am very sorry to have to report, sir, that one of the passengers has
fallen into the hold.”
“Good heavens!” cried the captain. “Is he hurt?”
“He is killed, sir.”
The captain stared aghast at his subordinate.
“How did it happen? I gave the strictest orders those places were on no
account to be left unguarded.”
Although the company had held to Mrs. Keeling that the captain was not
to blame, their talk with that gentleman was of an entirely different
tone.
“That is the strange part of it, sir. The hatch has not been opened
this voyage, sir, and was securely bolted down.”
“Nonsense! Nobody will believe such a story! Some one has been
careless! Ask the purser to come here, please.”
When the purser saw the body, he recollected, and came as near fainting
as a purser can.
They dropped Keeling overboard in the night, and the whole affair was
managed so quietly that nobody suspected anything, and, what is the
most incredible thing in this story, the New York papers did not have a
word about it. What the Liverpool office said about the matter nobody
knows, but it must have stirred up something like a breeze in that
strictly business locality. It is likely they pooh-poohed the whole
affair, for, strange to say, when the purser tried to corroborate the
story with the dead man’s ticket the document was nowhere to be found.
The _Gibrontus_ started out on her next voyage from Liverpool with all
her colours flying, but some of her officers had a vague feeling of
unrest within them which reminded them of the time they first sailed on
the heaving seas. The purser was seated in his room, busy, as pursers
always are at the beginning of a voyage, when there was a rap at the
door.
“Come in!” shouted the important official, and there entered unto him a
stranger, who said—“Are you the purser?”
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I have room No. 18.”
“What!” cried the purser, with a gasp, almost jumping from his chair.
Then he looked at the robust man before him, and sank back with a sigh
of relief. It was not Keeling.
“I have room No. 18,” continued the passenger, “and the arrangement I
made with your people in Liverpool was that I was to have the room to
myself. I do a great deal of shipping over your—”
“Yes, my dear sir,” said the purser, after having looked rapidly over
his list, “you have No. 18 to yourself.”
“So I told the man who is unpacking his luggage there; but he showed me
his ticket, and it was issued before mine. I can’t quite understand why
your people should—”
“What kind of a looking man is he?”
“A thin, unhealthy, cadaverous man, who doesn’t look as if he would
last till the voyage ends. I don’t want _him_ for a room mate, if I
have to have one. I think you ought—”
“I will, sir. I will make it all right. I suppose, if it should happen
that a mistake has been made, and he has the prior claim to the room,
you would not mind taking No. 24—it is a larger and better room.”
“That will suit me exactly.”
So the purser locked his door and went down to No. 18.
“Well?” he said to its occupant.
“Well,” answered Mr. Keeling, looking up at him with his cold and fishy
eyes.
“You’re here again, are you?”
“I’m here again, and I _will_ be here again. And again and again, and
again and again.”
“Now, what the—” Then the purser hesitated a moment, and thought
perhaps he had better not swear, with that icy, clammy gaze fixed upon
him. “What object have you in all this?”
“Object? The very simple one of making your company live up to its
contract. From Liverpool to New York, my ticket reads. I paid for being
landed in the United States, not for being dumped overboard in
mid-ocean. Do you think you can take me over? You have had two tries at
it and have not succeeded. Yours is a big and powerful company too.”
“If you know we can’t do it, then why do you—?” The purser hesitated.
“Pester you with my presence?” suggested Mr. Keeling. “Because I want
you to do justice. Two thousand pounds is the price, and I will raise
it one hundred pounds every trip.” This time the New York papers got
hold of the incident, but not of its peculiar features. They spoke of
the extraordinary carelessness of the officers in allowing practically
the same accident to occur twice on the same boat. When the _Gibrontus_
reached Liverpool all the officers, from the captain down, sent in
their resignations. Most of the sailors did not take the trouble to
resign, but cut for it. The managing director was annoyed at the
newspaper comments, but laughed at the rest of the story. He was
invited to come over and interview Keeling for his own satisfaction,
most of the officers promising to remain on the ship if he did so. He
took Room 18 himself. What happened I do not know, for the purser
refused to sail again on the _Gibrontus_, and was given another ship.
But this much is certain. When the managing director got back, the
company generously paid Mrs. Keeling £2100.