“Which—life or death? ’Tis a gambler’s chance!
Yet, unconcerned, we spin and dance,
On the brittle thread of circumstance.”
I understand that Plodkins is in the habit of referring sceptical
listeners to me, and telling them that I will substantiate every word
of his story. Now this is hardly fair of Plodkins. I can certainly
corroborate part of what he says, and I can bear witness to the
condition in which I found him after his ordeal was over. So I have
thought it best, in order to set myself right with the public, to put
down exactly what occurred. If I were asked whether or not I believe
Plodkins’ story myself, I would have to answer that sometimes I believe
it, and sometimes I do not. Of course Plodkins will be offended when he
reads this, but there are other things that I have to say about him
which will perhaps enrage him still more; still they are the truth. For
instance, Plodkins can hardly deny, and yet probably he will deny, that
he was one of the most talented drinkers in America. I venture to say
that every time he set foot in Liverpool coming East, or in New York
going West, he was just on the verge of delirium tremens, because,
being necessarily idle during the voyage, he did little else but drink
and smoke. I never knew a man who could take so much liquor and show
such small results. The fact was, that in the morning Plodkins was
never at his best, because he was nearer sober then than at any other
part of the day; but, after dinner, a more entertaining, genial,
generous, kind-hearted man than Hiram Plodkins could not be found
anywhere.
I want to speak of Plodkins’ story with the calm, dispassionate manner
of a judge, rather than with the partisanship of a favourable witness;
and although my allusion to Plodkins’ habits of intoxication may seem
to him defamatory in character, and unnecessary, yet I mention them
only to show that something terrible must have occurred in the
bath-room to make him stop short. The extraordinary thing is, from that
day to this Plodkins has not touched a drop of intoxicating liquor,
which fact in itself strikes me as more wonderful than the story he
tells.
Plodkins was a frequent crosser on the Atlantic steamers. He was
connected with commercial houses on both sides of the ocean; selling in
America for an English house, and buying in England for an American
establishment. I presume it was his experiences in selling goods that
led to his terrible habits of drinking. I understood from him that out
West, if you are selling goods you have to do a great deal of treating,
and every time you treat another man to a glass of wine, or a whiskey
cocktail, you have, of course, to drink with him. But this has nothing
to do with Plodkins’ story.
On an Atlantic liner, when there is a large list of passengers,
especially of English passengers, it is difficult to get a convenient
hour in the morning at which to take a bath. This being the case, the
purser usually takes down the names of applicants and assigns each a
particular hour. Your hour may be, say seven o’clock in the morning.
The next man comes on at half-past seven, and the third man at eight,
and so on. The bedroom steward raps at your door when the proper time
arrives, and informs you that the bath is ready. You wrap a
dressing-gown or a cloak around you, and go along the silent corridors
to the bath-room, coming back, generally before your half hour is up,
like a giant refreshed.
Plodkins’ bath hour was seven o’clock in the morning. Mine was
half-past seven. On the particular morning in question the steward did
not call me, and I thought he had forgotten, so I passed along the dark
corridor and tried the bath-room door. I found it unbolted, and as
everything was quiet inside, I entered. I thought nobody was there, so
I shoved the bolt in the door, and went over to see if the water had
been turned on. The light was a little dim even at that time of the
morning, and I must say I was horror-stricken to see, lying in the
bottom of the bath-tub, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, Plodkins. I
am quite willing to admit that I was never so startled in my life. I
thought at first Plodkins was dead, notwithstanding his open eyes
staring at the ceiling; but he murmured, in a sort of husky far-away
whisper, “Thank God,” and then closed his eyes.
“What’s the matter, Plodkins?” I said. “Are you ill? What’s the matter
with you? Shall I call for help?”
There was a feeble negative motion of the head. Then he said, in a
whisper, “Is the door bolted?”
“Yes,” I answered.