“Come, that’s bully,” Brand declared, with a little real feeling in his tone. “I tell you, Clark,” he added, as they made their way along the deck to the writing room, “you’ve got to prick these damned Britishers pretty hard, but they’ve generally got a bit of the right feeling somewhere tucked away. He’ll have a swollen head for the rest of this voyage, though.” Crawshay watched the two men disappear, out of the corner of his eye. Then he rose to his feet and commenced a little promenade about the sunny portion of the deck. After two or three turns he found himself face to face with Jocelyn Thew, who had just issued from the companionway.
“Good morning, Mr. Late Passenger!” the latter exclaimed.
Crawshay paused and looked him up and down.
“Do I know you, sir?” he asked.
“I am not so sure that you do,” Jocelyn replied, “but after yesterday the whole world knows Mr. Reginald Crawshay.”
“Very kind of you, I am sure,” Crawshay murmured. “What I did really wasn’t worth making a fuss about.”
“You had an uncomfortable ride, I fear?” Jocelyn continued.
“I was most unsuitably attired,” Crawshay hastened to explain. “If, instead of asking me very absurd questions at the aerodrome, they had provided me with some garments calculated to exclude the salt water, I should be able to look back upon the trip with more pleasurable feelings.”
“Pity you had to make it, wasn’t it?” Jocelyn observed, falling into step with him.
“I scarcely follow you, Mr.—Ought I to know your name? I have a shocking memory.”
“My name is Jocelyn Thew.”
“Mr. Jocelyn Thew,” Crawshay concluded.
“I mean that it was a pity you missed the boat, you and Hobson, wasn’t it? What was the weather like in Chicago?” “Hot,” Crawshay replied. “I was hotter there than I ever expect to be again in this world.”
“A long, tiring journey, too, from Halifax.”
“Not only that, sir,” Crawshay agreed, “but a dirty journey. I like to travel with the windows down—cold water and fresh air, you know, for us English people—but the soft coal you burn in your engines is the most appalling uncleanly stuff I have ever met.”
“Still, you got here,” Jocelyn reminded him.
“I got here,” Crawshay agreed with an air of satisfaction.
“And you can take a bath three times a day, if you feel like it, on board,” Jocelyn continued. “I’m afraid you won’t find much else to do.”
“One can never tell,” Crawshay sighed. “I have started on ocean trips sometimes which promised absolutely nothing in the way of entertainment, and I have discovered myself, before the end of the journey, thoroughly interested and amused.”
“Nothing like looking on the bright side of things,” Jocelyn observed.
Crawshay turned his head and contemplated his companion for a few moments. Jocelyn Thew, notwithstanding his fine, slim figure, his well-cut clothes and lean, handsome face, carried always with him some nameless, unanalysable air of the man who has played the explorer, who has peered into strange places, who has handled the reins which guide the white horse of life as well as the black horse of death.
“I am quite sure,” he said, in a tone of kindly approval, “that I shall find you a most interesting companion on this trip. You and I must have a little further conversation together. I have won a considerable sum of money, I may say, by my—er—exploit, and I have invited some of these newspaper fellows to take a drink with me before luncheon in the smoking room. I hope you will join us?”
“I shall be delighted,” Jocelyn accepted. “A drink with a friend, and a little mutual toast, is always a pleasure.”
Crawshay paused. They were standing outside the entrance to the captain’s cabin.
“I quite agree with you,” he said. “Exercise your ingenuity, Mr. Jocelyn Thew, and think out a toast that we can both drink sincerely. You will excuse me? I am going in to talk to the captain for a few minutes. There are a few matters concerning my personal comfort which need his attention. I find the purser,” he added, dropping his voice, “an excellent fellow, no doubt, but just a trifle unsympathetic, eh?”
“I have no doubt you are right,” Jocelyn agreed. “We will meet again, then, just before one o’clock.”
CHAPTER VI
Table of Contents
Crawshay knocked at the door of the captain’s room, received a stentorian invitation to enter, and sank a little plaintively into a vacant easy-chair. The purser, who had been in close confabulation with his chief, hastily took his leave.
“Good morning, sir,” the visitor said languidly.
“Good morning, Mr. Crawshay,” the captain replied. “Feeling a little stronger this morning, I hope?”
Crawshay sighed.
“The memory of that experience,” he began, settling down in his chair,—
“Well, well, you ought to have got over that by this time,” the captain interrupted. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crawshay? I have been yarning with the purser a little longer than usual, this morning, and I have some rounds to do.”
“I must not stand in the way of your daily avocation,” the newcomer said gloomily. “I really dropped in chiefly to see if by any chance you had had a wireless message about me.”
“Not a word.”
“No message, eh? Now, do you know, that seems to me exceedingly strange,” Crawshay ruminated.
“I don’t see why it should,” was the somewhat brusque reply. “I have no doubt that the New York papers have some wonderful headlines—‘How an Englishman catches the steamer!’ or ‘An English diplomatist, eager to fight’—and all that sort of thing. But apart from the spectacular side of it, I don’t suppose they consider your adventure of national interest.”
“On the contrary, it is the development of a new era,” Crawshay replied, with dignity. “Just consider what actually happened. I miss the steamer, owing to the breakdown of the Chicago Limited and a subsequent automobile accident. I arrive at the dock whilst you are in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty. What do I do? What no one else has ever done before! I fly after you! Romance has never pictured such a thing. I am a pioneer, Captain.”
The Captain grinned.
“You’ve been pretty sorry for yourself ever since,” he observed.
“I must confess that I made up my mind to the heroic deed in a rash moment,” Crawshay acknowledged. “I am a person of strong and unconquerable impulses. You see, that exceedingly disagreeable American policeman who was sent up to Halifax on a fool’s errand with me, and who subsequently led me on another to Chicago, bet me five hundred dollars, as we stood upon the dock, that I couldn’t catch that steamer. Now if there is one thing,” he went on, crossing his legs, “which excites my interest more than another, it is a bet.”
“That and your accent,” the captain said, smiling, “are two of your most prominent British traits, Mr. Crawshay.” The latter took out his eyeglass and polished it.
“I have others,” he retorted, “but never mind. I understood you to say, I think, that you have heard nothing by wireless about me?”
“Not a word.”
The captain glanced at his clock and showed some signs of impatience. His visitor, however, remained blandly imperturbable.
“I see that you have only one operator in the wireless room,” he remarked.
“How do you know that?”
“I happened to be walking by last night, and I glanced in.”
“We are short-handed,” the captain explained.
“Quite naturally,” Crawshay replied. “Now with reference to this young man, I watched him coming down the steps from his office this morning. You may be surprised to hear, Captain, that I found him unprepossessing—in fact I might almost say that I took a dislike to him.”
“I am sure he would be very much disturbed if he knew your opinion,” was the faintly sarcastic reply. “He happens to be a young man with exceptionally good credentials.”
The captain turned his head suddenly. There was a new expression in his face as he looked keenly at his visitor.
“What do you mean, Mr. Crawshay?”
“Nothing much. I see you have been smoking a pipe, Captain. You will forgive me if I light one of these perfectly damnable cigarettes which are all I have been able to buy on board.—Thank you.—I talk better when I smoke.”
“It seems to me that you talk a great deal of nonsense,” the captain declared bluntly.
“Intermingled at times,” the other insisted, “with a word or two of sense. Now I am going to repeat that I have very little faith in this wireless operator of yours. At three o’clock this morning—I don’t wish to tie myself down, Captain, so I will say in the vicinity of that hour—he received a message—a long one, I should imagine. I put it to you, sir—was that dispatch for you?”
“No,” the captain admitted, “I had no message at that hour or since.”
“Very-well, then,” Crawshay continued, loosening a little muffler at his throat, “I suppose you can ascertain from the purser if any message was delivered to any one of your passengers?”
“I certainly can,” the captain admitted, “but to tell you the truth, sir, I scarcely see how this concerns you.”
“I am endeavouring,” his visitor replied, with a little wave of his hand, “to justify my statement. Enquire of the purser, I beg you. It will do no harm.”
The captain shrugged his shoulders, touched the bell and despatched his steward for Mr. Dix, the purser, who, happening to be on the deck outside, made an immediate appearance.
“Mr. Dix,” the captain asked him, “can you tell me if you have received any wireless message intended for any one of the passengers at or since three o’clock this morning?” “Not one, sir.”
Crawshay’s smile was beatific and triumphant. He relit his cigarette which had gone out, and, crossing his legs, made himself a little more comfortable.
“Very well, then,” he said, “what I should like to know is, what became of that message which made very pretty illuminations around your conductor, or whatever you call it, for at least a quarter of an hour this morning?”
“The message may merely have been an intercepted one,” the purser pointed out. “It may not have been fur us at all.”
“I had an idea,” Crawshay persisted, with bland and officious precision, “that even intercepted messages, especially in time of war, were referred to some person of authority on board. Apart from that, however, the message I refer to was written down and delivered to one of your passengers. I happened to see your operator leave his office with an envelope in his hand.”
“At three o’clock in the morning?” the captain observed incredulously.
“At about a quarter of an hour past that time,” the other assented.
“And what on earth were you doing about on deck?”
“I have strange habits,” Crawshay confessed. “On board ship I indulge them. I like to sleep when I feel like it, and to wander about when I feel inclined. After my extraordinary, my remarkable experience of yesterday, I was not disposed for slumber.” “It appears to me, sir,” the purser intervened, “that on board this ship you seem to do a great deal of walking about, considering you have only been with us for a little more than twelve hours.”
“Liver,” Crawshay explained confidentially. “I suffer intensely from my liver. Gentle and continual exercise is my greatest help.”
The captain turned towards his junior officer.
“Mr. Dix,” he suggested, “perhaps it will clear this little matter up if we send for Robins. You might just step out yourself and bring him round.”
Crawshay extended an eager hand.
“I beg that you will do nothing of the sort,” he pleaded.
“But why not?” the captain demanded. “You have made a definite charge against a wireless operator on the ship. He ought to be placed in the position to be able to refute it if he can.”
“There is no doubt,” Crawshay agreed, “that in course of time he will be given that opportunity. At present it would be indiscreet.”
“And why?”
“Because there will be other messages, and one is driven to the conclusion that it would be exceedingly interesting to lay hands on one of these messages, no record of which is kept, of which the purser is not informed, and which are delivered secretly to—”
“Well, to whom?” the captain demanded.
“To a passenger on board this steamer.”
The captain shook his head. His whole expression was one of disapproval.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “If Robins has failed in his duty, which I still take the liberty of doubting, I must cross-question him at once.”
Crawshay assumed the air of a pained invalid whose wishes have been thwarted.
“You must really oblige me by doing nothing of the sort,” he begged. “I am sure that my way is best. Besides, you make me feel like an eavesdropper—a common informer, and that sort of thing, you know.”
“I am afraid that I cannot allow any question of sentiment to stand between me and the discipline of my ship,” was the somewhat uncompromising reply.
Crawshay sighed, and with languid fingers unbuttoned his overcoat and coat. Then, from some mysterious place in the neighbourhood of his breast pocket, he produced an envelope containing a single half-sheet of paper.
“Read that, sir, if you please,” he begged.
The captain accepted the envelope with some reluctance, straightened out its contents, read the few words it contained several times, and handed back the missive. He stood for a moment like a man in a dream. Crawshay returned the envelope to his pocket and rose to his feet.
“Well, I’ll be getting along,” he observed. “We’ll have another little chat, Captain, later on. I must take my matutinal stroll, or I know how I shall feel about luncheon time. Besides, there are some exuberant persons on board who are expecting me to offer them refreshment about one o’clock, out of my winnings, and, attached to your wonderful country as I am, Captain, I must admit that cocktails do not agree with me.” “One has to get used to them,” the captain murmured absently.
“I am most unfortunate, too, in the size of my feet,” Crawshay continued dolefully, looking down at them. “If there is one thing I thoroughly dislike, it is being on board ship without rubber overshoes—a product of your country, Captain, which I must confess that I appreciate more than your cocktails. Good morning, sir. I hope I haven’t kept you from your rounds. Dear me!” he added, in a tone of vexation, as he passed through the door, “I believe that I have been sitting in a draught all the time. I feel quite shivery.”
He shambled down the deck. The purser lingered behind with an enquiring expression in his eyes, but his chief did not take the hint.
“Dix,” he said solemnly, as he put on his cap and started out on his rounds, “I was right. This is going to be a very queer voyage indeed!”
CHAPTER VII
Table of Contents
Crawshay walked slowly along the deck until he found a completely sheltered spot. Then he summoned the deck steward and superintended the arrangement of his deck chair, which was almost hidden under a heap of rugs. He had just adjusted a pair of spectacles and was preparing to settle down when Katharine, in her nurse’s uniform, issued from the companionway and stood for a moment looking about her. Crawshay at once raised his cap.
“Good morning, Miss Beverley,” he said. “You do not recognise me, of course, but my name is Crawshay. I had the pleasure of meeting you once at Washington.”
“I remember you quite well, Mr. Crawshay,” she replied, glancing with some amusement at his muffled-up state. “Besides, you must remember that you are the hero of the ship. I suppose I ought to congratulate you upon your wonderful descent upon us yesterday.”
“Pray don’t mention it,” Crawshay murm
ured. “The chance just came my way. I—er—” he went on, gazing hard at her uniform, “I was not aware that you were personally interested in nursing.”
“That shows how little you know about me, Mr. Crawshay.” “I have heard,” he admitted, “of your wonderful deeds of philanthropy, also that you entirely support a large hospital in New York, but I had no idea that you interested yourself personally in the—er—may I say most feminine and charming avocation of nursing?”
“I have been a probationer,” she told him, “in my own hospital, and I am at the present moment in attendance upon a patient on board this steamer.”
“You amaze me!” he exclaimed. “You—did I understand you to say that you were in personal attendance upon a patient?”
“That is so, Mr. Crawshay.”
“Well, well, forgive my astonishment,” he continued. “I had no idea. At any rate I am glad that your patient’s state of health permits you to leave him for a time.”
Her expression became a little graver.
“As a matter of fact,” she sighed, “my patient is very ill indeed, I am afraid. However, the doctor shares the responsibility with me, and he is staying with him now for half an hour.”
“May I, in that case,” he begged, “share your promenade?”
“With pleasure,” she acquiesced, without enthusiasm. “You will have to take off some of your coats, though.”
“I am suffering from chill,” he explained. “I sometimes think that I shall never be warm again, after my experience of yesterday.”
He divested himself, however, of his outside coat, arranged his muffler carefully, thrust his hands into his pockets, and fell into step by her side. “I am interested,” he observed, “in illness. What exactly is the matter with your charge?”
“He has had a bad operation,” she replied, “and there are complications.”
“Dear me! Dear me!” Crawshay exclaimed, in a shocked tone. “And in such a state he chooses to make a perilous voyage like this?”
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