Читать книгу West Wind Drift - George Barr McCutcheon - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Mr. Block looked uneasily out over the tumbling ocean, focusing his gaze on a section of the horizon that for want of something more definite than mere hope lay in a direct line with the City of New York.

“And ven you stop to think,” said he wistfully, “that we are still something like six thousand miles from home,—oh, veil! Vat's the use? I bet you I never go so far avay from my business again. Vat a fool I vas to make this trip ven the whole ocean is full of submarines and German agents and plotters and—Yes, vat a fool ven I had so many high-priced men vorking for me who vas crazy to come. But my vife she vould do it. Paris and London every year it used to be, so she must haf a little holiday or she vill die, she say. Veil, here we are. And ven I think vat a long holiday it is going to be maybe,—by gracious, I could kick myself for not giving in to my brother-in-law ven he begged so hard to be allowed to make the trip because he needed the change from not being avay from the office for five years, and his vife and children too. His vife she needed a change as much as he, vat with not being able to get into any good hotels in the summer time and not being able to keep out of them in the vinter time, she vas nearly distracted. No, I vas selfish. My vife she vas selfish too,—and him her own brother. Vy shouldn't he haf a vacation vonce in awhile?”

He turned abruptly to the sailor who lounged near the perspiring Percival.

“How far is it to land, my frient?” he inquired.

The sailor touched his cap. “Which way, sir?” he asked solemnly. “Fore or aft?”

(Percival said to himself: “By golly, I'll bet that man is an American.”)

“Vat? Land,—you know vat I mean,—the end of the ocean. How far avay is it?”

The sailor calculated. “Well, the nearest land, sir, I should say, is about three hundred miles away, to port.”

“How deep is it here?” asked Mr. Nicklestick, moving away from the rail suddenly.

The sailor glanced down at the water, squinted an eye, and then spoke reassuringly.

“It ain't half as deep here as it is a little furder on,” he said. “It's only a shade over three miles where we are now, sir. We're comin' to the deepest part of the ocean,—ought to be there inside of a couple of hours. Here, you! On the job, on the job!”

“You ought to search that man carefully,” advised Mr. Nicklestick.

“I have,” growled the sailor. “He says he never uses it in that form. I guess he's tellin' the truth.”

“Never uses what?”

“Tobacco, sir.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Nicklestick, and, catching a glimpse of Madame Obosky emerging upon the deck, unceremoniously deserted his companions and hurried off to join her, his speed being suddenly accelerated by the spectacle of Mr. Shine, the motion picture magnate, who approached the lady from an equidistant station and with similar haste. Mr. Block, being a trifle near-sighted and in some doubt as to the whereabouts of his wife, peered here and there intently, and then bore down upon the celebrated Russian dancer, who, it would seem, was in dire need of consolation.

Mr. Fitts followed them with a glance over his glasses and then turned to the sailor man.

“I suppose it's against orders for me to speak to this man,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

The architect sighed, and walked away.

The parade became more interesting as the lack of news from the investigators restored a sort of hopeful optimism to the breasts of the anxious company. Those who had maintained a stubborn air of bravado, now became almost offensively jaunty. Others, frankly terrified at the outset, sauntered timidly away from the life-boats to which they were assigned. Every one was glad that the Captain had ordered a life-boat drill on the first afternoon out, and every one was glad that he had ignored the demand of Mr. Landover that the boats be lowered the instant he discovered that his passengers were in peril. No news was good news, argued the majority, and jesting was in order.

Peter Snipe, the novelist, got out a pad of paper and began jotting down impressions. Madam Careni-Amori and Signor Joseppi exchanged the first friendly words they had spoken to each other in weeks, and in full view of an entranced audience linked arms and strode bravely to and fro, the former clasping a huge jewel case to her ample bosom, the latter chafing perceptibly under the weight of an invisible belt stuffed to its capacity with banknotes and gold. Chilean ladies and Chilean gentlemen, dazzling Brazilian ladies and pompous Brazilian gentlemen, smug Argentinians, lordly Castilians, garrulous Portuguese, lofty English gentlemen and supercilious English ladies, friendly and irrepressible Americans,—all of them swinging their sea-legs with new-found abandon—clattered solidly around the wind-swept circuit. New faces appeared in the procession, new voices were raised with energy, new figures sprang into existence with marvellous rapidity. It seemed to Percival that the population doubled and tripled and quadrupled with every throb of the powerful engines. He saw his “bunkie” of the night before,—the man who was trying so hard to die and couldn't,—he saw him plunging along with the throng, pale but valiant, ferociously glaring at every one who smoked.

A small group of American nurses, some young and pretty, others young and homely, but all of them sprightly and clear-eyed,—nine of them, in fact—tramped by in “columns of three.”

Percival's guardian jerked his head in their direction after they had passed, and volunteered this bit of information:

“Hornswoggled, them girls was. Come all the way down from New York six months ago. Promised double pay and plenty of work in the American colony. Sore as crabs, all of 'em. They got double pay all right, all right, but there was some misunderstandin' as to what single pay was to be to start off with. Single pay turned out to be just whatever suited the people that employed 'em, seein's they were nearly seven thousand miles away from God and up against it, so they're beatin' it back home to volunteer for service in France. I heard one of 'em say she could save more money workin' for nothin' in France than she could earn in a year down here at double pay. What'd you say your name was, young feller?”

“Percival.”

“I mean your last name.”

“That's it.”

“Come off! Nobody ever had a last name like that.”

“You ought to hear what my first name is,—and my middle one, too. You said a little while ago you'd never seen any one of my size with bigger and harder muscles. Well, if you knew what my full name is, old man, you'd understand why I began developing them,—I've got a lot more too that you can't see,—when I first began going to school.”

“What is your other names?” inquired the sailor curiously.

“Algernon Adonis,” said Percival.

The sailor was silent for a moment, thinking of the proper thing to say. Then he said:

“You're dead right. It takes a heap of muscle to pertect a name like that.”

Three women stopped in front of the two men. Percival kept his eyes lowered.

“Why,—why, Auntie,—I know him,” fell from the lips of one of the trio. There was not only surprise in her voice but a trace of awe as well.

The swabber looked up quickly. He found himself gazing straight into the eyes of the speaker. Her lips were parted, her head was bent slightly forward, her eyes expressed utter incredulity and bewilderment. Her companion, an elderly lady, and a bespectacled young woman who carried an arm-load of steamer-rugs, stared not at him but at the girl who had delivered this startling announcement.

“I mean I,—that is, I may be mistaken,” stammered the latter, suddenly averting her eyes. A wave of crimson swept over her face.

“Undoubtedly,” exclaimed the elderly lady with great positiveness. Turning to inspect the object under discussion, she sustained a shock that caused her to stiffen and draw in her breath quickly.

Percival was smiling in a most friendly and encouraging manner. He went farther, and lifted his disreputable white canvas hat.

“Oh, goodness!” exclaimed the young lady in a sort of panic. “Are you—is it really you, Mr. Percival?”

Mr. Percival glanced inquiringly at his guard.

“That's his name, Miss,” said that worthy. “And that's one of the three reasons why he's got them muscular arms you're lookin' at. Sorry, though, but my orders are not to allow any one to speak to him.”

“Are you crazy, Ruth?” cried the older lady, aghast. “It's the stowaway every one is talking about. The one who tried to blow up the ship.”

The young lady returned Percival's smile,—rather a diffident, uncertain effort, to be sure, but still a smile,—and murmured something about night before last at the Alcazar Grand.

“What are you saying, Ruth? Do you mean to say you met this man at the Alcazar Grand?”

“Yes, Aunt Julia,” said the other wrinkling her pretty forehead in perplexity. “He—he danced with me.”

“He—you danced with him?” gasped the horrified Aunt Julia.

“Don't you remember? Phil Morton introduced him to us. I—I can't believe my eyes.”

“I can't believe mine,” snapped the elder woman. “I never saw this fellow before in my life. The idea! Phil Morton having a friend like—You are mistaken. And people are staring at us.”

“Just the same,” said her niece, stubbornly, “I did dance with him, and, what's more, I danced more than once with him. Didn't I, Mr. Percival?”

Mr. Percival, still beaming, again looked at the sailor appealingly.

“You can tell it to me,” said the latter, furtively glancing to the right and left before making the concession.

Looking straight into the sailor's eyes, Percival said:

“Yes, Miss Clinton. I had four dances with you,—and a lemon squash.”

“Wait a moment, Aunt Julia,” protested the young lady, holding back. “Would you mind telling me, Mr. Percival, how you happen to be here and in this plight? You didn't mention sailing on the Doraine.”

Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Neither did you, Miss Clinton. You certainly are no more surprised than I am.”

“Why are you on board as a stowaway? Phil Morton told me you belong to an old Baltimore family and had all kinds of—that is, you were quite well-off.”

Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Please don't blush, Miss Clinton. I'm not the least bit sensitive. Money isn't everything. I seem to be able to get along without it. Later on, I hope to have the opportunity to explain just why—”

“That'll do,” interrupted the sailor. “Here comes the Captain.”

Captain Trigger hove in sight around the corner of the deck building, with Chief Engineer Gray and the Second Officer.

“I don't know what to make of you,” said Miss Clinton, sorely puzzled. Her aunt was clutching her arm. “You seemed so awfully jolly the other night. And—and just look at you now.”

She moved away, followed by the bespectacled young woman and the steamer-rugs, graceful despite the sudden yank with which her aunt set her in motion. Percival managed to keep an eye on her till she turned the corner. Then he sighed.

The Captain halted in front of him.

“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Spofford and her niece, Percival?” he inquired.

“Miss Clinton has done me the honour to remember meeting me night before last at the Alcazar Grand, sir. Mrs. Spofford is not so generous.”

“I see,” said Captain Trigger reflectively. “You will report at once to Mr. Gray. He will give you a less public job, as you call it.” A twinkle came into his eyes. “He doesn't like the hat you're wearing. Nor the shirt. Nor the boots.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And, by the way, Percival, as soon as you are slightly refurbished I want you to stroll through the second cabin and if possible identify the two stewards who came to No. 22. Let me see, was it during the day or at night?”

“Some time during the night, sir. Eleven or half-past, I should say.”

“Very well.”

An hour later he reported to Captain Trigger. “I have seen all of the stewards, sir, according to Mr. Codge, and I do not recognize any of them as the men who came to No. 22. I had a fairly good view of them, too, from beneath the lower berth. They spoke in a language I did not understand—”

“Do you understand German?”

“No, sir. I know it when I hear it, however. They were not speaking German. I may have been wrong, but I came to the conclusion that they were transferring some one to No. 22. They brought in two suitcases, and left them when they went out. I—”

Captain Trigger brought his clenched fist down on the table with a resounding, emphatic bang.

“Now, we have it! That Chicago detective is right, by gad!”

He turned to the small group of officers clustered behind him. Fresh alarm,—real consternation,—had leaped into the eyes of every man of them.

“Then—then, that means our search isn't over?” cried Mr. Mott, starting up.

“It does! Every inch of this ship,—every damned inch of it, from stem to stern. Overlook nothing, Mr. Mott. Don't delay a second.”

Percival was alone with the agitated Captain an instant later. Trigger's eyes were rather wild and bloodshot. The younger man's face blanched. He knew now that the danger was real. He waited for the Captain to speak.

“Percival, the two men you saw in 22 were not stewards. They were the men who jumped overboard. You tell me they left two bags there when they went out of the room. Well, they were not there this morning when the regular steward went into the room. They have disappeared. But the contents of those bags are still somewhere on board this ship. And if they are not found in time, by gad, sir, we will all be in Kingdom Come before we know it.”