In a Steamer Chair, and Other Stories

"Good night," she said to me; "good night, and thanks, Mr. Howard."

"Good night," said the captain; "I will tell you more about that mine to-morrow."

We watched them disappear towards the companion-way. I drew young Howard towards the side of the boat.

"What happened?" I asked eagerly. "Did you have trouble?"

"Very nearly, I made a slip of the tongue. I called her Mrs. Glendenning."

"You called her what?"

"I said, 'Mrs. Glendenning, your husband is looking for you.' I had come right up behind them, and they hadn't heard me, and of course both were very much startled. Glendenning turned round and shouted, 'What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?' and caught me by the throat. She instantly sprang between us, pushing him toward the stern of the boat, and me against the wheelhouse. "'Hush, hush,' she whispered; 'you mean, Mr. Howard, that my husband is there, do you not?'

"'Yes,' I answered, 'and he will be here in a moment unless you come with me.' With that she said 'Good night, Mr. Glendenning,' and took my arm, and he, like a thief, slunk away round the other side of the wheelhouse. I was very much agitated. I suppose I acted like a fool when we met the captain, didn't I?"

"You did," I answered; "go on."

"Well, Mrs. Tremain saw that, and she laughed at me, although I could see she was rather disturbed herself."

Some time that night we touched at Queenstown, and next evening we were in Liverpool. When the inevitable explosion came, I have no means of knowing, and this, as I have said before, is a story without a conclusion.

Mrs. Tremain the next day was as bright and jolly as ever, and the last time I saw her, she was smiling over her shoulder at Glendenning, and not paying the slightest attention to either her husband on whose arm she hung, or to young Howard, who was hovering near.

Share and Share Alike

"The quick must haste to vengeance taste,For time is on his head;But he can wait at the door of fate,Though the stay be long and the hour be late—The dead."

Melville Hardlock stood in the centre of the room with his feet wide apart and his hands in his trousers pockets, a characteristic attitude of his. He gave a quick glance at the door, and saw with relief that the key was in the lock, and that the bolt prevented anybody coming in unexpectedly. Then he gazed once more at the body of his friend, which lay in such a helpless-looking attitude upon the floor. He looked at the body with a feeling of mild curiosity, and wondered what there was about the lines of the figure on the floor that so certainly betokened death rather than sleep, even though the face was turned away from him. He thought, perhaps, it might be the hand with its back to the floor and its palm towards the ceiling; there was a certain look of hopelessness about that. He resolved to investigate the subject some time when he had leisure. Then his thoughts turned towards the subject of murder. It was so easy to kill, he felt no pride in having been able to accomplish that much. But it was not everybody who could escape the consequences of his crime. It required an acute brain to plan after events so that shrewd detectives would be baffled. There was a complacent conceit about Melville Hardlock, which was as much a part of him as his intense selfishness, and this conceit led him to believe that the future path he had outlined for himself would not be followed by justice.

With a sigh Melville suddenly seemed to realise that while there was no necessity for undue haste, yet it was not wise to be too leisurely in some things, so he took his hands from his pockets and drew to the middle of the floor a large Saratoga trunk. He threw the heavy lid open, and in doing so showed that the trunk was empty. Picking up the body of his friend, which he was surprised to note was so heavy and troublesome to handle, he with some difficulty doubled it up so that it slipped into the trunk. He piled on top of it some old coats, vests, newspapers, and other miscellaneous articles until the space above the body was filled. Then he pressed down the lid and locked it, fastening the catches at each end. Two stout straps were now placed around the trunk and firmly buckled after he had drawn them as tight as possible. Finally he damped the gum side of a paper label, and when he had pasted it on the end of the trunk, it showed the words in red letters, "S.S. Platonic, cabin, wanted." This done, Melville threw open the window to allow the fumes of chloroform to dissipate themselves in the outside air. He placed a closed, packed and labelled portmanteau beside the trunk, and a valise beside that again, which, with a couple of handbags, made up his luggage. Then he unlocked the door, threw back the bolt, and, having turned the key again from the outside, strode down the thickly-carpeted stairs of the hotel into the large pillared and marble-floored vestibule where the clerk's office was. Strolling up to the counter behind which stood the clerk of the hotel, he shoved his key across to that functionary, who placed it in the pigeon-hole marked by the number of his room.

"Did my friend leave for the West last night, do you know?"

"Yes," answered the clerk, "he paid his bill and left. Haven't you seen him since?"

"No," replied Hardlock.

"Well, he'll be disappointed about that, because he told me he expected to see you before he left, and would call up at your room later. I suppose he didn't have time. By the way, he said you were going back to England to-morrow. Is that so?"

"Yes, I sail on the Platonic. I suppose I can have my luggage sent to the steamer from here without further trouble?"

"Oh, certainly," answered the clerk; "how many pieces are there? It will be fifty cents each."

"Very well; just put that down in my bill with the rest of the expenses, and let me have it to-night. I will settle when I come in. Five pieces of luggage altogether."

"Very good. You'll have breakfast to-morrow, I suppose?"

"Yes, the boat does not leave till nine o'clock."

"Very well; better call you about seven, Mr. Hardlock. Will you have a carriage?"

"No, I shall walk down to the boat. You will be sure, of course, to have my things there in time."

"Oh, no fear of that. They will be on the steamer by half-past eight."

"Thank you."

As Mr. Hardlock walked down to the boat next morning he thought he had done rather a clever thing in sending his trunk in the ordinary way to the steamer. "Most people," he said to himself, "would have made the mistake of being too careful about it. It goes along in the ordinary course of business. If anything should go wrong it will seem incredible that a sane man would send such a package in an ordinary express waggon to be dumped about, as they do dump luggage about in New York."

He stood by the gangway on the steamer watching the trunks, valises, and portmanteaus come on board.

"Stop!" he cried to the man, "that is not to go down in the hold; I want it. Don't you see it's marked 'wanted?'"

"It is very large, sir," said the man; "it will fill up a state-room by itself."

"I have the captain's room," was the answer.

So the man flung the trunk down on the deck with a crash that made even the cool Mr. Hardlock shudder.

"Did you say you had the captain's room, sir?" asked the steward standing near.

"Yes."

"Then I am your bedroom steward," was the answer; "I will see that the trunk is put in all right."

The first day out was rainy but not rough; the second day was fair and the sea smooth. The second night Hardlock remained in the smoking-room until the last man had left. Then, when the lights were extinguished, he went out on the upper deck, where his room was, and walked up and down smoking his cigar. There was another man also walking the deck, and the red glow of his cigar, dim and bright alternately, shone in the darkness like a glow-worm.

Hardlock wished that he would turn in, whoever he was. Finally the man flung his cigar overboard and went down the stairway. Hartlock had now the dark deck to himself. He pushed open the door of his room and turned out the electric light. It was only a few steps from his door to the rail of the vessel high above the water. Dimly on the bridge he saw the shadowy figure of an officer walking back and forth. Hardlock looked over the side at the phosphorescent glitter of the water which made the black ocean seem blacker still. The sharp ring of the bell betokening midnight made Melville start as if a hand had touched him, and the quick beating of his heart took some moments to subside. "I've been smoking too much to-day," he said to himself. Then looking quickly up and down the deck, he walked on tip toe to his room, took the trunk by its stout leather handle and pulled it over the ledge in the doorway. There were small wheels at the bottom of the trunk, but although they made the pulling of it easy, they seemed to creak with appalling loudness. He realised the fearful weight of the trunk as he lifted the end of it up on the rail. He balanced it there for a moment, and glanced sharply around him, but there was nothing to alarm him. In spite of his natural coolness, he felt a strange, haunting dread of some undefinable disaster, a dread which had been completely absent from him at the time he committed the murder. He shoved off the trunk before he had quite intended to do so, and the next instant he nearly bit through his tongue to suppress a groan of agony. There passed half a dozen moments of supreme pain and fear before he realised what had happened. His wrist had caught in the strap handle of the trunk, and his shoulder was dislocated. His right arm was stretched taut and helpless, like a rope holding up the frightful and ever-increasing weight that hung between him and the sea. His breast was pressed against the rail and his left hand gripped the iron stanchion to keep himself from going over. He felt that his feet were slipping, and he set his teeth and gripped the iron with a grasp that was itself like iron. He hoped the trunk would slip from his useless wrist, but it rested against the side of the vessel, and the longer it hung the more it pressed the hard strap handle into his nerveless flesh. He had realised from the first that he dare not cry for help, and his breath came hard through his clenched teeth as the weight grew heavier and heavier. Then, with his eyes strained by the fearful pressure, and perhaps dazzled by the glittering phosphorescence running so swiftly by the side of the steamer far below, he seemed to see from out the trunk something in the form and semblance of his dead friend quivering like summer heat below him. Sometimes it was the shimmering phosphorescence, then again it was the wraith hovering over the trunk. Hardlock, in spite of his agony, wondered which it really was; but he wondered no longer when it spoke to him.

"Old Friend," it said, "you remember our compact when we left England. It was to be share and share alike, my boy—share and share alike. I have had my share. Come!"

Then on the still night air came the belated cry for help, but it was after the foot had slipped and the hand had been wrenched from the iron stanchion.

An International Row

"A simple childThat lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of—kicking up a row(Note.—Only the last four words of the above poem are claimed as original.)

"Then America declared war on England."—History of 1812

Lady, not feeling particularly well, reclining in a steamer chair, covered up with rags. Little girl beside her, who wants to know. Gentleman in an adjoining steamer chair. The little girl begins to speak.

"And do you have to pay to go in, mamma?"

"Yes, dear."

"How much do you have to pay? As much as at a theatre?"

"Oh, you need not pay anything particular—no set sum, you know. You pay just what you can afford."

"Then it's like a collection at church, mamma?"

"Yes, dear."

"And does the captain get the money, mamma?"

"No, dear; the money goes to the poor orphans, I think."

"Where are the orphans, mamma?"

"I don't know, dear, I think they are in Liverpool."

"Whose orphans are they, mamma?"

"They are the orphans of sailors, dear."

"What kind of sailors, mamma?"

"British sailors, darling."

"Aren't there any sailors in America, mamma?"

"Oh yes, dear, lots of them."

"And do they have any orphans?"

"Yes, dear, I suppose there are orphans there too."

"And don't they get any of the money, mamma?"

"I am sure I do not know, dear. By the way, Mr. Daveling, how is that? Do they give any of the money to American orphans?"

"I believe not, madam. Subscriptions at concerts given on board British steamers are of course donated entirely to the Seamen's Hospital or Orphanage of Liverpool."

"Well, that doesn't seem to be quite fair, does it? A great deal of the money is subscribed by Americans."

"Yes, madam, that is perfectly true."

"I should think that ten Americans cross on these lines for every one Englishman."

"I am sure I do not know, madam, what the proportion is. The Americans are great travellers, so are the English too, for that matter."

"Yes; but I saw in one of the papers that this year alone over a hundred thousand persons had taken their passage from New York to England. It seems to me, that as all of them contribute to the receipts of the concerts, some sort of a division should be made."

"Oh, I have no doubt if the case were presented to the captain, he would be quite willing to have part of the proceeds at least go to some American seamen's charity."

"I think that would be only fair."

Two young ladies, arm in arm, approach, and ask Mrs. Pengo how she is feeling to-day.

Mrs. Pengo replies that she doesn't suppose she will feel any better as long as this rolling of the ship continues.

They claim, standing there, endeavouring to keep as perpendicular as possible, that the rolling is something simply awful.

Then the lady says to them, "Do you know, girls, that all the money subscribed at the concerts goes to England?"

"Why, no; I thought it went to some charity."

"Oh, it does go to a charity. It goes to the Liverpool Seamen's Hospital."

"Well, isn't that all right?"

"Yes, it's all right enough; but, as Sadie was just suggesting now, it doesn't seem quite fair, when there are orphans of sailors belonging to America, and as long as such large sums are subscribed by Americans, that the money should not be divided and part of it at least given to an American charity."

"Why, that seems perfectly fair, doesn't it, Mr. Daveling?"

"Yes, it is perfectly fair. I was just suggesting that perhaps if the state of things was presented to the captain, he would doubtless give a portion at least of the proceeds to an American Seamen's Home—if such an institution exists."

"Then," remarked the other girl, "I propose we form a committee, and interview the captain. I think that if Americans subscribe the bulk of the money, which they certainly do, they should have a voice in the disposal of it."

This was agreed to on all hands, and so began one of the biggest rows that ever occurred on board an Atlantic liner. Possibly, if the captain had had any tact, and if he had not been so thoroughly impressed with his own tremendous importance, what happened later on would not have happened.

The lady in the steamer chair took little part in the matter, in fact it was not at that time assumed to be of any importance whatever; but the two young American girls were enthusiastic, and they spoke to several of the passengers about it, both American and English. The English passengers all recognised the justice of the proposed plan, so a committee of five young ladies, and one young gentleman as spokesman, waited upon the captain. The young ladies at first had asked the doctor of the ship to be the spokesman; but when the doctor heard what the proposal was, he looked somewhat alarmed, and stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

"I don't know about that," he said; "it is a little unusual. The money has always gone to the Liverpool Seamen's Hospital, and—well, you see, we are a conservative people. We do a thing in one way for a number of years, and then keep on doing it because we have always done it in that way."

"Yes," burst out one of the young ladies, "that is no reason why an unjust thing should be perpetuated. Merely because a wrong has been done is no reason why it should be done again."

"True," said the doctor, "true," for he did not wish to fall out with the young lady, who was very pretty; "but, you see, in England we think a great deal of precedent."

And so the result of it all was that the doctor demurred at going to see the captain in relation to the matter. He said it wouldn't be the thing, as he was an official, and that it would be better to get one of the passengers.

I was not present at the interview, and of course know only what was told me by those who were there. It seems that the captain was highly offended at being approached on such a subject at all. A captain of an ocean liner, as I have endeavoured to show, is a very great personage indeed. And sometimes I imagine the passengers are not fully aware of this fact, or at least they do not show it as plainly as they ought to. Anyhow, the committee thought the captain had been exceedingly gruff with them, as well as just a trifle impolite. He told them that the money from the concerts had always gone to the Liverpool Seamen's Hospital, and always would while he was commanding a ship. He seemed to infer that the permission given them to hold a concert on board the ship was a very great concession, and that people should be thankful for the privilege of contributing to such a worthy object.

So, beginning with the little girl who wanted to know, and ending with the captain who commanded the ship, the conflagration was started.

Such is British deference to authority that, as soon as the captain's decision was known, those who had hitherto shown an open mind on the subject, and even those who had expressed themselves as favouring the dividing of the money, claimed that the captain's dictum had settled the matter. Then it was that every passenger had to declare himself. "Those who are not with us," said the young women, "are against us." The ship was almost immediately divided into two camps. It was determined to form a committee of Americans to take the money received from the second concert; for it was soon resolved to hold two concerts, one for the American Seamen's Orphans' Home and the other for that at Liverpool.

One comical thing about the row was, that nobody on board knew whether an American Seamen's Orphans' Home existed or not. When this problem was placed before the committee of young people, they pooh-poohed the matter. They said it didn't make any difference at all; if there was no Seamen's Hospital in America, it was quite time there should be one; and so they proposed that the money should be given to the future hospital, if it did not already exist.

When everything was prepared for the second concert there came a bolt from the blue. It was rumoured round the ship that the captain had refused his permission for the second concert to be held. The American men, who had up to date looked with a certain amused indifference on the efforts of the ladies, now rallied and held a meeting in the smoking-room. Every one felt that a crisis had come, and that the time to let loose the dogs of war—sea-dogs in this instance—had arrived. A committee was appointed to wait upon the captain next day. The following morning the excitement was at its highest pitch. It was not safe for an American to be seen conversing with an Englishman, or vice versâ.

Rumour had it at first—in fact all sorts of wild rumours were flying around the whole forenoon—that the captain refused to see the delegation of gentlemen who had requested audience with him. This rumour, however, turned out to be incorrect. He received the delegation in his room with one or two of the officers standing beside him. The spokesman said—

"Captain, we are informed that you have concluded not to grant permission to the Americans to hold a concert in aid of the American Seamen's Orphans' Home. We wish to know if this is true?"

"You have been correctly informed," replied the captain.

"We are sorry to hear that," answered the spokesman. "Perhaps you will not object to tell us on what grounds you have refused your permission?"

"Gentlemen," said the captain, "I have received you in my room because you requested an interview. I may say, however, that I am not in the habit of giving reasons for anything I do, to the passengers who honour this ship with their company."

"Then," said the spokesman, endeavouring to keep calm, but succeeding only indifferently, "it is but right that we should tell you that we regard such a proceeding on your part as a high handed outrage; that we will appeal against your decision to the owners of this steamship, and that, unless an apology is tendered, we will never cross on this line again, and we will advise all our compatriots never to patronise a line where such injustice is allowed."

"Might I ask you," said the captain very suavely, "of what injustice you complain?"

"It seems to us," said the spokesman, "that it is a very unjust thing to allow one class of passengers to hold a concert, and to refuse permission to another class to do the same thing."

"If that is all you complain of," said the captain, "I quite agree with you. I think that would be an exceedingly unjust proceeding."

"Is not that what you are about to do?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"You have prohibited the American concert?"

"Certainly. But I have prohibited the English concert as well."

The American delegates looked rather blankly at each other, and then the spokesman smiled. "Oh, well," he said, "if you have prohibited both of them, I don't see that we have anything to grumble at."

"Neither do I," said the captain.

The delegation then withdrew; and the passengers had the unusual pleasure of making one ocean voyage without having to attend the generally inevitable amateur concert.

A Ladies Man

"Jest w'en we guess we've covered the trailSo's no one can't foller, w'y then we failW'en we feel safe hid. Nemesis, the cuss,Waltzes up with nary a warnin' nor fuss.Grins quiet like, and says, 'How d'y do,So glad we've met, I'm a-lookin' fer you'"

I do not wish to particularise any of the steamers on which the incidents given in this book occurred, so the boat of which I now write I shall call The Tub. This does not sound very flattering to the steamer, but I must say The Tub was a comfortable old boat, as everybody will testify who has ever taken a voyage in her. I know a very rich man who can well afford to take the best room in the best steamer if he wants to, but his preference always is for a slow boat like The Tub. He says that if you are not in a hurry, a slow boat is preferable to one of the new fast liners, because you have more individuality there, you get more attention, the officers are flattered by your preference for their ship, and you are not merely one of a great mob of passengers as in a crowded fast liner. The officers on a popular big and swift boat are prone to be a trifle snobbish. This is especially the case on the particular liner which for the moment stands at the top—a steamer that has broken the record, and is considered the best boat in the Atlantic service for the time being. If you get a word from the captain of such a boat you may consider yourself a peculiarly honoured individual, and even the purser is apt to answer you very shortly, and make you feel you are but a worm of the dust, even though you have paid a very large price for your state-room. On The Tub there was nothing of this. The officers were genial good fellows who admitted their boat was not the fastest on the Atlantic, although at one time she had been; but if The Tub never broke the record, on the other hand, she never broke a shaft, and so things were evened up. She wallowed her way across the Atlantic in a leisurely manner, and there was no feverish anxiety among the passengers when they reached Queenstown, to find whether the rival boat had got in ahead of us or not.