'Well, won't one of you tell us a story? We've run dry here, bein' away so long,' said a pirate. 'Mr. Neale, I'm sure, I remember you telling a lot one night at the Lamb's Club, New York.'
Mr. Neale looked at him curiously. 'You fellows seem to have been everywhere. Oh, of course; it's-'
'Sh-sh,' from the young man. 'No names.'
'Pardon-well-this is a French one. I tell it in the first person. An agitated bourgeois is telling his domestic woes to his confidential friend-an English friend.
'I come 'ome zis evening early from ze Bourse. I long to surprise my wife. I go up to ze bedroom. I look through ze keyole and vat you tink I see. I see my friend Brown on ze top of my vife. I say, “Mr. Brown, ven you have done with my vife vill you come downstairs and speak to me.”
'I go downstairs and pace up and down, but he do not come down. I go up again and look trough ze keyole, and vat you tink I see! I see my vife on top of Mr. Brown. I say to my vife, 'Ven you have done with Mr. Brown, vill you come down and speak to me?”
'I go downstairs and rush up and down, but she do not come down. I go up again. I knock at ze door, and I look through ze keyole, and vat you tink I see-nozzing-Mr. Brown, 'e piss in my eye!'
When the laughter had subsided Mr. Hannibal spoke huskily, wiping the whisky from his lips.
'I ken an awfu' fine bit o' yarn,' he said. 'There was Mrs. McPhairson in Edinburgh had twa bairns. When they were like growit up the meenister called and demandit o' Mrs. McPhairson hoo the bairns were daein'.
'“Och-just fine,” she said. “Maggie, ye'll ken; she's in London; she's a whore. She sends me hame a pound a week. Jock, he's a polisman, he sends me hame ten shillin's a week Och, I wish Jock was a whore tae.”
'Oh, and I ken anither,' he continued, emptying more whisky down his throat.
'Jeannie M'Nulty was the pride of the village, and she was that hospeetable wi' her charms that she would refuse nae yin, an it were a stranger-an' the folk did not mind, they were that prood o' Jeannie. Ain day a lang-leggit Sassenach up frae the gowfin' was beddit wi' oor Jeannie an' was sair lang in daein' his duty. “Can ye no come yet?” she asked, and he couldna. “If I'd thocht ye'd ha' been sae lang in comin' I'd ha' brocht ma knittin wi' me.” '
Mr. Ahasuerus P.Q. Silverwood spoke through the laughter.
'Waal,' he said, 'I like your European yarns, but ours are shorter.
Two ladies went for a long tramp in a wood-that tramp had a damned good time.
'And now, gentlemen, I'll say good-night,' and he stalked to the door. He had made a mental note of the number of Miss Jepps's cabin-so had Moss Hell, who presently followed.
Herr Kunst was fast asleep on the divan.
'Just one more, gentlemen,' said Mr. Billy Neale.
'A publican had a fine parrot, which was greatly admired by a neighbouring fanner who went in for scientific poultry farming.
'The farmer coveted the bird, but the publican would not sell.
'“I'll tell 'e what I'll do,” he said one day. “I'll gie 'e one o' parrot's eggs, and thee can 'atch 'un in that there patent hencoobatur o' yourn.”
'The farmer took the egg, but in due course came back. “Aye, maister,” he said, “I guess that there parrot o' yourn vor vucked by a duck.”'
The company broke up and dispersed. Herr Kunst awoke to find himself alone with the young man in the smoke-room-brilliant shafts of sunlight were streaming through the wide open portholes.
'Moses and Abraham, vere am I?' he ejaculated, and men his mind gradually reconstructed the events of that strenuous night.
'You're all right,' said the young man, 'and I owe you about £100,000 commission over our affair with your friend and ex-partner, Joelstein.'
Herr Kunst beamed largely.
'Den I go to bed 'appy, and dream of Park Lane all day. Ve vill long before ve to your island come?'
'Some little time. I'm short of coal-unless we pick up a collier. The diamonds I shall have set myself at home-we have skilled labour-and dispose of through agents all over the world. I shall pay you either in kind or cash, as you prefer. Now go and sleep.'
The sea was a dazzling, waveless blue, as the young man climbed to the bridge. He gave a few necessary orders, and went himself to his stateroom, a beautiful room, furnished with every known aid to comfort.
The pictures were few, but exquisite: some Fragonards, rather highly toned, both in colouring and character-one blushed that shepherdesses could be so wanton; a Watteau, a very rare example-the late owner was still lamenting its mysterious disappearance; three Conders (Watteau turning in his sleep, as a critic once so aptly termed that most decadent and delightful of colourists) in Conder's most modern style, notably his motor-car picture; a strange erotic drawing by Beardsley, and some delightful seascapes which the young man had not signed.
A statuette in gold of Venus Anadyomene and a frankly, almost brutally sensual representation in bronze of the embraces of the two lesbian virgins from Pierre Louys' Aphrodite contrasted strangely with a bust of Captain Kettle and a small full-length figure of Paul Jones in ivory.
A gun-rack occupied a large portion of one wall, and a bookcase another.
The books were varied: modern novels in all languages, even Japanese; historical works, and many scientific and engineering treatises.
Over the young man's bed, more suited in delicacy of design and furniture to the chambre a coucher of a grande cocotte, was an imposing switchboard furnished with numerous telephone receivers, and various toned little metallic wires in place of the harsh bells.
From the ceiling directly over the bed hung a large swinging compass with a transparent opalescent face, always illuminated by a delicately-tinted electric light.
His chronometer, sextant, and other nautical instruments and his chart-rack were close to his side.
The young man had had many hobbies in his varied career, but principal of these was navigation. He was the fortunate possessor of a navigating lieutenant (ex-RN) whose services His Majesty had suddenly dispensed with for reasons more clearly concerning the bed of his admiral's young wife than the bed of the ocean. He was a consummate seaman and handled the magnificent piece of mechanism he was responsible for with a careless ease which at times made the young man jealous. But the young man never ceased to study, and he loved to follow and verify his subordinate's navigation and reckonings. He was almost more jealous of him than of the Scotch gentleman down below (former chief engineer RMS Patagonia) who had resented his skipper's intrusion into the engine-room when he was running his engines full power on a record-attempting crossing, in full contradiction of orders from the bridge. He had pushed the old man into a tank of engine oil, swabbed him up afterwards, and gone calmly into irons. He did two years, escaped from Portland, and met the young man. They had an interesting volume on the New Decameron, called The Time Sheet.
The room very clearly defined the character of its owner-dilettante, man of the world, sensualist, buccaneer, a man who would face any danger, a man who could love fiercely, and whose hate meant death to his enemy-and all concealed under that suave and delicate exterior.
He undressed himself quickly-no servants were allowed on the New Decameron, slipped into light-blue pyjamas, thought once or twice of Hony, and rolled over to sleep. He dreamed of little Hony; and that pretty girl, curled in Carrie's brown arms, was dreaming of him.
But what of Lord Reggie? The boy Cyril, laughing against his will, led him to his cabin, a small but comfortable room, and swiftly unmanacled him. Lord Reggie sat heavily on the bed with a groan, and murmured something about whisky-or 'any old damn drink thing'-and cigarettes.
Cyril was gone three minutes and brought back brandy, a small bottle of champagne and a box of Albany cigarettes.