“Say, Mr. Crawshay,” Brand began, stopping him as soon as he had emerged from the companionway, “I’d like to shake hands with you. My name’s Brand. I’m a newspaper man.”
Crawshay shook hands, although he showed no particular enthusiasm about the proceeding.
“And I am Clark, of the Minneapolis Record” the small, dark man, who was generally by Brand’s side, added. “Put it there, sir.”
Crawshay put it there with an incipient reluctance which the two men were not slow to note.
“Kind of shock to you yesterday, no doubt,” Brand began. “It was a fine, plucky thing to do, sir. Ever flown before?”
“Never,” Crawshay confessed. “The sensation was — er — entirely new to me. I found the descent upon the water most uncomfortable.” “Soaked your shore clothes, eh?” Brand observed.
“I was not attired for the proceeding,” Crawshay admitted. “I was, in fact, very inappropriately dressed. I was wearing a thin flannel suit, which was completely ruined, and I do not think that I shall ever be warm again.”
Mr. Brand glanced longingly at his wrist watch and sighed.
“I make it a rule, sir,” he said, “never to drink before twelve o’clock, but there is no rule without an exception. If you think that a double jigger of gin, with a little lemon and—”
“Stop!” Crawshay begged. “I have no sympathy with the weird compounds produced by your bartenders. As a matter of fact, I take nothing at all except with my meals. I am going to sit in this sunshine and try and recover my normal temperature.”
“There are a few of the boys on board,” Brand continued insinuatingly, “who would like to join in our little chat, if you wouldn’t mind their stepping round.”
“I have no desire for a chat with any one,” Crawshay objected. “I came up on deck to rest. Kindly ask me what you want to know and leave me alone for a time.”
“Then what in thunder sent you here after an American liner on a seaplane?” Brand demanded. “That’s about the long and short of what we’re aching to know, I think.”
“You’ve hit it, Ned, as usual,” Mr. Clark, of the Minneapolis Record, acquiesced. Crawshay drew his rug about him a little peevishly.
“My name,” he said, “is Charles Reginald Crawshay.”
“We got that from the captain,” Brand replied. “Very nice name, too.”
“I have been attached,” Crawshay went on, “to the British Embassy at Washington.”
“You don’t say!” Brand murmured.
“I am returning home,” Crawshay continued, “because I intend to join the British Army, I was unfortunate enough to miss the boat, and being in company with a person of authority and influence, he suggested, partly in joke, that I should try to persuade one of the pilots of your new seaplanes at Jersey to bring me out. He further bet me five hundred dollars that I would not attempt the flight. I am one of those sort of people,” Crawshay confessed meditatively, “who rise to a bet as to no other thing in life. I suppose it comes from our inherited sporting instincts. I accepted the bet and here I am.”
“In time to save the British Army, eh?” Brand observed.
“In time to take my rightful place amongst the defenders of my country,” was the dignified rebuke. “Incidentally, I have won a hundred pounds.”
“Would you do it again for the same money?” Clark asked guilefully.
The Englishman coughed.
“I must confess,” he said, “that it is not an experience I am anxious to repeat.”
Brand rose to his feet.
“Well, sir,” he concluded, “I offer you my congratulations on your trip. We shall just dot a few words together concerning it for the New York newspapers. Anything you’d like to add?”
Crawshay stroked his upper lip.
“You can say,” he pronounced with dignity, “that I found the trip most enjoyable. And by-the-by, you had better put a word in about the skill of the pilot — Lieutenant T. Johnson, I believe his name was. I have no experience in such matters, and I found him once or twice a little unsympathetic when I complained of bumps, but the young man did his best — of that I am convinced.”
Mr. Brand’s tongue slowly crept round the outside of his mouth. He met the eye of his friend Mr. Clark and indulged in a wink. He had the air of a man who felt relieved by the operation.
“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. Crawshay,” he declared. “You have done something to brighten this trip, anyway.”
“A little later,” Crawshay announced, “either just before your luncheon or dinner hour, if you and your friends would meet me in the smoking room, I should be delighted to remember in the customary fashion that I have won a rather considerable wager.”
“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.