"If I have Mr. and Mrs. Beddington," said Harmer, with curt emphasis, "—who incidentally never utter a word—I would have to have the daughter as well." His jaw came up. "I will not look at that girl twice a day for eighty-four days."
"What's wrong with the daughter?"
"You know damn' well what's wrong with the daughter! She is, without exception, not only the plainest human being I have ever set eyes on, but also the silliest. That laugh alone is enough to turn the cream. I won't do it, Jack, and that's all there is to it."
"Well, think it over," said Barrett gamely, as if the Captain had expressed interest instead of returning this flat negative. He gathered up his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase, and swallowed the remainder of his drink, all in one swift series of movements which looked as though they were part of a time-study run-through. Then he stood up.
"That's it, then, I guess," he said. "Unless you've anything for me."
"Nothing," said Captain Harmer.
"You're sure, now? You wouldn't like me to come along as cruise-director?"
This was a traditional joke: the Alcestis was one of the few ships of any line which never carried a cruise-director; it was Captain Harmer's boast that his men could, without shore-side aid, take care of any problem in any area.
"Quite sure," he said.
"O.K. I'll get back to the jailhouse." Barrett held out his hand. " 'Bye now, Bill. Have fun!"
Fun, thought Harmer angrily, looking at his retreating back; this cruise is fun!. . . Then he sat down at his desk again, prepared to continue with his paper-work. It was a mistake to let these things get under one's skin. Jack Barrett, by way of working a farewell point, might draw a distinction between the "jailhouse"—Myth Lines' glass-and-chromium palace on 57th Street—and the "fun" supposedly involved in piloting a big ship, with one thousand people on board, in and out of thirty-eight assorted harbours; but it was not important, it was childish stuff, suitable to landsmen. The comparative level of achievement must be clear to anyone with a grain of sense in their head. . . . And anyway (he smiled to himself as he took up his pen) he had made his own point, once again, about his table.
He was not left in peace for long; indeed, with less than two hours to sailing time, he did not expect to be. Within a few moments, as Brotherhood was tidying up the bar, there was a knock at the door, and a deep, rather fruity voice said:
"Captain, sir!"
Tiptree-Jones. . . . Captain Harmer frowned briefly, as much at the exaggerated Royal Navy style of the greeting as at the man who made it. First Officer Tiptree-Jones was everything that the illustrations to Myth Lines' advertisements promised: tall, dark, good-looking, wavy-haired—just the man to accompany the caption: "Our officers are there to see that you have a perfectly wonderful time on board." Harmer did not like him—he could not like him, though he acknowledged his competence and was forced to agree that he was an undoubted asset on a trip such as this. But there was too much of a contrast between the two of them. Tiptree-Jones was smooth where the Captain was rough, at ease where he was awkward; he was social, in a way that Harmer could never attain to, and secretly envied.
He remembered one of the woman passengers, a few trips back, saying, between martinis: "That first officer of yours is a living doll!" For the Captain, this just about summed it up. He did not like dolls, living or otherwise. He only liked sailors, and not too many of them. One day Tiptree-Jones would have his own command, and then he could be whatever kind of a doll he chose. But in the meantime . ..
"What is it, T.J.?" he growled. With Tiptree-Jones, he always exaggerated his own roughness; sometimes he went so far as to use the old-style Merchant Service title "Mister", simply to see the look of pain cross those noble features.
"Sir," announced Tiptree-Jones, tremendously correct, "we've finished storing. I've secured number two hatch."
His voice had a reassuring, leave-it-all-to-me tone which the Captain did not appreciate. The fact that he himself could remember taking the same encouraging line, twenty years earlier, with his own superiors, made no difference at all. Points of view tended to change, and a damned good thing too.
He said grumpily: "What took so long?"
It was possibly the one sentence which Tiptree-Jones had not expected to hear; but he did not falter. Instead, standing erect in the doorway, cap under arm, heels together, he answered:
"I think the men did well, sir, considering. Some of the stuff was late in arriving."
The Captain, recognizing a soft answer, made a noise which sounded like "M'm", and Tiptree-Jones continued:
"There's one man still ashore, sir. Absent over leave."
"Who's that?"
"Barkway, sir. Steward."
The Captain glanced at his watch. "I'll log him when he turns up. If he turns up. . . . Are the passengers coming on board yet?"
"Some, sir. About twenty so far. They're just moving through immigration now."
"I want to know when the Tillotsons arrive. And Sir Hubert Beckwith."
"The Purser's got that in hand, sir."
"All right." The Captain got up from his chair, and walked towards the doorway. Tiptree-Jones stood aside, gracefully, deferentially. The Captain stared aft. He had to find something. He was in that kind of mood. And he was the Captain, anyway. . . . His eye was caught by the ensign-staff, at least four hundred feet away. A cross-wind had whipped the flag several times round the staff, where it hung forlornly, limp and unrecognizable.
"Mister!" growled Captain Harmer, and pointed. "If you're not proud of that ensign, I am!"
Tiptree-Jones swallowed. "Sorry, sir. I'll have it seen to immediately."
"Ship looks like a Liberian tramp." In his maritime dictionary, the scale went no lower. "It's the quartermaster's job to watch out for that sort of thing."
"I'll see to it, sir," repeated Tiptree-Jones, and turned to leave.
By way of farewell, the Captain said: "I'm putting the Beddingtons at your table."
Tiptree-Jones, scarcely pausing to answer "Yes, sir", walked aft with the gait of a shaken man. Captain Harmer grinned to himself. That would take care of the living doll.. There were certain moods when he enjoyed the pleasures and vices of autocracy, and this was one of them.
Knowing that Brotherhood must have remained within earshot from force of habit, he called out: "Brotherhood! What's happened to Barkway?"
Brotherhood came to the doorway from his small pantry alongside. His face, normally thin and inquisitive, was now impassive, almost theatrically so.
"I couldn't say, sir."
The Captain recognized the gambit, the conventional loyal disclaimer. "Think," he commanded. "He's late reporting back. The only one of the stewards, the only one of the whole crew. Spoilt our record. And he may even miss the ship. Do you know what he does in New York?"
Brotherhood shrugged, wrinkling his pointed nose slightly. "I've seen him ashore, sir."
"And?"
If you'll excuse the expression, sir, he's got this woman."
The Captain looked at him. "Tell me something new. What sort of woman?"
"She does this act, sir?"
"Act? Is she an actress?"
"Sort of, sir. It's like a music-hall, 52nd Street. She plays the accordion, but she's got nothing on behind it, just beads. See what I mean, sir?"
"I think so," said Captain Harmer. "What else does she do?"
"She puts down the accordion and plays the flute."
"Is she any good?"
"Oh yes, sir! She's not young." He said this as if it would have made the whole thing highly irregular. "I saw the act once. It's really quite refined, sir."