So far, however, the exercise as observed from the boat-deck had not been rewarding. Indeed, within the framework of "talent inspection", the assorted female passengers had stirred no single ripple of any kind.
"All these old trouts look exactly alike," said Fleming, a young engineer-officer who should by rights have been at least four decks below, checking pressure-gauges. "Have you noticed?"
"We've noticed," said Tim Mansell.
"It's their hair, really," said Beresford, an apprentice, who was included among his seniors because he was over six feet tall and a terror on the dance-floor. "It's blue. And those curls. . . . Looks like steel wool."
"They must all buy it at the same shop."
An old man, propelled along the dock in a wheel-chair, now came into view. His knees were covered by a rug, and the nurse pushing the chair bent over him with professional solicitude as they traversed a rough patch of concrete. Under an old-fashioned travelling cap, his face was yellowish-grey, skull-like in its bony emaciation.
"Typical," observed Fleming unfeelingly.
"Burial service," said Beresford, an equally hard-hearted young man. "Somewhere near Cape Town. Rig-of-the-day, dress whites with black armbands."
"Stop engines!" intoned Fleming. "For as much as it has pleased Almighty God—"
"But the nurse is pretty," said Tim Mansell suddenly.
At that moment the nurse looked up and caught their eye. She was pretty, slim and demurely attractive in her blue uniform; the slight smile which crossed her face as she observed their interest seemed to promise something short of an absolute, twenty-four-hour dedication to her job.
"We'll count her," said Fleming. "Name?"
Tim Mansell consulted his copy of the passenger-list. "The old boy must be Simms," he announced. "I remember the office putting in a slip about him. All meals in his cabin. ... Yes, here he is. 'George M. Simms,' " he read out. "Bracketed with Miss F. Bartlett, Registered Nurse."
"Nurses know everything," said Fleming, with authority.
"I wonder what F. stands for," said Beresford.
"Didn't your mother tell you?"
The nurse and the wheel-chair and the old man disappeared from view below them. Next up the gangway was a man and a woman, engaged in brisk argument with a horrible-looking youth of about fifteen. He wore a white cowboy hat and ornamental spurred boots, and he carried a leather switch with which he lashed rhythmically at the gangway-stanchions.
The voices came up to them clearly.
"Quit horsing around with that thing!" commanded the man. "You'll hurt somebody."
"Wish I could," said the youth. He looked up at the tall, towering side of the Alcestis. "Gee, what a crummy outfit! Why we sailing in a British ship, for Chris-sakes?"
"Because we are, that's all," said the woman.
"Bunch of nose-bleeds," said the youth. "Pip, pip, old fruit. . . . Hah d'yew dew? . . . Oh, veddy well indeed!"
The woman, who was small and muscular, gave him a powerful shove from behind. "Move on, can't you? You're blocking the doorway."
"Aw, crap, Ma!" muttered the youth.
The woman gave him a second, more vindictive push. "How many times have I told you?" she shrilled, with violent emphasis. "Don't call me Ma!"
Tim Mansell consulted his passenger-list again. "Master Barry Greenfield," he reported after a moment. "The only child on board."
"That's a child?" asked Fleming.
"There'll be trouble with that one," said Beresford.
"It'll be a pleasure."
"All right for engineers," said Tim Mansell. "We have to keep the little stinker happy."
"Get him a horse."
"One that bites."
Now there was a disturbance at the bottom of the gangway; a tall blonde woman, forty-ish, brilliantly dressed in cream and red, had embarked upon a scene of classic proportions. It seemed to concern a ticket or a pass; whatever piece of paper the dock-policeman wished to see was not available or had been lost. As the woman waved her arms, heavy gold bracelets caught the wan sunlight; as she argued, rocking slightly on her heels, snatches of invective reached them, ripping through the air like poisoned darts. When the phrase, "I'll tell you one thing—this God-damned hooker won't sail without me!" reached their ears, the bustling figure of First Officer Tiptree-Jones appeared, hastening down the gangway to the rescue.
"Don't look now," said Blantyre, the Third Officer, who had so far been watching in silence, "but this one's drunk."
"I know her," said Tim Mansell suddenly. "That's Mrs. van Dooren. I've seen her photo in the papers."
"Doing what?"
"Drinking, mostly."
Presently the scene resolved itself. Tiptree-Jones remained behind to appease the policeman, who was sulkily fingering his revolver; Mrs. van Dooren, with an air of triumph, negotiated the modest slope of the gangway as if she were conquering Everest, and stumbled out of their line of sight. To the very last moment, she continued to argue with thin air, and her load of jewellery, storm-tossed, sent out recurrent call-signs.
"Tight as a tick," said Blantyre appreciatively. "Sort of starved-looking, too. She'll be selling tickets for it, by the time we get to
Bermuda." "Not a bad looker, all the same," put in Tim Mansell. "We count her?"
"Too old," said Beresford.
"Too rich," said Fleming.
"Too tight," said Blantyre.
"We count her," said Tim Mansell, and pencilled a note on his passenger-list. "You've made her sound ideal."
There was a pause now, while Mrs. van Dooren's voice faded out, and peace was restored. First Officer Tiptree-Jones made his way up the gangway again, forcing his watching juniors to withdraw from view behind the nearest boat; when next they were able to look down, a small dark woman in a magnificent mink coat was half-way up the slope.
"Ah!" said Blantyre. "Mrs. Consolini. The merriest widow of them all. . . . Stand by to repel boarders!"
"Always nice to see an old friend," said Fleming.
"She's not our old friend," said Tim Mansell. "She's the skipper's old friend."
"Do you really think so?"
"He was fighting her off with a fire-axe, all last trip."
"Why fight?" asked Beresford, world-weary. "Sit back and enjoy it."
"He's a funny old sod," said Mansell. "He wouldn't enjoy it."
"Talking of old friends," interrupted Fleming, who was long-sighted, "here comes Bernice."
"Oh, God!"
They all watched, with no great enthusiasm to be nearest the rail, as the Beddington family made their way along the dock and approached the gangway. The parents were small, quietly dressed, unobtrusive; the daughter, a full head taller, plodded in their wake like a laden scow. She was a big girl, but that was about all one could say for her; for the rest, the pasty moonlike face, the beefy legs, the gleaming spectacles, needed only a single caption: "Miss X., before attending our Charm School."
"Well, thank God it's not my turn," said Fleming, with satisfaction. "I had it last time."
"You had it?" asked Beresford, astounded.
"Be your age," said Fleming austerely. "I was stuck with the privilege of leaving no stone unturned to see that Bernice Beddington enjoyed the voyage. Never again. Someone else can get that medal."
The family drew nearer; while the parents attracted no special attention, Bernice Beddington seemed to loom into view like a mournful lighthouse, warning them all never to go to sea. With one accord they edged back from the rail, as if fearful of coming within the beam of that foreboding gaze; so that the girl, mounting the gangway at a heavy shambling walk, was met by the odd sight of four disembodied naval caps poised above the edge of a lifeboat. It could have been something which, with variations, she had seen many times before, for she gave no sign as she passed into the entrance-foyer below.