"I can hardly believe that, madam."
"They said I hadn't paid my income-tax."
"I'm sure you have, madam."
"Well, I haven't. It's deducted at source by my ex-husband." She swayed slightly, and Edgar put out a practised hand to steady her. "That's what threw them, the sons of bitches! Deducted at source."
"It must be very convenient, madam."
"What's your name, George?"
"Edgar, madam."
"How about that rye and water, Ed? Just a little one. Who's to know the difference?"
Across the twenty yards of space between them, Edgar caught the Captain's eye. But even if he had not done so, the Captain knew that Edgar would not have transgressed this particular rule. There were rules that could be broken, rules that could be bent, rules that were rules. Customs regulations about liquor in bond were the latter.
"You don't want me to lose my job, madam, do you?' he asked persuasively.
"I just want a rye and water, that's all," said Mrs. van Dooren, and collapsed into the chair nearest the doorway.
Edgar arranged the cushions round her shoulders, and then stood back, a benign, understanding presence.
"It won't be long now, madam," he assured her. "It really won't be long."
Indeed, it would not be long. Blue Peter, the sailing flag, had gone to the yard-arm; the first gongs for "All ashore" were now sounding faintly along the lower reaches of B deck; a few premature paper streamers already stretched from ship to shore. But a fair number of passengers were still arriving—life at the Alcestis level did not breed habits of punctuality; and among the slow-moving voyagers, a single weaving figure, a small furtive man in a hurry, could be momentarily glimpsed. Sighted by a deck-hand in the stern, pointed out to other shipmates, greeted by cat-calls from cheerful men in chefs' hats poking their heads out of portholes—Barkway the missing steward made his embarrassed way on board. The Master-at-Arms touched him briefly on the shoulder as he disappeared from sight.
Up on the boat-deck, the group of young officers were still maintaining their watch for "talent", though with increasing despondency. A single solitary girl had been added to Tim Mansell's quota; they had not been able to identify her from the passenger-list, but she was at least slim, moderately good-looking, and under thirty years of age. Now, with the flow of newcomers easing off, depression had set in; it seemed likely to be one of those voyages which made Jack a dull boy. Beresford, the young apprentice, voiced it for all of them when he observed dejectedly:
"I don't know about you, but I feel like missing this trip altogether."
"Romance!" intoned Blantyre, sardonically. "Glamour. Sundrenched days. Never-to-be-forgotten nights. Once-in-a-lifetime thrills. Boloney!"
"I wonder who writes those ads," said Tim Mansell.
"Some bloody liar!"
"He should try dancing with Bernice Beddington."
The long-sighted Fleming, scanning the length of the quay, suddenly exclaimed: "Wow!"
"What is it?" asked Blantyre.
"Dawn is breaking," said Fleming. "Just look at those two girls!"
They watched with interest, and then with goggle-eyed concentration, as Carl Wenstrom's party of five approached the foot of the gangway. The three men they scarcely saw, though the Professor, his white hair topping a magnificent old-fashioned travelling ulster, was an arresting figure. But it was the girls who claimed the attention, and held it irresistibly. Diane Loring, quietly dressed in grey, still failed to disguise her air of sensual readiness; the pretty pale face was composed, but the walk was a mobile invitation, the figure a challenge to every male within range. Beside her, Kathy looked remarkably lovely; her blonde hair shone brilliantly against the drab dockside, her face was a grave oval, delighting the eye, promising infinite pleasures. Work seemed to stop, enraptured silence seemed to fall, as she first smiled at the dock policeman, and then set foot on the gangway, leading them all on board.
When she was half-way up, and Diane a few paces behind her, she chanced to raise her eyes to the level of the boat-deck. The four young men gazing down at her were almost ludicrous in their combined air of admiration, their hungry unanimity. Kathy was used to such glances, from almost every man she encountered; but the quartet above her, united in their longing, suspended in space like love in aspic, were suddenly disconcerting. Carl had coached them all towards making a delayed, eye-catching entrance; but this was almost too successful. . . . Her chin rose a fraction; she caught Tim Mansell's glance, and held it coolly for a moment, before passing out of sight.
"Gee!" said Tim Mansell, almost whispering. "What a girl!"
"Both of them."
"Probably come to see their father off, or something," said Fleming, pessimistically.
"I couldn't bear that," said Tim Mansell. "Gee!"
A formidable voice behind them said: "Well, gentlemen?"
They turned as one body, though they did not need to do so in order to recognize the voice. It was the Captain, surveying them from a distance of a few feet, his expression bleak.
"If you have nothing to do," he said after a moment's awkward silence, "you ought to have more sense than to advertise the fact in public."
Blantyre, the senior of the four, summoned his courage. "We were just checking up, sir."
"I know damned well you were just checking up!" said the Captain, on a note of the sternest discipline. Then his face relaxed suddenly and he smiled, the sort of smile which, on its rare appearance, could make a simple hero-worshipper out of any man on board. He looked directly at Tim Mansell, still holding the passenger-list. "How many, Fourth?"
"Sir?" said Tim, abashed.
"You heard me. How many?"
"Four, sir."
"Five, if we stretched it a bit," said Fleming, who sometimes took chances with the Captain's humour.
"We must be slipping," said the Captain. "Alcestis ought to do better than that."
Tim Mansell grinned, still rapt in his private joy. "But sir—one's an absolute knock-out!"
The tugs nosed up and took their lines, and then waited, while the last gong sounded, the last visitors walked ashore, the last gangway was hoisted and swung out-board. The orchestra played "Auld Lang Syne", and then "A Life on the Ocean Wave"; the coloured paper streamers, doled out by busy stewards, bound the ship tenuously to the land in a last brief contact. Up on the bridge, the pilot cocked an eye at the wind-indicator, and put his whistle to his lips; a plume of steam came from the huge siren, and then a shattering, deep-toned roar as the Alcestis made her farewell salute to New York. At the pilot's side, the Captain hunched his shoulders deeper into his greatcoat, conscious of satisfaction, conscious of the weight of command, and of the nervousness which not a thousand sailings could ever cure.
Up on the fo'c'sle-head, in the very eyes of the ship, First Officer Tiptree-Jones stood staring at the bridge, waiting for the signal to cast off; far aft, out of sight, Tim Mansell pressed the telephone closer to his ear, awaiting the same order. The pilot, a small noncommittal man in a shabby peaked cap, glanced sideways at the Captain.
"O.K.?"
Captain Harmer nodded. "Go ahead." And then, to the quartermaster at the telegraphs: "Stand by engines!"
Outside the Tapestry Bar, two decks below, Mrs. van Dooren stirred in her chair, looked out of the nearest big porthole, and sat up with a start.
"We're afloat!" she said.
"I certainly hope so, madam," said Edgar.
"I mean, we've started."
Edgar glanced down at the receding dock wall. "That is so, madam."
Mrs. van Dooren levered herself upright. "How about it, then?"
"Rye and water, madam," said Edgar promptly, and advanced a loaded tray. As she took the glass, he continued: "Can I interest you in the first sweepstake ticket on the day's run?"