The programme for the ship's concert developed somewhat bashfully at first, but during the last forty-eight hours before the performance the idea caught on, and finally everyone wanted to get into the act. The task, which fell to Tiptree-Jones, of auditioning the available talent and deciding which would qualify and which must be declined, was a formidable one; it was safe to say that by the time the curtain went up, almost the entire audience was composed of rejected performers who were not in the mood to admire anyone else's talents.
Tiptree-Jones himself led off the show with a comedy conjuring routine. It was the sort of thing he was good at; but too many of the audience, denied by this very man the chance to tap-dance or sing "Asleep in the Deep", buttoned up their smiles and sat on their hands. A flop. Nurse Bartlett sang songs from Oklahoma and South Pacific, but as a pretty girl she was unpopular with those who mainly moulded public opinion, and as a nurse she was notorious for having lost a patient, no doubt through neglect. Another flop. Two stewards then embarked on a cross-talk act; it was funny if one could appreciate English music-hall humour, and unravel a Liverpool accent as well, but not otherwise. The applause was generous rather than appreciative. It was now the turn of Mr. Zucco, who, looking like Buster Keaton and sounding like the public image of Sam Goldwyn, told a succession of funny stories. They were not at all funny; and he ended with a Jewish dialect anecdote so unmistakably crude that the audience gasped, and his wife's cheerful laugh rang out over acres of shocked silence. A flop, indeed.
That left Mr. Hartmann, one of the poker players, who juggled with ping-pong balls and expendable glassware; Jack Gerson, who was far from sober and did impressions, appallingly similar, of Bing Crosby, Lionel Barrymore, and James Stewart; and two more stewards, who went through a slow-motion wrestling routine copied from an early film of Mickey Rooney. The audience, restive, began to talk out loud, complaining of favouritism and ineptitude. The husbands and wives of the performers clapped energetically, glaring round them. Tiptree-Jones, harassed beneath his easy social manner and aware of the Captain's critical eye from the front row of chairs, stepped forward and announced: "We come now to our final turn— last but not least, to coin a phrase—Mrs. Burkhart, soprano."
Mrs. Burkhart was not a soprano, but she was everything else; it was indeed unfortunate that Tiptree-Jones had used the expression "last but not least", which scored an immediate laugh as soon as she stepped on to the stage. For Mrs. Burkhart was a huge woman, on whose monumental bosom the music-sheet quivered like a newspaper caught on a mountain ledge. The piano rattled, the very floor-boards shook, as she took up a stance like a prize-fighter; then she launched forth, at full blast, her giant arms flexed, her enormous diaphragm rising and falling like some vast, ruined souffle, into her song.
It was unfortunate, again, that the song she had chosen was "The Lass with the Delicate Air". Someone snickered audibly as the first words recalled the song's title; the laughter thickened and spread as the absurd phrases, appropriate only to some shy wood-nymph weighing not more than ninety-five pounds, came booming forth from this heroic amplifier. There were angry shushing noises, but not enough to overcome the laughter, which had gained a determined, cruel hold. Mrs. Burkhart only survived two verses; increasingly aware of her audience, angry with the pianist whose instrument was no match for her own, she stumbled over the girlish trill which went with the word "delicate", and came to a ragged stop. The laughter was a long time subsiding; but to match it there was in the audience another faction, grim-faced, scandalized, which now called for order and shouted "Encore!"
There could be no encore. Mrs. Burkhart swept from the stage, followed by the pianist, running to keep up with her; while from the second row of the audience a furious red-faced man—Mr. Burkhart—rose like a thunder-cloud and strode off in the direction of the Purser's office.
That was a row which was a long time dying, capping as it did an evening which had inspired plenty of bad feeling already. All over the ship argument broke out like an endemic rash; cabin-doors were slammed, drinks refused, lips pursed, angry charges made. The number of people who were not on speaking terms next morning exceeded all previous figures. But the Captain, mulling it over with his First Officer afterwards, was not too perturbed. Rows were standard practice at this stage of the voyage; they rarely got by the ship's concert without some furious tribal outbreak. The Alcestis, however, was making good progress, under the arching sky and benign glow of the Southern Cross; and there was a report of bad weather, about five hundred miles ahead, directly in their path. That was nicely calculated to take the mickey out of everyone.
Louis Scapelli had finally had enough of it. More than enough. It had been sufficiently annoying, though tolerable, to be at Mrs. Consolini's beck and call on a twenty-four-hour basis; at least the manly incidents of the night made up for the bell-hop aspects of the day, at least he was earning part of his money honestly. But lately he had noticed a change; the fetching and carrying had been stepped up, while there appeared to be little or no call for any more significant activity. As a matter of fact she was bored with it, she told him coolly, when he eventually brought the subject up, one afternoon in her cabin. It wasn't all that important; with him, it never had been. Meanwhile, she wanted to give a party, tomorrow night. About sixteen people; the list was on her desk. Would he fix it, please? Last time, there hadn't been nearly enough caviar among the canapes. He really ought to watch out for that—the ship was full of it, it was just slackness on the part of the stewards. And she had left her library book somewhere. She would like it now.
Louis finally exploded. "What do you want to go and leave your stuff around for? Do you think I've nothing better to do than— than—"
She eyed him coldly. "Than what?"
He stared back at her, bad-tempered, ready for a collision. "Than run around after you like this?"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean, you haven't anything better to do. Not as long as I'm paying the shot. You'll do what I want, and if it's my book I want, you'll go get it."
"Get it yourself," he said angrily. "I'm sick of this."
"Very big and bold." Her voice was sarcastic. Momentarily he wondered if she were staging a show-down on purpose; if so, he was more than ready for it. "But I don't pay you five hundred a week to be sick of anything. Go get that book for me, and then come back and fix up about the party. I'll want fresh flowers for it, too."
"No." He should have let the bald refusal stand by itself; but because she had always held the commanding position, had called the tune for so long, he found himself adding, lamely: "I'm tired. Just leave me alone, will you?"
But she was not going to take any excuses. It was the first time he had shown any sign of rebellion, and, one way or the other, it was going to be the last. Their relationship had now continued for nearly a month; it had been fun at the beginning, as all aspects of command were fun; but the fun ceased as soon as the command was challenged. She didn't want a contest of wills; she wanted a captive. And captives didn't argue.