Mr. Selfridge had arisen and was also staring, not at Rowland, but at the child, who, seated in the lap of the big Captain Barry, was looking around with wondering eyes. Her costume was unique. A dress of bagging-stuff, put together—as were her canvas shoes and hat—with sail-twine in sail-makers’ stitches, three to the inch, covered skirts and underclothing made from old flannel shirts. It represented many an hour’s work of the watch-below, lovingly bestowed by the crew of the Peerless; for the crippled Rowland could not sew. Mr. Selfridge approached, scanned the pretty features closely, and asked:
“What is her name?”
“Her first name is Myra,” answered Rowland. “She remembers that; but I have not learned her last name, though I knew her mother years ago—before her marriage.”
“Myra, Myra,” repeated the old gentleman; “do you know me? Don’t you know me? “ He trembled visibly as he stooped and kissed her. The little forehead puckered and wrinkled as the child struggled with memory; then it cleared and the whole face sweetened to a smile.
“Gwampa,” she said.
“Oh, God, I thank thee,” murmured Mr. Selfridge, taking her in his arms. “I have lost my son, but I have found his child—my granddaughter.”
“But, sir,” asked Rowland, eagerly; “you—this child’s grandfather? Your son is lost, you say? Was he on board the Titan? And the mother—was she saved, or is she, too —” he stopped unable to continue.
“The mother is safe—in New York; but the father, my son, has not yet been heard from,” said the old man, mournfully.
Rowland’s head sank and he hid his face for a moment in his arm, on the table at which he sat. It had been a face as old, and worn, and weary as that of the white-haired man confronting him. On it, when it raised—flushed, bright-eyed and smiling—was the glory of youth.
“I trust, sir,” he said, “that you will telegraph her. I am penniless at present, and, besides, do not know her name.”
“Selfridge—which, of course, is my own name. Mrs. Colonel, or Mrs. George Selfridge. Our New York address is well known. But I shall cable her at once; and, believe me, sir, although I can understand that our debt to you cannot be named in terms of money, you need not be penniless long. You are evidently a capable man, and I have wealth and influence.”
Rowland merely bowed, slightly, but Mr. Meyer muttered to himself: “Vealth and influence. Berhaps not. Now, gentlemen,” he added, in a louder tone, “to pizness. Mr. Rowland, will you tell us about der running down of der Royal Age?”
“Was it the Royal Age?” asked Rowland. “I sailed in her one voyage. Yes, certainly.”
Mr. Selfridge, more interested in Myra than in the coming account, carried her over to a chair in the corner and sat down, where he fondled and talked to her after the manner of grandfathers the world over, and Rowland, first looking steadily into the faces of the two men he had come to expose, and whose presence he had thus far ignored, told, while they held their teeth tight together and often buried their finger-nails in their palms, the terrible story of the cutting in half of the ship on the first night out from New York, finishing with the attempted bribery and his refusal.
“Vell, gentlemen, what do you think of that?” asked Mr. Meyer, looking around.
“A lie, from beginning to end,” stormed Captain Bryce.
Rowland rose to his feet, but was pressed back by the big man who had accompanied him—who then faced Captain Bryce and said, quietly:
“I saw a polar bear that this man killed in open fight. I saw his arm afterward, and while nursing him away from death I heard no whines or complaints. He can fight his own battles when well, and when sick I’ll do it for him. If you insult him again in my presence I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”
CHAPTER XII
THERE was a moment’s silence while the two captains eyed one another, broken by the attorney, who said:
“Whether this story is true or false, it certainly has no bearing on the validity of the policy. If this happened, it was after the policy attached and before the wreck of the Titan.”
“But der concealment—der concealment,” shouted Mr. Meyer, excitedly.
“Has no bearing, either. If he concealed anything it was done after the wreck, and after your liability was confirmed. It was not even barratry. You must pay this insurance.”
“I will not bay it. I will not. I will fight you in der courts.” Mr. Meyer stamped up and down the floor in his excitement, then stopped with a triumphant smile, and shook his finger into the face of the attorney.
“And even if der concealment will not vitiate der policy, der fact that he had a drunken man on lookout when der Titan struck der iceberg will be enough. Go ahead and sue. I will not pay. He was part owner.”
“You have no witnesses to that admission,” said the attorney. Mr. Meyer looked around the group and the smile left his face.
“Captain Bryce was mistaken,” said Mr. Austen. This man was drunk at New York, like others of the crew. But he was sober and competent when on lookout. I discussed theories of navigation with him during his trick on the bridge that night and be spoke intelligently.”
“But you yourself said, not ten minutes ago, that this man was in a state of delirium tremens up to der collision,” said Mr. Meyer.
“What I said and what I will admit under oath are two different things,” said the officer, desperately. “I may have said anything under the excitement of the moment—when we were accused of such an infamous crime. I say now, that John Rowland, whatever may have been his condition on the preceding night, was a sober and competent lookout at the time of the wreck of the Titan.”
“Thank you,” said Rowland, dryly, to the first officer; then, looking into the appealing face of Mr. Meyer, he said:
“I do not think it will be necessary to brand me before the world as an inebriate in order to punish the company and these men. Barratry, as I understand it, is the unlawful act of a captain or crew at sea, causing damage or loss; and it only applies when the parties are purely employees. Did I understand rightly—that Captain Bryce was part owner of the Titan?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Meyer, “he owns stock; and we insure against barratry; but this man, as part owner, could not fall back on it.”
“And an unlawful act,” went on Rowland, “perpetrated by a captain who is part owner, which might cause shipwreck, and, during the perpetration of which shipwreck really occurs, will be sufficient to void the policy.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Meyer, eagerly. “You were drunk on der lookout—you were raving drunk, as he said himself. You will swear to this, will you not, my friend? It is bad faith with der underwriters. It annuls der insurance. You admit this, Mr. Thompson, do you not?”
“That is law,” said the attorney, coldly.
“Was Mr. Austen a part owner, also?” asked Rowland, ignoring Mr. Meyer’s view of the case.
“One share, is it not, Mr. Austen?” asked Mr. Meyer, while he rubbed his hands and smiled. Mr. Austen made no sign of denial and Rowland continued:
“Then, for drugging a sailor into a stupor, and having him on lookout out of his turn while in that condition, and at the moment when the Titan struck the iceberg, Captain Bryce and Mr. Austen have, as part owners, committed an act which nullifies the insurance on that ship.”
“You infernal, lying scoundrel!” roared Captain Bryce. He strode toward Rowland with threatening face. Half-way, he was stopped by the impact of a huge brown fist which sent him reeling and staggering across the room toward Mr. Selfridge and the child, over whom he floundered to the floor—a disheveled heap,—while the big Captain Barry examined teeth-marks on his knuckles, and every one else sprang to their feet.