“Hard hit, Meyer?” asked one.
“Ten thousand,” he answered, gloomily.
“Serve you right,” said another, unkindly; “have more baskets for your eggs. Knew you’d bring up.”
Though Mr. Meyer’s eyes sparkled at this, he said nothing, but drank himself stupid and was assisted home by one of his clerks. From this on, neglecting his business—excepting to occasionally visit the bulletins—he spent his time in the Captain’s room drinking heavily, and bemoaning his luck. On the tenth day be read with watery eyes, posted on the bulletin below the news of the arrival at Gibraltar of the second boat-load of people, the following:
“Life-buoy of Royal Age, London, picked up among wreckage in Lat. 45-20, N. Lon. 54-31 W. Ship Arctic, Boston, Capt. Brandt.”
“Oh, mine good God,” he bowled, as he rushed toward the Captain’s room.
“Poor devil—poor damn fool of an Israelite,” said one observer to another. “He covered the whole of the Royal Age, and the biggest chunk of the Titan. It’ll take his wife’s diamonds to settle.”
Three weeks later, Mr. Meyer was aroused from a brooding lethargy, by a crowd of shouting underwriters, who rushed into the Captain’s room, seized him by the shoulders, and hurried him out and up to a bulletin.
“Read it, Meyer—read it. What d’you think of it?” With some difficulty he read aloud, while they watched his face:
“John Rowland, sailor of the Titan, with child passenger, name unknown, on board Peerless, Bath, at Christiansand, Norway. Both dangerously ill. Rowland speaks of ship cut in half night before loss of Titan.”
“What do you make of it, Meyer—Royal Age, isn’t it?” asked one.
“Yes,” vociferated another, “I’ve figured back. Only ship not reported lately. Overdue two months. Was spoken same day fifty miles east of that iceberg.”
“Sure thing,” said others. “Nothing said about it in the captain’s statement—looks queer.”
“Vell, vwhat of it,” said Mr. Meyer, painfully and stupidly: “dere is a collision clause in der Titan’s policy; I merely bay the money to der steamship company instead of to der Royal Age beeple.”
“But why did the captain conceal it?” they shouted at him. “What’s his object—assured against collision suits.”
“Der looks of it, berhaps—looks pad.”
“Nonsense, Meyer, what’s the matter with you? Which one of the lost tribes did you spring from—you’re like none of your race—drinking yourself stupid like a good Christian. I’ve got a thousand on the Titan, and if I’m to pay it I want to know why. You’ve got the heaviest risk and the brain to fight for it—you’ve got to do it. Go home, straighten up, and attend to this. We’ll watch Rowland till you take hold. We’re all caught.”
They put him into a cab, took him to a Turkish bath, and then home.
The next morning he was at his desk, clear-eyed and clear-headed, and for a few weeks was a busy, scheming man of business.
CHAPTER XI
ON a certain morning, about two months after the announcement of the loss of the Titan, Mr. Meyer sat at his desk in the Rooms, busily writing, when the old gentleman who had bewailed the death of his son in the Intelligence office tottered in and took a chair beside him.
“Good morning, Mr. Selfridge,” he said, scarcely looking up; “I suppose you have come to see der insurance paid over. Der sixty days are up.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Meyer,” said the old gentleman, wearily; “of course, as merely a stockholder, I can take no active part; but I am a member here, and naturally a little anxious. All I had in the world—even to my son and grandchild—was in the Titan.”
“It is very sad, Mr. Selfridge; you have my deepest sympathy. I believe you are der largest holder of Titan stock—about one hundred thousand, is it not?”
“About that.”
“I am der heaviest insurer; so Mr. Selfridge, this battle will be largely between you and myself.”
“Battle—is there to be any difficulty?” asked Mr. Selfridge, anxiously.
“Perhaps—I do not know. Der underwriters and outside companies have placed matters in my hands and will not pay until I take der initiative. We must hear from one John Rowland, who, with a little child, was rescued from der berg and taken to Christiansand. He has been too sick to leave der ship which found him and is coming up der Thames in her this morning. I have a carriage at der dock and expect him at my office by noon. Dere is where we will transact this little pizness—not here.”
“A child—saved,” queried the old gentleman; dear me, it may be little Myra. She was not at Gibraltar with the others. I would not care—I would not care much about the money, if she was safe. But my son—my only son—is gone; and, Mr. Meyer, I am a ruined man if this insurance is not paid.”
“And I am a ruined man if it is,” said Mr. Meyer, rising. “Will you come around to der office, Mr. Selfridge? I expect der attorney and Captain Bryce are dere now.” Mr. Selfridge arose and accompanied him to the street.
A rather meagerly-furnished private office in Threadneedle Street, partitioned off from a larger one bearing Mr. Meyer’s name in the window, received the two men, one of whom, in the interests of good business, was soon to be impoverished. They had not waited a minute before Captain Bryce and Mr. Austen were announced and ushered in. Sleek, well-fed, and gentlemanly in manner, perfect types of the British naval officer, they bowed politely to Mr. Selfridge when Mr. Meyer introduced them as the captain and first officer of the Titan, and seated themselves. A few moments later brought a shrewd looking person whom Mr. Meyer addressed as the attorney for the steamship company, but did not introduce; for such are the amenities of the English system of caste.
“Now then, gentlemen,” said Mr. Meyer, “I believe we can proceed to pizness up to a certain point—perhaps further. Mr. Thompson, you have the affidavit of Captain Bryce?”
“I have,” said the attorney, producing a document which Mr. Meyer glanced at and handed back.
“And in this statement, captain, he said, “you have sworn that der voyage was uneventful up to der moment of der wreck—that is,” be added, with an oily smile, as be noticed the paling of the captain’s face “that nothing occurred to make der Titan less seaworthy or manageable?”
“That is what I swore to,” said the captain, with a little sigh.
“You are part owner, are you not, Captain Bryce?”
“I own five shares of the company’s stock.”
“I have examined der charter and der company lists,” said Mr. Meyer; “each boat of der company is, so far as assessments and dividends are concerned, a separate company. I find you are listed as owning two sixty-seconds of der Titan stock. This makes you, under der law, part owner of der Titan, and responsible as such.”
“What do you mean, sir, by that word responsible?” said Captain Bryce, quicky.
For answer, Mr. Meyer elevated his black eyebrows, assumed an attitude of listening, looked at his watch and went to the door, which, as he opened, admitted the sound of carriage wheels.
“In here,” he called to his clerks, then faced the captain.
“What do I mean, Captain Bryce?” he thundered. “I mean that you have concealed in your sworn statement all reference to der fact that you collided with and sunk the ship Royal Age on der night before the wreck of your own ship.”