Chapter XI: Captain Stevens Again

The mahogany-trimmed saloon greeted us cheerfully with its immaculate linen and polished silver, and I contrasted the environment with the last place in which I had partaken of food, the forecastle. And I then and there resolved to play every card I had or could gather to stay “aft.”

My appetite was whetted, even during the short time since the homely meal old Steve had provided; and, indeed, we all tackled the splendid food with zest.

There were four of us; Stroth, his daughter, Stevens, and myself.

Stevens had been the last to enter, which he did from his own stateroom, situated still farther aft.

“You, Mr. Grey, and Captain Stevens have met before, I believe,” said Stroth, without a quiver, and the little man and I each took the hint, and shook hands cordially enough, though I did feel kind of funny when I did so. But I was more surprised when Stroth followed this up with:

“And now you see Captain Stevens, Stella,” whereupon the captain bowed in most courtly manner, while I wondered considerably.

“We scarcely had time back there on the launch to get acquainted, did we, captain?” she said lightly.

Stevens shot me a quick glance, as he replied:

“But I hope the acquaintance will have a better chance for a time now, Miss Stella.”

So the girl hadn’t seen him before I had myself!

Stroth’s manner was carefree and easy, and he acted the most genial host. I could feel that the manner in which I had so humbly submitted to the revelations of the past few minutes had relieved his mind of all uneasiness. He knew I had taken my cue.

The Jap, Saki, was deftness itself in his service, and the start of this little trip to Savannah was certainly auspicious, for at sea the gastronomies are certainly important.

When the meal was over, and, at Stella Stroth’s suggestion, we all went up on deck where we found that the wind had lessened somewhat. The afternoon bade fair to be one of perfect midsummer.

And so, two by two, we paced a constitutional up and down the windward quarter-deck. Stroth and his daughter walked together while Stevens and I followed, keeping our conversation absolutely on generalities.

Suddenly the girl whirled and faced us.

“I was just suggesting to father,” she said, “that nothing could be finer than such a day as this for taking pictures.”

Of a surety the idea was as harmless a one as I could possibly imagine. It certainly was an ideal light to work in for clear-cut, sharp-shadowed snapshots. But the very hint of such a thing had a noteworthy effect upon both men.

Stroth’s face first lit up to a trace of enthusiasm, but this spark was rapidly quenched by a troubled look of almost doglike humbleness when he met the hasty glance Stevens cast him.

And I could plainly see that Stevens himself was distinctly worried as he strove to shunt the idea.

“Mr. Stroth has often told me that vivid sunlight such as this is makes too great contrasts.”

“Oh, nonsense, daddy!” cried the daughter. “Of course, if one wanted absolutely artistic effects, maybe so; but what I’d want would be just some ‘homy’ pictures of the decks, the sails, the things about us. Ah, I love it all so! You don’t know, dad, how I’ve missed the old _Ruby Light_! Come now, just a half dozen.”

She whirled on me.

“You’re with me, aren’t you, Mr. Grey?”

With her? Well, rather! Nor could I see the slightest harm in my saying so.

“Why, I think it would be fine!” I exclaimed enthusiastically.

One can imagine my bewilderment at the result that immediately followed my concurrence.

Stroth’s features took on what was almost a defiance, and a defiance that was directed at Stevens; while the little captain favored me with a scowl that carried actual anger. And, just like a schoolboy that has been permitted to break some bounds, Stroth trotted happily down the companionway in search of one of his cameras.

The next half hour he spent in the full delight of his hobby, and he certainly had the knack of poising his subject; he knew composition--had it all at his finger tips.

But from the first of the picturetaking, Stevens had excused himself on the strength of working his reckoning, and I didn’t see him till supper time.

We three, however, got along famously, and, when supper did come, we fell to like so many children in a heartiness which even Stevens’ sour looks couldn’t check.

Supper done, the table was cleared, and we played fan-tan till four bells.

“Early hours aboard this packet!” cried Stroth boyishly. “And ten o’clock’s a good bedtime. Off and away with you now, girlie.”

She kissed him on the cheek, and bade us each a happy good night. I still believe mine was the best. There was a certain hesitancy about it that I relished immensely.

Stroth turned to me as soon as she had left us.

“Saki will show you your stateroom, Grey. I’ve even managed to drum up a change or two of clothes, which may be a bit overlarge for you, but----”

“But, under circumstances which brought me aboard your----”

I certainly had taken a wrong tack, for he cried out sharply:

“A pleasure trip to Savannah, remember!”

“I beg pardon!” I hastened to say, as I followed the Jap who had popped into sight at the sound of a buzzer.

But before I gained the stateroom assigned me, and had closed the door, I heard Stroth ask Stevens:

“How’s the wind blowing?”

“There’s a point or two more no’th’ard to it, but it holds about the same strength, and, of course, it’s fair.”

“Fine!” ejaculated the owner. “So we ought to be about off Montauk to-morrow morning, oughtn’t we?”

“About that,” replied the skipper. Then he lowered his tone just as I was closing my door in dismissal of the Jap. I couldn’t catch a word, but the voice carried solicitude of some sort.

Then came Stroth’s reply; rather a petulant one, I thought:

“Yes, yes, Stevens; I promise. Yes, yes, of course!”

There was certainly a difference in my quarters of this night and the one previous; for that little stateroom, though plain enough, was the essence of convenience, and the berth was comfort itself.

But, tired as I was, I couldn’t get to sleep right away. Things had been happening a trifle too fast, and one or two points were puzzling. I sat on a transom fully an hour. Then I crawled into the suit of pajamas that had been laid out for me, propped up the pillows at the bunk end, and ruminated.

“I know what I want,” I finally mumbled to myself, “and that’s a smoke.”

It seemed as if I must have that smoke. I have since cured myself of the habit, but it held me strong enough then, as is evident when I add that I finally decided to have a try at finding the humidor which Stroth had handed me in his picture-papered stateroom.

“It’s worth a try, anyway,” said I to myself. “He wouldn’t mind, of course. And I can manage it without disturbing a soul.”

I opened my door cautiously, and crossed the saloon, which was dimly lighted by a night lamp of small candle power. Fortune favored me in that the farther door was slightly ajar. I opened it a bit farther, then craned my neck for a view.

“There it is,” said I mentally, as I recognized the dim outline of the box of cigars, and noiselessly I opened it and took one.

I had almost regained the saloon when I heard a faint noise and the click of glassware. I turned attentively, and under the lower crack of the farther door there filtered out to me the deep-red glow of the dark room.

But, for all the trouble I had taken to get the cigar, I didn’t finish it. By the time it was half smoked I got very sleepy, and the next thing I knew--as Uncle Remus says--“I didn’t know nuffin.”