Love Stories Part 42

They voiced their opinions audibly and were ready to back them up with flight or fight.

It was there that the Red Un saw the little girl. She had come from a machine, and her mother stood near. She was not a Coney Islander.

She was first-cabin certainly--silk stockings on her thin ankles, sheer white frock; no jewelry. She took a snapshot of the four boys--to their discomfiture--and walked away while they were still writhing.

"That for mine!" said the Red Un in one of his rare enthusiasms.

They had supper--a sandwich and a gla.s.s of beer; they would have preferred pop, but what deep-water man on sh.o.r.e drinks pop?--and made their way back to the s.h.i.+p by moonlight. The Red Un was terse in his speech on the car: mostly he ate peanuts abstractedly. If he evolved any clear idea out of the chaos of his mind it was to wish she had snapped him in his uniform with the bra.s.s b.u.t.tons.

The heat continued; the men in the stokehole, keeping up only enough steam for the dynamos and donkey engines, took turns under the ventilators or crawled up to the boatdeck at dusk, too exhausted to dress and go ash.o.r.e. The swimmers were overboard in the cool river with the first shadows of night; the Quartermaster, so old that he dyed his hair for fear he'd be superannuated, lowered his lean body hand over hand down a rope and sat by the hour on a stringpiece of the dock, with the water laving his hairy and tattooed old breast.

The Red Un was forbidden the river. To be honest, he was rather relieved--not twice does a man dare the river G.o.d, having once been crowned with his slime and water-weed. When the boy grew very hot he slipped into a second-cabin shower, and stood for luxurious minutes with streams running off his nose and the ends of his fingers and splas.h.i.+ng about his bony ankles.

Then, one night, some of the men took as many pa.s.sengers' lifebelts and went in. The immediate result was fun combined with safety; the secondary result was placards over the s.h.i.+p and the dock, forbidding the use of the s.h.i.+p's lifebelts by the crew.

From that moment the Red Un was possessed for the river and a lifebelt. So were the other three. The signs were responsible.

Permitted, a s.h.i.+p's lifebelt was a subterfuge of the cowardly, white-livered skunks who were afraid of a little water; forbidden, a s.h.i.+p's lifebelt took on the qualities of enemy's property--to be reconnoitred, a.s.saulted, captured and turned to personal advantage.

That very night, then, four small bodies, each naked save for a lifebelt, barrelshaped and extending from breast almost to knee, slipped over the side of the s.h.i.+p with awkward splashes and proceeded to disport themselves in the river. Scolding tugs sent waves for them to ride; ferries crawled like gigantic bugs with a hundred staring eyes. They found the Quartermaster on a stringpiece immersed to the neck and smoking his pipe, and surrounded him--four small, shouting imps, floating barrels with splas.h.i.+ng hands and kicking feet.

"Gwan, ye little devils!" said the Quartermaster, clutching the stringpiece and looking about in the gloom for a weapon. The Red Un, quite safe and audacious in his cork jacket, turned over on his back and kicked.

"Gwan yerself, Methuselah!" he sang.

They stole the old man's pipe and pa.s.sed it from mouth to mouth; they engaged him in innocent converse while one of them pinched his bare old toe under water, crab-fas.h.i.+on. And at last they prepared to s.h.i.+n up the rope again and sleep the sleep of the young, the innocent and the refreshed.

The Chief was leaning over the rail, just above, smoking!

He leaned against the rail and smoked for three hours! Eight eyes, watching him from below, failed to find anything in his face but contemplation; eight hands puckered like a washerwoman's; eight feet turned from medium to clean, from clean to bleached--and still the Chief smoked on. He watched the scolding tugs and the ferryboats that crawled over the top of the water; he stood in rapt contemplation of the electric signs in Jersey, while the s.h.i.+p's bells marked the pa.s.sage of time to eternity, while the Quartermaster slept in his bed, while the odours of the river stank in their nostrils and the pressure of the s.h.i.+p's lifebelts weighed like lead on their clammy bodies.

At eight bells--which is midnight--the Chief emptied his twenty-fourth pipe over the rail and smiled into the gloom beneath.

"Ye'll better be coming up," he remarked pleasantly. "I'm for turning in mysel'."

He wandered away; none of the watch was near. The s.h.i.+p was dark, save for her riding lights. Hand over puckered hand they struggled up and wriggled out of the belts; stark naked they ducked through pa.s.sageways and alleys, and stowed their damp and cringing forms between sheets.

The Red Un served the Chief's breakfast the next morning very carefully. The Chief's cantaloupe was iced; his kipper covered with a hot plate; the morning paper propped against McAndrew's hymn. The Red Un looked very clean and rather bleached.

The Chief was busy; he read the night reports, which did not amount to much, the well soundings, and a letter from a man offering to show him how to increase the efficiency of his engines fifty per cent, and another offering him a rake-off on a new lubricant.

Outwardly the Chief was calm--even cold. Inwardly he was rather uncomfortable: he could feel two blue eyes fixed on his back and remembered the day he had pulled them out of the river, and how fixed and desperate they were then. But what was it McAndrew said?

"Law, order, duty an' restraint, obedience, discipline!"

Besides, if the boys were going to run off with the belts some d.a.m.ned first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger was likely to get a cabin minus a belt and might write to the management. The line had had bad luck; it did not want another black eye. He cleared his throat; the Red Un dropped a fork.

"That sort of thing last night won't do, William."

"N-No, sir."

"Ye had seen the signs, of course?"

"Yes, sir." The Red Un never lied to the Chief; it was useless.

The Chief toyed with his kipper.

"Ye'll understand I'd ha' preferred dealin' with the matter mysel'; but it's--gone up higher."

The Quartermaster, of course! The Chief rose and pretended to glance over the well soundings.

"The four of ye will meet me in the Captain's room in fifteen minutes," he observed casually.

The Captain was feeding his cat when the Red Un got there. The four boys lined up uncomfortably; all of them looked clean, subdued, apprehensive. If they were to be locked up in this sort of weather, and only three days to sailing time--even a fine would be better.

The Captain stroked the cat and eyed them.

"Well," he said curtly, "what have you four young imps been up to now?"

The four young imps stood panicky. They looked as innocent as choir boys. The cat, eating her kipper, wheezed.

"Please, sir," said the Captain's boy solicitously, "Peter has something in his throat."

"Perhaps it's a s.h.i.+p's lifebelt," said the Captain grimly, and caught the Chief's eye.

The line palpitated; under cover of its confusion the Chief, standing in the doorway with folded arms, winked swiftly at the Captain; the next moment he was more dour than ever.

"You are four upsetters of discipline," said the Captain, suddenly pounding the table. "You four young monkeys have got the crew by the ears, and I'm sick of it! Which one of you put the fish in Mrs.

Schmidt's bed?"

Mrs. Schmidt was a stewardess. The Red Un stepped forward.

"Who turned the deckhose into the Purser's cabin night before last?"

"Please," said the Doctor's boy pallidly, "I made a mistake in the room. I thought----"

"Who," shouted the Captain, banging again, "cut the Quartermaster's rope two nights ago and left him sitting under the dock for four hours?"

The Purser's boy this time, white to the lips! Fresh panic seized them; it could hardly be mere arrest if he knew all this; he might order them hanged from a yardarm or shot at sunrise. He looked like the latter. The Red Un glanced at the Chief, who looked apprehensive also, as if the thing was going too far. The Captain may have read their thoughts, for he said:

"You're limbs of Satan, all of you, and hanging's too good for you.

What do you say, Chief? How can we make these young scamps lessons in discipline to the crew?"

Everybody breathed again and looked at the Chief--who stood tall and sandy and rather young to be a Chief--in the doorway.

"Eh, mon," he said, and smiled, "I'm aye a bit severe. Don't ask me to punish the bairns."

The Captain sniffed.

"Severe!" he observed. "You Scots are hard in the head, but soft in the disposition. Come, Chief--shall they walk the plank?"

"Good deescipline," a.s.sented the Chief, "but it would leave us a bit shorthanded."