Captivity Part 12

"d.i.c.k's got it."

"Going to a job?"

"Maybe," said the elder of the two, a little on his guard.

"Well, what I was finkin' was vat vis is a six-weeks' trip, an' if we was to pal in we could have a good time. I've done vis jaunt before, and know ve ropes. I know how to square ve stewards to get drinks out of hours, and little extrys."

The farm lads nodded comprehension, and the younger one began to talk rather loudly of his prospects. The pock-marked man drew a little closer.

"We're going out to start a little business," he began.

"Ole Fred," the red-haired man took up the tale, jerking his head towards his friend, "he's bin runnin' a business down Poplar way--not a business, in a manner o' speaking. It was a kip for sailors. On'y he got acrorst the cops abaht a sailor as disappeared. So him an' me--we've alwiz palled in wiv each ovver--fought we'd make a move over ve water.

If we was to pall in togevver vis trip maybe we might do somefing togevver when we hit up in Sydney."

"Put it there, mate," said the pock-marked man, holding out his hand to the farm lads, "and we'll wet it."

They all got up. Ole Fred, noticing Marcella looking at him with frank curiosity as she tried to translate his queer, clipped English, gave her what he imagined to be a friendly smile.

"Coming?" he asked, holding back, while the red-haired man gave a loud guffaw and dug him in the ribs.

"Now, now, Freddy--vat's his great weakness--a little bit o' skirt," he explained to the others, who laughed loudly.

"Coming where?" asked Marcella with pleased interest, though she wished his face was not so appalling. "Is it tea-time?"

"No. Come an' 'ave a drink," he said.

"Oh, can we get one? I am glad. I missed lunch. You were luckier, I suppose, as you have been here before and understand the rules. It's very kind of you."

"I never mind being kind to young ladies," he said, leering at her.

"Look here, you sit down here an' I'll bring you a drink. Then we c'n have a little talk and get to know each other better."

She sat down, feeling horrible at hating his face when he was so kind.

She heard laughter from the men who had gone a little way up the deck to a doorway, and then Ole Fred came back with a small tumbler in one hand and a large one in the other. The small one he put into Marcella's hand.

"Oh--" she began, looking at it doubtfully.

"What's up?" he asked, sitting down very close to her.

"I'm sorry. I wish I'd asked you to bring tea."

"Oh, you can't get tea. Anyway, s.h.i.+p's tea is rotten. Drink that up, dear. It'll put a bit of go into you. I like young ladies with a bit of go."

She frowned at him. Then the smell of the stuff in the tumbler was wafted to her. The green baize door came before her, almost tangible, and the book-room as it was the night her father died, when last she had smelt whisky as she and Wullie knelt on the floor beside him.

"Here, take it," she cried, starting up wildly. "Take it away! I'd die if I drank it."

"What in h.e.l.l--" began the man, staring after her.

But she was already down the companion-way and rus.h.i.+ng towards her cabin. All the misery of her father's death and illness had swept back upon her. It was quite true, as Aunt Janet had said, that nothing would kill that pain until she had schooled herself not to feel. She felt the literal, physical weight of all that misery as she ran along the alley-way, her eyes swimming, her face flushed.

Her cabin--Number 9--being the one with the porthole, was at the end of the alley-way. The door of Number 8 was open into the pa.s.sage, but she was too blinded by her emotion to notice it, and blundered into it. It was badly swung, and slammed inwards. She heard a smash inside the cabin, and someone said "d.a.m.n!" It was exactly the same "d.a.m.n" that had resulted from her headlong flight after Dr. Angus.

She was standing a little breathless by her own door when Number 8 opened and Louis Farne looked out. His hair was rumpled, his expression one of speechless annoyance.

"W--what the d--devil are you up to?" he said, stammering a little.

"Th-that's the s-second time."

"Oh, it's you!" she said, speaking breathlessly. "A horrible man gave me whisky, and I was frightened."

"Good Lord!" He gazed at her, and she noticed that he gazed in a queer way, afraid to meet her eyes: it was her chin he saw when he looked at her; she rubbed it with her handkerchief, wondering if a s.m.u.t had got on it. And he transferred his gaze to her ear.

"And I made you spill your tea! I am sorry! I seem made to do violent things to you. But can't I get you some more?"

"I s-suppose I c-can make some," he said, turning into the cabin.

"Don't they give us tea? Do we have to make our own?"

"Oh no--but I've done this trip before, and know how one w-wants a d-drink in the tropics."

He took the door in his hand and fumbled with the faulty catch as though he would shut it. Then he seemed to shake himself together inside his coat, which was very crumpled, as though he had been lying down inside it. "Look here," he said breathlessly and with an effort, "w-would you like some tea? I can get another c-cup from the steward."

"I would," she said frankly. "Do make some more. I've a cake in my box that's supposed to last me till I get to Australia. But I'll find it, and we'll have it now. I'm horribly hungry."

She went inside her cabin and drew out her trunk, which she had not yet unlocked. She heard him clearing up the broken cup, and then he tapped on her door.

"I can't open it--mine opens inwards, you see," she called. "And my trunk's in the way. What is it?"

"I--I--c-called you an idiot," came his voice, rather low and hesitating.

"So I was," she said bluntly, and heard him laugh.

"St-still--I needn't have mentioned it."

Then his steps grew faint along the alley-way. She sat back on her heels, frowning. She was wondering why he would not look at her, why he flushed and stammered when he spoke to her.

He was back in a few minutes, explaining that he had been to the cook's galley for boiling water to make tea. She had dragged her cabin trunk into the doorway, and laid upon it the tin in which her cake was packed, the two cups he brought with him and the teapot.

"A beneficent s.h.i.+pping company provides one camp stool to each cabin, you'll find--if you're lucky," he said; but there was not one in Marcella's cabin. He sat down on his own, and then, standing up awkwardly as she sat quite casually and comfortably on the floor, offered it to her.

"Oh no--keep it. I always sit on the floor," she explained, and this time he stared at the end of her nose.

He explained the mystery of powdered milk to her; reaching over for the tin to examine it more closely, she tipped it over.

"I keep doing this sort of thing," she explained, "ever since I left Lashnagar. Most things I touch I knock over."

"Weak co-ordination," he said.

"Whatever's that?" She paused in cutting a slice of cake with an enormous clasp-knife Wullie had given her years ago.