The Girl on the Boat | Page 6

"Then I'll say good-bye."
"Good-bye."
"I mean really good-bye. I'm sailing for England on Saturday on the
'Atlantic.'"
"Indeed? My son will be your fellow-traveller."
Bream Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive.
"You won't tell him that I was the one who spilled the beans?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You won't wise him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery?"
"I do not understand you."
"You won't tell him that I crabbed his act ... gave the thing away ...
gummed the game?"
"I shall not mention your chivalrous intervention."

"Chivalrous?" said Bream Mortimer a little doubtfully. "I don't know
that I'd call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all's fair in love and war.
Well, I'm glad you're going to keep my share in the business under your
hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board."
"You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent
sailor and spends most of his time in his cabin."
"That's good! Saves a lot of awkwardness. Well, good-bye."
"Good-bye. When you reach England, remember me to your father."
"He won't have forgotten you," said Bream Mortimer, confidently. He
did not see how it was humanly possible for anyone to forget this
woman. She was like a celebrated chewing-gum. The taste lingered.
Mrs. Hignett was a woman of instant and decisive action. Even while
her late visitor was speaking, schemes had begun to form in her mind
like bubbles rising to the surface of a rushing river. By the time the
door had closed behind Bream Mortimer she had at her disposal no
fewer than seven, all good. It took her but a moment to select the best
and simplest. She tiptoed softly to her son's room. Rhythmic snores
greeted her listening ears. She opened the door and went noiselessly in.
CHAPTER II
GALLANT RESCUE BY WELL-DRESSED YOUNG MAN
§ 1
The White Star liner "Atlantic" lay at her pier with steam up and
gangway down, ready for her trip to Southampton. The hour of
departure was near, and there was a good deal of mixed activity going
on. Sailors fiddled about with ropes. Junior officers flitted to and fro.
White-jacketed stewards wrestled with trunks. Probably the captain,
though not visible, was also employed on some useful work of a
nautical nature and not wasting his time. Men, women, boxes, rugs,
dogs, flowers, and baskets of fruits were flowing on board in a steady

stream.
The usual drove of citizens had come to see the travellers off. There
were men on the passenger-list who were being seen off by fathers, by
mothers, by sisters, by cousins, and by aunts. In the steerage, there was
an elderly Jewish lady who was being seen off by exactly thirty-seven
of her late neighbours in Rivington Street. And two men in the second
cabin were being seen off by detectives, surely the crowning
compliment a great nation can bestow. The cavernous Customs sheds
were congested with friends and relatives, and Sam Marlowe, heading
for the gang-plank, was only able to make progress by employing all
the muscle and energy which Nature had bestowed upon him, and
which during the greater part of his life he had developed by athletic
exercise. However, after some minutes of silent endeavour, now
driving his shoulder into the midriff of some obstructing male, now
courteously lifting some stout female off his feet, he had succeeded in
struggling to within a few yards of his goal, when suddenly a sharp
pain shot through his right arm, and he spun round with a cry.
It seemed to Sam that he had been bitten, and this puzzled him, for
New York crowds, though they may shove and jostle, rarely bite.
He found himself face to face with an extraordinarily pretty girl.
She was a red-haired girl, with the beautiful ivory skin which goes with
red hair. Her eyes, though they were under the shadow of her hat, and
he could not be certain, he diagnosed as green, or may be blue, or
possibly grey. Not that it mattered, for he had a catholic taste in
feminine eyes. So long as they were large and bright, as were the
specimens under his immediate notice, he was not the man to quibble
about a point of colour. Her nose was small, and on the very tip of it
there was a tiny freckle. Her mouth was nice and wide, her chin soft
and round. She was just about the height which every girl ought to be.
Her figure was trim, her feet tiny, and she wore one of those dresses of
which a man can say no more than that they look pretty well all right.
Nature abhors a vacuum. Samuel Marlowe was a susceptible young
man, and for many a long month his