The Old Flute-Player | Page 7

into the harbor.
In a dark passage on the steerage-deck cowered M'riar, for the first time
in her life afloat, and wondering why the motion of the vessel seemed
to make her wish to die; her white face, strained, frightened eyes and
trembling hands marking her, to the experienced, unsympathetic eyes
of the stern steerage-stewardess, an early victim of seasickness.
"Hi, w'ere's yer ticket?" that fierce female cried, and M'riar showed it to
her, weakly, scarcely caring whether it entitled her to passage or
condemned her to expulsion from the ship by a sharp toss overside.
"Garn in there," said the stewardess, studying the ticket and its bearer's
symptoms simultaneously. "S'y, yer goin' ter be a nice sweet passenger
to 'ave hon board, now 'yn't yer?"
"Hi'm goin' ter die," said M'riar with firm conviction and not at all
appalled but rather pleased at thought of it.
"No such luck fer hus!" the stewardess replied. "Get in there, cawn't yer,
before hit comes quite hon?"
So M'riar, long before the ship began to definitely feel even the gentle
Channel sea, was thrust into retirement, willy, nilly, and immediately

sought a bunk, absolutely without interest in anything, even in her own
sad fate. All she wished to do was die, at once, and she had too little
energy even to wish that very vividly. Miss Anna, Herr Kreutzer and
the fine young man who had been kind to them, who, ten minutes
earlier, had all been real and potent interests, dimmed into hazy
phantoms of a bygone activity of mind.
"Oh,--ar-r-r-r-r-r!" M'riar groaned. "Th' bloomink ship is standin' on 'er
bloody 'ead, yn't 'er?"
"Garn! Keep yer 'ead flat. Lay down," the stewardess replied, "er you'll
be."
M'riar kept her head flat.
Out on the open deck, forward of the bridge, where, as well as aft, the
vessel, like many of a bygone type was cut away, leaving the forward
and after railings of the promenade-deck, like the barriers of a balcony,
for the first-cabin passengers to peer across at their less lucky fellows
of the steerage, Herr Kreutzer and his Anna, both bewildered, stood by
their little pile of baggage, waiting for direction and assistance in
searching out their quarters. Surrounding them a motley group of many
nationalities was gathered. There were Germans, Swedes, some French,
some Swiss, a group of heavy-browed and jowled Hungarians, a few
anæmic, underfed young cockneys, and, dominating all, to the casual
eye, because of their bright colors, a small group of Italians. To these
the largest one among them was making himself clear.
"I," he was saying, "am Pietro Moresco. I have-a da nice political
posish, an' nice-a barber-shop on Mulberry-a Strit. Some-a day I getta
on da force--da pollis-force. Sure t'ing. I been-a home to see ma moth. I
go-a back to make-a da more mon." He pulled out from his corded
bundle of red quilts and coats and rugs some bottles of cheap wine. "I
getta place for all you men." He was beginning, thus early in the
voyage of these would-be citizens, to prepare to use them in the politics
of his over-crowded ward in New York City. "Come-a! We drink-a to
Americ. We drink-a to New York. New York da mos' reech-a place."

Catching sight of the bewildered beauty of poor Anna, and the no less
bewildered dignity of Herr Kreutzer, being dazzled by the former, as
was everyone in sight, and being quite as anxious to make friends
among prospective German citizens as among those of his own country
(a German vote is likely to be useful, now and then, on Mulberry Street)
he offered her a cup, and, as she took it automatically, would have
poured some wine into it with a gallant smile. Kreutzer took the cup out
of her hand and passed it back to him.
"Bitte," he said, calmly. "I thank you. My daughter does not care for
wine."
Moresco, angered, gave him a black scowl and took the cup.
"By Jove," said the youth who had, upon the dock, picked up Herr
Kreutzer's bag. He was standing on the promenade-deck, above, beside
his very, very stately mother, who, over-dressed and full of scorn for
the whole world, was complaining because her doctor's orders had
suggested traveling upon so slow and old a ship. "There's that stunning
little German girl down there. Isn't she a picture? Gee! Her old man
wouldn't let her drink with that black dago--not that she wanted to. But
bully for Professor Pretzel!" "How very vulgar!" said his mother,
looking down at the small, animated scene before her with disfavor.
"Mere immigrants."
"I s'pose our folks were, sometime," John Vanderlyn replied. "But isn't
she a corker, mother?"
"John, your language is too shocking! Please see about our
deck-chairs," Mrs. Vanderlyn replied.
CHAPTER II