The Second Class Passenger

The Second Class Passenger

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Second Class Passenger, by
Perceval Gibbon
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Title: The Second Class Passenger Fifteen Stories: The Second-Class
Passenger -- The Sense of Climax -- The Trader of Last Notch -- The
Murderer -- The Victim -- Between the Lights -- The Master --
"Parisienne" -- Lola -- The Poor in Heart -- The Man Who Knew -- The
Hidden Way -- The Strange Patient -- The Captain's Arm -- The
Widower
Author: Perceval Gibbon

Release Date: March 6, 2006 [eBook #17932]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
SECOND CLASS PASSENGER***
E-text prepared by Charles Klingman

THE SECOND CLASS PASSENGER
Fifteen Stories
by
Perceval Gibbon

London Chapman & Dodd, Ltd. 25 Denmark Street, W.C. 2 First
Published (Methuen & Co.) 6s. 1913 First Published in the Abbey
Library 1922

CONTENTS
I. THE SECOND-CLASS PASSENGER II. THE SENSE OF
CLIMAX III. THE TRADER OF LAST NOTCH IV. THE
MURDERER V. THE VICTIM VI. BETWEEN THE LIGHTS VII.
THE MASTER VIII. "PARISIENNE" IX. LOLA X. THE POOR IN
HEART XI. THE MAN WHO KNEW XII. THE HIDDEN WAY XIII.
THE STRANGE PATIENT XIV. THE CAPTAIN'S ARM XV. THE
WIDOWER

I
THE SECOND-CLASS PASSENGER
The party from the big German mail-boat had nearly completed their
inspection of Mozambique, they had walked up and down the main
street, admired the palms, lunched at the costly table of Lazarus, and
purchased "curios"--Indian silks, Javanese; knives, Birmingham
metal-work, and what not--as mementoes of their explorations. In
particular, Miss Paterson had invested in a heavy bronze image--
apparently Japanese--concerning which she entertained the thrilling

delusion that it was an object of local worship. It was a grotesque thing,
massive and bulky, weighing not much less than ten or twelve pounds.
Hence it was confided to the careful porterage of Dawson, an assiduous
and favored courtier of Miss Paterson; and he, having lunched, was
fated to leave it behind at Lazarus' Hotel.
Miss Paterson shook her fluffy curls at him. They were drawing
towards dinner, and the afternoon was wearing stale.
"I did so want that idol," she said plaintively. She had the childish
quality of voice, the insipidity of intonation, which is best appreciated
in steamboat saloons. "Oh, Mr. Dawson, don't you think you could get
it back for me?"
"I'm frightfully sorry," said the contrite Dawson. "I'll go back at once.
You don't know when the ship goes, do you?"
Another of Miss Paterson's cavaliers assured him that he had some
hours yet. "The steward told me so," he added authoritatively.
"Then I'll go at once," said Dawson, hating him.
"Mind, don't lose the boat," Miss Paterson called after him.
He went swiftly back up the wide main street in which they had spent
the day. Lamps were beginning to shine everywhere, and the dull peace
of the place was broken by a new life. Those that dwell in darkness
were going abroad now, and the small saloons were filling. Dawson
noted casually that evening was evidently the lively time of
Mozambique. He passed men of a type he had missed during the day,
men of all nationalities, by their faces, and every shade of color. They
were lounging on the sidewalk in knots of two or three, sitting at the
little tables outside the saloons, or lurking at the entrances of narrow
alleys that ran aside from the main street every few paces. All were
clad in thin white suits, and some wore knives in full sight, while there
was that about them that would lead even the most innocent and
conventional second-class passenger to guess at a weapon concealed
somewhere. Some of them looked keenly at Dawson as he passed along;

and although he met their eyes impassively, he--even he--was
conscious of an implied estimate in their glance, as though they
classified him with a look. Once he stepped aside to let a woman pass.
She was large, flamboyantly southern and calm. She lounged along, a
cloak over her left arm, her head thrown back, a cigarette between her
wide, red lips. She, too, looked at Dawson--looked down at him with a
superb lazy nonchalance, laughed a little, and walked on. The loungers
on the sidewalk laughed too, but rather with her than at Dawson.
"I seem rather out of it here," he told himself patiently, and was glad to
enter the wide portals of Lazarus' Hotel. A grand, swarthy Greek,
magnificent in a scarlet jacket and gold braid, pulled open the door