Three Men and a Maid Read online

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ship's concerts are given in aid of the seamen's orphans and widows,and, after one has been present at a few of them, one seems to feelthat any right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog along and takea chance of starvation than be the innocent cause of such things. Theyopen with a long speech from the master of the ceremonies--so long, asa rule, that it is only the thought of what is going to happenafterwards that enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. Thisdone, the amateur talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins.

  It was not till after the all too brief intermission for rest andrecuperation that the newly formed team of Marlowe and Hignett wasscheduled to appear. Previous to this there had been dark deeds done inthe quiet saloon. The lecturer on deep-sea fish had fulfilled histhreat and spoken at great length on a subject which, treated by amaster of oratory, would have palled on the audience after ten orfifteen minutes; and at the end of fifteen minutes this speaker had onlyjust got past the haddocks and was feeling his way tentatively throughthe shrimps. 'The Rosary' had been sung and there was an uneasy doubtas to whether it was not going to be sung again after the interval--thelatest rumour being that the second of the rival lady singers had provedadamant to all appeals and intended to fight the thing out on the linesshe had originally chosen if they put her in irons.

  A young man recited 'Gunga Din' and, wilfully misinterpreting thegratitude of the audience that it was over for a desire for more, hadfollowed it with 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy.' His sister--these things run infamilies--had sung 'My Little Gray Home in the West'--rather sombrely,for she had wanted to sing the 'Rosary,' and, with the same obtusenesswhich characterised her brother, had come back and rendered twoplantation songs. The audience was now examining its programmes in theinterval of silence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentencestill remaining unexpired.

  It was shocked to read the following:

  7. A Little Imitation......S. Marlowe

  All over the saloon you could see fair women and brave men wilting intheir seats. Imitation...! The word, as Keats would have said, waslike a knell! Many of these people were old travellers, and their mindswent back wincingly, as one recalls forgotten wounds, to occasions whenperformers at ships' concerts had imitated whole strings of Dickens'characters or, with the assistance of a few hats and a little falsehair, had endeavored to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare andothers of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme therewas nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which thisS. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and waitand hope that it would be short.

  There was a sinking of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the roomand took his place at the piano. A pianist! This argued more singing.The more pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to beone of those imitations of well-known opera artistes which, thoughrare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships' concerts. Theystared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to them somethingominous in the man's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, theface of one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders. Theycould not know that the pallor of Eustace Hignett was due entirely tothe slight tremor which, even on the calmest nights, the engines of anocean liner produce in the flooring of a dining saloon and to thatfaint, yet well-defined, smell of cooked meats which clings to a roomwhere a great many people have recently been eating a great many meals.A few beads of cold perspiration were clinging to Eustace Hignett'sbrow. He looked straight before him with unseeing eyes. He was thinkinghard of the Sahara.

  So tense was Eustace's concentration that he did not see BillieBennett, seated in the front row. Billie had watched him enter with alittle thrill of embarrassment. She wished that she had been contentwith one of the seats at the back. But her friend Jane Hubbard, whoaccompanied her, had insisted on the front row.

  In order to avoid recognition for as long as possible, Billie now putup her fan and turned to Jane. She was surprised to see that her friendwas staring eagerly before her with a fixity almost equal to that ofEustace.

  "What _is_ the matter, Jane?"

  Jane Hubbard was a tall, handsome girl with large brown eyes. Abouther, as Bream Mortimer had said, there was something dynamic. Thedaughter of an eminent explorer and big-game hunter, she had frequentlyaccompanied her father on his expeditions. An out-doors girl.

  "Who is that man at the piano?" she whispered. "Do you know him?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do," said Billie. "His name is Hignett. Why?"

  "I met him on the Subway not long ago. Poor little fellow, howmiserable he looks!"

  At this moment their conversation was interrupted. Eustace Hignett,pulling himself together with a painful effort, raised his hands andstruck a crashing chord: and, as he did so, there appeared through thedoor at the far end of the saloon a figure at the sight of which theentire audience started convulsively with a feeling that a worse thinghad befallen them than even they had looked for.

  The figure was richly clad in some scarlet material. Its face was agrisly black and below the nose appeared what seemed a horrible gash.It advanced towards them, smoking a cigar.

  "Hullo, Ernest," it said.

  And then it seemed to pause expectantly, as though desiring some reply.Dead silence reigned in the saloon.

  "Hullo, Ernest!"

  Those nearest the piano--and nobody more quickly than Jane Hubbard--nowobserved that the white face of the man on the stool had grown whiterstill. His eyes gazed out glassily from under his damp brow. He lookedlike a man who was seeing some ghastly sight. The audience sympathisedwith him. They felt like that, too.

  In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some littlemiscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment's thoughtshould have told Eustace Hignett that a half-smoked cigar was one ofthe essential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney:but he had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as anabsolute surprise to him and it could not have affected him morepowerfully if it had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at itpallidly, like Macbeth at the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, livelyyoung cigar, and its curling smoke played lightly about his nostrils.His jaw fell. His eyes protruded. He looked for a long moment like oneof those deep-sea fishes concerning which the recent lecturer hadspoken so searchingly. Then with the cry of a stricken animal, hebounded from his seat and fled for the deck.

  There was a rustle of millinery at Billie's side as Jane Hubbard roseand followed him. Jane was deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking sopale and piteous, at the piano, her big heart had gone out to him, andnow, in his moment of anguish, he seemed to bring to the surfaceeverything that was best and most compassionate in her nature.Thrusting aside a steward who happened to be between her and the door,she raced in pursuit.

  Sam Marlowe had watched his cousin's dash for the open with aconsternation so complete that his sense seemed to have left him. Ageneral, deserted by his men on some stricken field, might have feltsomething akin to his emotion. Of all the learned professions, theimitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can least easily becarried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the leader of theorchestra, is essential. He is the life-blood of the entertainment.Without him, nothing can be done.

  For an instant Sam stood there, gaping blankly. Then the open door ofthe saloon seemed to beckon an invitation. He made for it, reached it,passed through it. That concluded his efforts in aid of the Seamen'sOrphans and Widows.

  The spell which had lain on the audience broke. This imitation seemedto them to possess in an extraordinary measure the one quality whichrenders amateur imitations tolerable, that of brevity. They had seenmany amateur imitations, but never one as short as this. The saloonechoed with their applause.

  It brought no balm to Samuel Marlowe. He did not hear it. He had fledfor refuge to his stateroom and was lying in the lower berth, chewingthe pillow, a soul in torment.