“I … put … it … in … myself. … Next to my brushes … you … beast.”
“Oh, Fanny …”
“Oh … Oh … Oh.”
To Father Rothschild no passage was worse than any other. He thought of the sufferings of the saints, the mutability of human nature, the Four Last Things, and between whiles repeated snatches of the penitential psalms.
The Leader of His Majesty’s Opposition lay sunk in a rather glorious coma, made splendid by dreams of Oriental imagery—of painted paper houses; of golden dragons and gardens of almond blossom; of golden limbs and almond eyes, humble and caressing; of very small golden feet among almond blossoms; of little painted cups full of golden tea; of a golden voice singing behind a painted paper screen; of humble, caressing little golden hands and eyes shaped like almonds and the colour of night.
Outside his door two very limp detective sergeants had deserted their posts.
“The bloke as could make trouble on a ship like this ’ere deserves to get away with it,” they said.
The ship creaked in every plate, doors slammed, trunks fell about, the wind howled; the screw, now out of the water, now in, raced and churned, shaking down hatboxes like ripe apples; but above all the roar and clatter there rose from the second-class ladies’ saloon the despairing voices of Mrs. Ape’s angels, in frequently broken unison, singing, singing, wildly, desperately, as though their hearts would break in the effort and their minds lose their reason, Mrs. Ape’s famous hymn, “There Ain’t No Flies on the Lamb of God.”
The Captain and the Chief Officer sat on the bridge engrossed in a crossword puzzle.
“Looks like we may get some heavy weather if the wind gets up,” he said. “Shouldn’t wonder if there wasn’t a bit of a sea running tonight.”
“Well, we can’t always have it quiet like this,” said the Chief Officer. “Word of eighteen letters meaning carnivorous mammal. Search me if I know how they do think of these things.”
Adam Fenwick-Symes sat among the good sailors in the smoking-room drinking his third Irish whisky and wondering how soon he would feel definitely ill. Already there was a vague depression gathering at the top of his head. There were thirty-five minutes more, probably longer with the head wind keeping them back.
Opposite him sat a much-travelled and chatty journalist telling him smutty stories. From time to time Adam interposed some more or less appropriate comment, “No, I say that’s a good one,” or, “I must remember that,” or just “Ha, Ha, Ha,” but his mind was not really in a receptive condition.
Up went the ship, up, up, up, paused and then plunged down with a sidelong slither. Adam caught at his glass and saved it. Then shut his eyes.
“Now I’ll tell you a drawing-room one,” said the journalist.
Behind them a game of cards was in progress among the commercial gents. At first they had rather a jolly time about it, saying, “What ho, she bumps,” or “Steady, the Buffs,” when the cards and glasses and ashtray were thrown on to the floor, but in the last ten minutes they were growing notably quieter. It was rather a nasty kind of hush.
“… And forty aces and two-fifty for the rubber. Shall we cut again or stay as we are?”
“How about knocking off for a bit? Makes me tired—table moving about all the time.”
“Why, Arthur, you ain’t feeling ill, surely?”
“ ’Course I ain’t feeling ill, only tired.”
“Well, of course, if Arthur’s feeling ill …”
“Who’d have thought of old Arthur feeling ill?”
“I ain’t feeling ill, I tell you. Just tired. But if you boys want to go on I’m not the one to spoil a game.”
“Good old Arthur. ’Course he ain’t feeling ill. Look out for the cards, Bill, up she goes again.”
“What about one all round? Same again?”
“Same again.”
“Good luck, Arthur.” “Good luck.” “Here’s fun.” “Down she goes.”
“Whose deal? You dealt last, didn’t you, Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes, Arthur’s deal.”
“Your deal, Arthur. Cheer up, old scout.”
“Don’t you go doing that. It isn’t right to hit a chap on the back like that.”
“Look out with the cards, Arthur.”
“Well, what d’you expect, being hit on the back like that. Makes me tired.”
“Here, I got fifteen cards.”
“I wonder if you’ve heard this one,” said the journalist. “There was a man lived at Aberdeen, and he was terribly keen on fishing, so when he married, he married a woman with worms. That’s rich, eh? You see he was keen on fishing, see, and she had worms, see, he lived in Aberdeen. That’s a good one that is.”
“D’you know, I think I shall go on deck for a minute. A bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?”
“You can’t do that. The sea’s coming right over it all the time. Not feeling queer, are you?”
“No, of course I’m not feeling queer. I only thought a little fresh air … Christ, why won’t the damn thing stop?”
“Steady, old boy. I wouldn’t go trying to walk about, not if I were you. Much better stay just where you are. What you want’s a spot of whisky.”
“Not feeling ill, you know. Just stuffy.”
“That’s all right, old boy. Trust Auntie.”
The bridge party was not being a success.
“Hullo, Mr. Henderson. What’s that spade?”
“That’s the ace that is.”
“I can see it’s the ace. What I mean you didn’t ought to have trumped that last trick not if you had a spade.”
“What d’you mean, didn’t ought to have trumped it? Trumps led.”
“No, they did not. Arthur led a spade.”
“He led a trump, didn’t you, Arthur?”
“Arthur led a spade.”
“He couldn’t have led a spade because for why he put a heart on my king of spades when I thought he had the queen. He hasn’t got no spades.”
“What d’you mean, not got no spades? I got the queen.”
“Arthur, old man, you must be feeling queer.”
“No, I ain’t, I tell you, just tired. You’d be tired if you’d been hit on the back same as I was … anyway I’m fed up with this game … there go the cards again.”
This time
