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Page 96
And that was because there had been no provision made on the little old
steamer for this invasion of casual Breedes. Pops and Moms had secured
an officer's room; the Demon, rather than sit up in the smoking-room of
nights, had consented to share the flapper's suite; and Bean had been
taken in charge by a cold-blooded steward who left him in the narrow
quarters of the Hartford person.
And there, in the far night, he was wishing he might be back in the
steam-heated apartment with Nap. He had a violent headache, and he had
awakened from a dream of falling into a well of cool, clear water of
which he thirstily drank. His narrow bed behaved abominably, rolling him
from side to side, then letting his head sink to some far-off terrifying
depth. And there was no way of leaving that little old steamer ... not for
a man who couldn't swim a stroke.
So he suffered for long miserable hours. Light broke through the little
round windows, and outside he could see the appalling waste of water,
foaming, seething, rising to engulf him. He couldn't recall mounting to
that high place where he had slept. He wondered if the callous steward
would sometime come to take him down. Perhaps the steward would forget.
The man from Hartford bestirred himself and was presently shaving before
the small glass. Bean looked sullenly down at him. The man was running a
wicked-looking razor perilously about his restless Adam's apple. He was
also lightly humming "The Holy City."
"Watkins," said Bean distinctly, recalling the name that had revealed
the fictitious and Hartford origin of It.
"Adams," said the man, breaking off his song and tightening a leathery
cheek for the razor.
"Adam's apple," said Bean, scornfully. "Watkins!"
The man glanced at him and painfully twisted up a corner of his mouth
while he applied the razor to the other corner. But he did not speak.
"Think there's a doctor on this little old steamer?" demanded Bean.
The man from Hartford laid down his weapon and began to lave his face.
"I believe," he spluttered, "that medical attendance is provided for
those still in mortal error."
"'S'at _so_?" demanded Bean, sullenly.
The man achieved another bar of "The Holy City," and fondly dusted his
face with talcum powder, critically observing the effect.
"If you will go into the silence," he at length said, "and there hold
the thought of the all-good, you will be freed from your delusion."
"Humph!" said Bean and turned his face from the Hartford man.
The latter locked his razor into a toilet-case, locked the toilet-case
into a suit-case, and seemed to debate locking the suit-case into a
little old steamer trunk. Deciding, however, that his valuables were
sufficiently protected, and that nothing was left out to excite the
cupidity of a man to whom he had not been properly introduced, the
person from Hartford went forth with a final retort.
"'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he!'"
"'S'at _so_?" said Bean insolently to the closed door.
He roused himself and descended precariously from his shelf. Once upon
his feet he was convinced that the ship was foundering. He hurriedly
dressed and adjusted a life-belt from one of a number he saw behind a
rack. Over the belt he put on a serviceable rain-coat. It seemed to be
the coat to wear.
[Illustration: "Lumbago!" said Bean, both hands upon the life-belt]
Outside he plunged through narrow corridors until he came to a stairway.
He mounted this to be as far away from the ocean as possible. He came
out upon a deck where people were strangely not excited by the impending
disaster. Innocent children romped, oblivious to their fate, while
callous elders walked the deck or reclined in little old steamer chairs.
He poised a moment, trying to prevent the steamer's deck from mounting
by planting one foot firmly upon it. The device, sound enough in
mechanical theory, proved unavailing. The vast hulk sank alternately at
either end, and to fearsome depths of the sea. There would come a last
plunge. He tightened the life-belt.
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