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Page 12
The doctor was in excellent form. On the Fourteenth Street car a
human being was arguing fiercely and loudly with the conductor about
some controversial matter touching upon fares and destinations. The
clamour was great. Said the doctor, adjusting his eye-glass and
gazing with rebuke toward the disputants: "I will be gratified when
this tumult subsides." The doctor has been added to the membership
of the club in order to add social tone to the gathering. His charm
is infinite; his manners are of a delicacy and an aplomb. His
speech, when he is of waggish humour, carries a tincture of Queen
Anne phraseology that is subtle and droll. A man, indeed! _L'extr�me
de charme_, as M. Djer-Kiss loves to say what time he woos the
public in the theatre programmes.
The first thrill was when Bowling Green, Esq., secretary, cast an
eye upward as the club descended from the Fourteenth Street
sharabang, and saw, over the piers, the tall red funnels of the
_Aquitania_. This is going to be great doings, said he to himself. O
Cunard Line funnels! What is there that so moves the heart?
Bowling Green, Esq., confesses that it is hard to put these minutes
into cold and calculated narrative. Among ships and seafaring
concerns his heart is too violently stirred to be quite _ma�tre de
soi_.
The club moved forward. Welcomed by the suave commissionaire of the
Cunard Line, it was invited to rise in the elevator. On the upper
floor of the pier the members ran to the windows. There lay the
_Aquitania_ at her pier. The members' hearts were stirred. Even the
doctor, himself a hardened man of the sea, showed a brilliant spark
of emotion behind his monocular attic window. A ship in dock--and
what a ship! A ship at a city pier, strange sight. It is like a lion
in a circus cage. She, the beauty, the lovely living creature of
open azure and great striding ranges of the sea, she that needs
horizons and planets for her fitting perspective, she that asks the
snow and silver at her irresistible stern, she that persecutes the
sunset across the purple curves of the longitudes--tied up stiff and
dead in the dull ditch of a dockway. The upward slope of that great
bow, it was never made to stand still against a dusty pier-end.
The club proceeded and found itself in a little eddy of pure
Scotland. The _Columbia_ was just in from Glasgow--had docked only
an hour before. The doctor became very Scots in a flash. "Aye,
bonny!" was his reply to every question asked him by Mr. Green, the
diligent secretary. The secretary was addressed as "lad." A hat now
became a "bonnet." The fine stiff speech of Glasgow was heard on
every side, for the passengers were streaming through the customs.
Yon were twa bonny wee brithers, aiblins ten years old, that came
marching off, with bare knees and ribbed woollen stockings and
little tweed jackets. O Scotland, Scotland, said our hairt! The wund
blaws snell frae the firth, whispered the secretary to himself,
keeking about, but had not the courage to utter it.
Here the secretary pauses on a point of delicacy. It was the purpose
of the club to visit Capt. David W. Bone of the _Columbia_, but the
captain is a modest man, and one knows not just how much of our
admiration of him and his ship he would care to see spread upon the
minutes. Were Mr. Green such a man as the captain, would he be
lowering himself to have any truck with journalists and such petty
folk? Mr. Green would not. Mark you: Captain Bone is the master of
an Atlantic liner, a veteran of the submarine-haunted lanes of sea,
a writer of fine books (have you, lovers of sea tales, read "The
Brassbounder" and "Broken Stowage"?) a collector of first editions,
a man who stood on the bridge of the flagship at Harwich and watched
the self-defiled U-boats slink in and come to a halt at the
international code signal MN (Stop instantly!)--"Ha," said Mr.
Green, "Were I such a man, I would pass by like shoddy such pitifuls
as colyumists." But he was a glad man no less, for he knew the
captain was bigger of heart. Besides, he counted on the exquisite
tact of the doctor to see him through. Indeed, even the stern
officials of the customs had marked the doctor as a man exceptional.
And as the club stood patiently among the outward flux of authentic
Glasgow, came the captain himself and welcomed them aboard.
Across immaculate decks, and in the immortal whiff, indefinable, of
a fine ship just off the high seas, trod the beatified club. A ship,
the last abiding place in a mannerless world of good old-fashioned
caste, and respect paid upward with due etiquette and discipline
through the grades of rank. The club, for a moment, were guests of
the captain; deference was paid to them. They stood in the captain's
cabin (sacred words). "Boy!" cried the captain, in tones of command.
Not as one speaks to office boys in a newspaper kennel, in a voice
of entreaty. The boy appeared: a curly-headed, respectful stripling.
A look of respect: how well it sits upon youth. "Boy!" said the
captain--but just what the captain said is not to be put upon vulgar
minutes. Remember, pray, the club was upon British soil.
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