THE LINER “ALSATIAN”
Fifteen years ago the crack Atlantic liners were no larger than ten thousand tons. Some of them are still in service, safe and comfortable ships, quite fast enough for the traveller who is not bitten with speed madness. When the Alsatian of the International Line was new she attracted as much attention as one of the monsters of to-day with its length of almost a fifth of a mile and horse-power to stagger the imagination.
As she rode at anchor in the Mersey on a certain sailing day in March, spick-and-span with fresh paint, brasswork sparkling in the sunshine, flags snapping in the breeze, the Alsatian was a handsome picture to greet the passengers who arrived in the special train from London and were transferred on board in the paddle-wheel tender. There were fewer than a hundred of them in the first cabin, for the season of the year was between high tides of travel east and west.
It was a tradition of the International Line that its steamers should sail precisely on the stroke of the hour appointed. More than five minutes’ delay was viewed by the port superintendents in Liverpool and New York as a nautical crime. Therefore when noon came and there was none of the activity of departure, the passengers were curious. A loquacious young man, of the noisy breed which makes the English say unkind things about American tourists, ordered another cocktail of the smoking-room steward and pettishly exclaimed:
“This right-on-the-minute business is all a bluff. The gangway hasn’t been hoisted and the tender is still alongside. This ship is nowhere near ready to start. Slow country—slow people, these Britishers. We can show ’em a few things, bet your life.”
A nervous, thin-faced gentleman who had been fidgeting between the deck and the smoking-room door chimed in to say:
“Confound it, I hate to be behind time! I can’t stand it! What’s the matter with this steamer? Why don’t the officers tell us something?”
Several passengers listened deferentially to this jerky protest. The speaker was immensely, notoriously rich, and, although dyspepsia had played hob with his internal workings, and his temper was chronically on edge, he was an enviable personage in the eyes of many American citizens. Whether he toiled or loafed, his millions were working night and day to earn more millions for him. It could make no essential difference under heaven at what hour the Alsatian should carry him out of Liverpool, for he could not be happy anywhere; but the delay made him acutely miserable.
An old man with kindly, scrutinizing eyes laid down his cigar to comment:
“My dear sir, I crossed the ocean in a sailing-packet some forty-odd years ago, and we anchored in the channel two weeks waiting for a fair wind, and were fifty-seven days to Sandy Hook.”
“Times have changed, thank God!” snapped the great Jenkins P. Chase, of the bankrupt digestion.
“And changed not altogether for the better when it comes to all this fuss and clatter to get somewhere else in a hurry, my friend. It is a national disease,” was the smiling, tolerant reply.
Jenkins P. Chase glanced at his watch, muttered something, and darted on deck as if a bee had stung him.
“Bet you the drinks he’s gone to find the captain and blow him up,” admiringly cried the loquacious young man. “If Jenkins P. Chase gets his dander up he’s liable to buy the ship and the whole blamed line and run it to suit himself. He is the original live-wire. Most wonderful man in the little old United States.”
In a rather secluded corner of the smoking-room sat two passengers who had taken no part in the general conversation. One might have suspected that all this fuss over a belated sailing caused them mild amusement. The younger was of a cast of features unmistakably Irish, with the combination of pugnacity and humor so often discernible in men of that blood.
His companion was ruddy and big-bodied, his hair and mustache well frosted by time. Said the latter, after due reflection:
“Hurry has killed a whole lot of people, Cap’n Mike. What’s the matter with these peevish gents, anyhow? The company is givin’ them their board and they’re as comfortable as lords. I don’t care if the steamer lays in port a week.”
“That Jenkins P. Chase is a horrible example, Johnny,” quoth Captain Michael O’Shea. “’Tis his habit to go flyin’ about, and there is no rest for him anywhere. If ye accumulate too much money, you may get that way yourself.”
“I ain’t got a symptom,” said improvident old Johnny Kent. “I’ve learned, for one thing, that it’s poor business to try to hurry the sea. A ship must bide her time and sail when she’s ready.”
“But what ails this one, I wonder?” queried Captain O’Shea. “I mistrust something is wrong. The skipper of her, and a grand man he is, with his gold buttons and all, he went below a while ago, Johnny, and he has not come back.”
They strolled outside, and being seafaring men of wide experience, found significance in trifles which would have meant little or nothing to a landsman. This was no ordinary delay. The whole complex organization of the liner was disturbed.
“There is trouble amongst the crew,” observed O’Shea. Johnny Kent halted near an engine-room skylight and cocked his head to listen.
“The trouble is in this department,” said he.
Presently a tug-boat hastily cast off from the nearest quay and churned her way out to the Alsatian. A dozen Liverpool policemen scrambled aboard the liner and vanished between-decks. From the depths below the water-line arose a hubbub of oaths and shouts.
A few minutes later two policemen reappeared dragging between them to the gangway a shock-headed, muscular fellow in blue dungarees. Although he made no resistance, they handled him roughly and he was expeditiously handcuffed to a stanchion on the deck of the tug. Immediately thereafter the sounds of disturbance down below increased in violence, and swarming up ladders and through passageways came a sooty, greasy crowd of stokers, trimmers, and coal-passers.
Scrambling on board the tug, and taking her by storm, they voiced their opinions of the Alsatian and the International Line in language which caused the feminine passengers to clap their hands to their ears and flee from the rail.
A junior officer with whom Captain O’Shea had scraped acquaintance halted to explain, in passing:
“The blackguards went on strike for more pay and recognition of their union. The company patched up the trouble yesterday, but the beggars were stirred up again this morning by the chap the bobbies put the irons on. He persuaded them to kick up a rumpus just before sailing-time.”
“If they have signed articles, ’tis more like a mutiny than a strike,” observed O’Shea.
“They know that right enough,” said the officer, “but they don’t seem to care whether they are jugged for it or not. It’s an incident of the general labor trouble in this port, I presume. The longshoremen’s strike is not settled yet, you know.”
“And what will ye do for a fire-room gang?” O’Shea asked him. “There was near a hundred and fifty of them that quit just now.”
“Hanged if I know,” sighed the officer as he walked away.
The tug was black with the mob of strikers, who were packed wherever they could find standing-room. The police could do nothing with them, and the distracted skipper of the tug decided to make for a quay and get rid of his riotous cargo. The passengers of the Alsatian surmised that sailing-day might be indefinitely postponed and they bombarded the officers with excited demands for information. Captain O’Shea and Johnny Kent, philosophers of sorts, viewed the situation with good-natured composure, and were more interested in the summons to the dining-saloon for luncheon than in the strike of the fire-room gang.
“As long as I get three square meals per day and a dry bunk I ain’t especially uneasy about anything,” remarked Johnny Kent as he fondly scanned the elaborate menu card.
“Same here,” replied O’Shea. “But that jumpy gentleman, Jenkins P. Chase, must be throwing assorted fits by this time.”
Facing them across the table was a blond, spectacled man with a small, pointed beard, his appearance notably studious and precise. Although he spoke English with cultivated ease and fluency, the ear detected certain shades and intonations to indicate that he was a German by birth. He was affable to his neighbors at table and courteous to the steward who waited on him. Garrulous, sociable Johnny Kent found him companionable, and ventured to inquire:
“Your first trip to America? Business or pleasure?”
“Both. I shall interest myself in studying scientific education in the United States. I am a chemist by profession, and also a lecturer on the subject before the classes of a university. Yes, it is my first voyage to your wonderful country. Tell me, please, have you met the famous Professor Crittenden, of Baltimore?”
Johnny Kent was about to proclaim that as a seafaring man he was not in touch with scientists, but O’Shea, to prevent any such disclosure, kicked him on the shin as a reminder that he was to eschew personalities. It was not discreet to advertise themselves and their affairs in the mixed company of the Atlantic liner. O’Shea was aware that if Johnny Kent should once begin yarning about his adventures it would be like pulling the cork from an overturned jug.
The marine engineer blushed guiltily, bent over to rub his bruised shin, and briefly assured the blond scientist that he had not been lucky enough to meet the distinguished Professor Crittenden, of Baltimore.
“I was only last night reading his masterly paper on ‘The Action of Diazobenzene Sulphonic Acid on Thymine, Uracil, and Cytosine,’” politely returned the other. “It is as brilliant as his discussion of imidechlorides.”
Johnny Kent threw up an arm as if to ward off a blow.
“If one of those words had hit me plumb and square, it would have jolted me out of my chair!” he exclaimed. “I could feel the wind of ’em.”
The studious stranger smiled and apologized for talking shop.
“Those strikers—will the company be able to fill their places?” said he, addressing O’Shea.
“Perhaps a crew can be scraped up ashore. If not, we will have to shift to another steamer. Firemen are an ugly, cross-tempered lot to handle, so I am told.”
“Have you been much on the ocean? Do you know much about ships?”
“I have made a voyage or two as a passenger,” O’Shea assured him. “’Tis a hard life in the stoke-hole of a big steamer, I imagine.”
The scientist returned emphatically:
“I have no sympathy with them; none whatever. Lacking intelligence, fitness, they must labor for those who have earned or won the right to rule them.”
“’Tis your opinion that might makes right?” spoke up O’Shea.
“Always, everywhere!” declared the scientist. “The mind is the man. The founders of your government proclaimed the fallacy that all men are equal, but your strong men know better, and they ride and exploit your masses.”
“It’s the best country God ever made,” cried Johnny Kent with some heat.
“I beg your pardon”; and the chemist bowed. “It was a rudeness for me to speak so.”
As they left the table he gave them his card with a touch of formality, and they discovered that his name was Professor Ernst Wilhelm Vonderholtz.
Three hours later the passengers were notified that the Alsatian would be ready to sail next morning. It was learned that the company had been able to recruit an unexpectedly large number of unemployed firemen among the boarding-houses and taverns of the Liverpool water-front. They were willing to take the places of the strikers, and it was hoped that the liner could be sent to sea with a fairly complete complement of men. Apparently the strikers had been poorly advised and led, for they were beaten with no great inconvenience to the management of the company.
As soon as the Alsatian had lifted anchor and was steaming out of the Mersey the passengers ceased grumbling, and settled into the comfortable, somnolent routine of a modern transatlantic voyage. A party of poker-players mobilized in the smoking-room. The ladies reclined all in a row in their steamer-chairs on the lee side of the deck, like so many shawl-wrapped mummies. The spoiled American child whanged the life out of the long-suffering piano in the music-room. A few conscientious persons undertook to walk so many miles around the deck each day. There was much random conversation, a spice of flirtation, and a vast deal of eating and sleeping. That hectoring gentleman Jenkins P. Chase spent most of the time in his own rooms, where he was ministered to by his physician, his secretary, and his valet.
Captain O’Shea and Johnny Kent enjoyed the luxury of such a voyage as this. There was no responsibility to burden them on the bridge or in the engine-room. No one guessed that they were uncommonly capable mariners, accustomed to command. Professor Ernst Wilhelm Vonderholtz seemed to find their company congenial, and tried to make them talk about themselves. His curiosity was politely dissembled, but O’Shea took note of it and built up an elaborate fiction to the effect that he was a pavement contractor in New York with friends at Tammany Hall, while Johnny Kent found genuine satisfaction in posing as a retired farmer from the State of Maine. It occurred to O’Shea to remark to his comrade as they were undressing in their room on the second night at sea:
“The chemical professor suspects we are not what we seem. And he is anxious to fathom us.”
“Oh, pooh! He’s one of them high and lofty thinkers that wouldn’t bother his head about ignorant, every-day cusses like us,” sleepily replied Johnny Kent as he kicked off his shoes.
“You fool yourself,” and O’Shea spoke with decision. “He is full of big words and things that I do not pretend to understand at all, but he is not wrapped up in them entirely, like most of the professors and such. There is a pair of keen eyes behind those gold-rimmed spectacles of his, Johnny, and he is not missing anything that goes on.”
“I take notice that he ain’t overlookin’ that handsome school-teacher that’s been studyin’ abroad for a year. His eyes are sharp enough to sight her whenever she comes on deck. And she ain’t hostile to him, either.”
“I grant ye that, you sentimental old pirate,” said O’Shea, “but I am not a match-maker, and ’tis no concern of mine. What I am wondering is whether the man is really a university professor bent on ‘investigating the scientific education of the United States.’”
“You’re welcome to sit up and hatch mysteries by yourself,” grumbled the other. “I want to go to sleep. What’s the clew to all this, Cap’n Mike? What makes you so darned suspicious?”
“’Tis no more than a hunch, Johnny. I’m Irish, and my people feel things in the air. We don’t have to be told. This Professor Ernst Wilhelm Vonderholtz does not ring true. There is a flaw in him somewhere.”
“Well, we’re sort of travellers in disguise ourselves, ain’t we, Cap’n Mike? I feel plumb full of false pretences. The pot calls the kettle black. How about that?”
“’Tis our own business,” snapped O’Shea.
“So is his,” briefly concluded Johnny Kent as he crawled into the bunk. No more than five minutes later he was snoring with the rhythm and volume of a whistling buoy in a swinging sea. O’Shea lay awake for some time, trying to fit his uneasy surmises together, or to toss them aside as so much rubbish. He had not heard the banshee cry, but a vague conjecture had fastened itself in his mind that something was fated to go wrong with this voyage of the Alsatian. And without tangible cause or reason, he found this foreboding interwoven with the presence on board of the affable, mild-mannered, studious Professor Ernst Wilhelm Vonderholtz.
Sailormen are notably superstitious, and O’Shea had been schooled to beware of cross-eyed Finns in the forecastle and black cats in the cabin. But surely no tradition of the sea held it an ill omen to have on board a blond scientist with gold-rimmed spectacles and a well-cut beard who was seeking information among the technical schools and universities of the United States.
“He has it in his head that Johnny Kent and I are seafarin’ men by trade, and he wants to make sure of it for some reason of his own,” reflected O’Shea. “It has strained me imagination to lie to him and get away with it. As for Johnny, he would rather talk farming than anything else in the world, so he will pass for a genuine hayseed in any company.”
They were deprived of the pleasant society of Professor Vonderholtz next day, for he boldly monopolized the school-teacher, Miss Jenness, who seemed not in the least bored by his assiduous attentions. Elderly ladies watched them with open interest, and diagnosed it as one of those swift and absorbing steamship romances.
For three days out of Liverpool the Alsatian moved uneventfully over the face of the waters. The weather was bright, the sea smooth. The scratch crew of firemen toiled faithfully in the torrid caverns far below, and the mighty engines throbbed unceasingly to whirl the twin screws that pushed the foaming miles astern. On the bridge the captain and his officers went cheerfully about their tasks, thankful for clear skies and a good day’s run.
It was after midnight, and the Alsatian was in mid-ocean, when a few of the first-cabin passengers heard what sounded to their drowsy ears like several pistol shots. There are many noises aboard a steamship that are unfamiliar to the landsman. Excepting Captain O’Shea and Johnny Kent, such of the passengers as had been awakened paid so little heed to the sounds that they soon went to sleep again.
The two seafarers slumbered lightly, as is the habit of men used to turning out to stand watch. And they were not likely to mistake the report of a revolver for any sound to be expected in the routine of things on shipboard. O’Shea leaned over from the upper berth and asked in low tones:
“Are ye awake, Johnny?”
“Sure I am. Did you hear the rumpus?”
“Yes. At first I thought I was dreaming we were aboard the old Fearless with Jiminez, the big black nigger from Venezuela, taking pot shots at me. What did ye make of it? It sounded like pretty lively gun-play to me.”
“It wasn’t no ordinary sailors’ fracas,” hoarsely whispered Johnny Kent. “Several of those shots was fired for’ard, and others came from below, about amidships. We heard ’em through the bulkheads.”
“And there was some running to and fro on deck,” said O’Shea, “by men with no shoes on. I heard their bare feet slapping the planks over me head.”
“We haven’t been boarded by pirates, and, anyhow, pirates are out of date in the Atlantic trade, Cap’n Mike. The ship hasn’t stopped. It would have waked me in a jiffy if her engines had quit poundin’ along, even for a minute.”
“I thought I heard yells, faint and far away, from men in trouble, but ’tis all quiet now, Johnny.”
“Too darn quiet. The vessel has slowed down a trifle, by six or eight revolutions, but she’s joggin’ along all serene. Shall we take a turn on deck and look around?”
They moved quietly into the long passageway which led to the main saloon staircase. Ascending this, they crossed the large lounging-hall to the nearest exit to the promenade deck. As was customary, the heavy storm-door had been closed for the night. It was never locked in good weather, however, and O’Shea turned the brass knob to thrust it open. The door withstood his effort, and he put his shoulder against it in vain.
“’Tis fastened on the outside,” he muttered to Johnny Kent. “We are cooped up, and for what?”
“Try the door on the starboard side of the hall,” suggested the engineer. “Maybe this one got jammed accidental.”
They crossed the hall and hammered against the other door with no better success. The situation disturbed them. They gazed at each other in silence. O’Shea went to one of the bull’s-eye windows and peered outside. The steamer was snoring steadily through the quiet sea, and he could discern the crests of the waves as they broke, flashed white, and slid past. The electric lights on deck had been extinguished, but presently a figure passed rapidly and was visible for an instant in the shaft of light from one of the saloon passageways. O’Shea had a glimpse of the blue uniform and gilt braid of a ship’s officer.
“I wish I could ask him a question or two,” said O’Shea. “Let us try to break out somewhere else. Now that we seem to be locked in, I am obstinate enough to keep on trying.”
They made a tour of the halls, bulkhead passages, and alleys, seeking every place of egress from the first-class quarters. Every door had been closed and fastened from the other side. A steward was supposed to be on watch to answer the electric bells in the state-rooms, but he could not be found. There was no one to interview, no way of gaining information.
The cabin superstructure and partition walls were of steel. The brass-bound ports or windows were too small for a grown man to wriggle through. The passengers were as effectually confined within their own part of the ship as if they had been locked in a penitentiary. There was no means of communicating with the ship’s officers.
It seemed useless to awaken the other passengers and inform them of this singular discovery. There would be nothing but confusion, futile argument, and excitement.
“Maybe the skipper decided to lock us in every night,” hopefully suggested Johnny Kent. “If some addle-headed gent with a habit of walkin’ in his sleep should prance overboard, the company might be liable for heavy damages.”
“Nonsense! There are strange doings aboard this fine, elegant steamer,” sharply returned O’Shea. “’Tis too big for me. We will roll into our bunks till morning. I will lose me sleep for no man.”
When Johnny Kent awoke blinking and yawning, Captain O’Shea was standing in front of the open port through which the morning wind gushed cool and sweet. The sun had lifted above the horizon and the sea was bathed in rosy radiance. The aspect of the sunrise seemed to fascinate Captain O’Shea, but his emotion was rather amazement than admiration. With a strong ejaculation he whirled about to shout at his comrade:
“Do ye notice it, you sleepy old grampus? Does it look wrong to you?”
O’Shea was dancing with excitement as he turned again to stare at the cloudless sun and smiling sea. Johnny Kent thought to humor him and amiably murmured:
“She always comes up in the mornin’ regular as a clock, Cap’n Mike, and I guess she always will. Ain’t she on time, or what’s the matter with her?”
“The sun is where it belongs,” cried O’Shea, “but this ship is not. Her course has been shifted during the night. Man, we are not on the great circle course to New York at all. The steamer has gone mad. We are running due south to fetch to the west’ard of the Azores.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed the engineer. “That sounds perfectly ridiculous. I guess I’d better put on my breeches and take a promenade. I wonder do we get any breakfast in this crazy packet?”
The first passenger encountered was Jenkins P. Chase, whose morning task it was to walk briskly around the deck, by order of his physician, before the other voyagers were astir. His steward had failed to appear with the dry toast and coffee required to fortify his system for this healthful exercise, and he was in a savage temper as he sputtered at O’Shea:
“What infernal nonsense is this? I can’t find a steward or an officer. The service is rotten, it’s positively damnable. And I can’t go on deck. Every door is locked. I’ll make it hot for the captain.”
“’Tis my advice to sit tight and take it easy, Mr. Chase,” soothingly returned O’Shea. “I am afraid the captain has troubles of his own this morning.”
“What do you mean? What do you know about it? Who the devil are you? Do you think I have no influence with the management of this miserable steamship company?”
“’Tis a long, wet walk from here to the company’s offices,” said O’Shea with an amused smile. “You are a tremendous man ashore, no doubt. I have read about ye in the newspapers. But unless I guess wrong, you will take your medicine with the rest of us.”
Mr. Jenkins P. Chase bolted down the staircase into the spacious dining-saloon. For lack of anything better to do, O’Shea and Johnny Kent followed him. The tables had been set overnight, but at this hour of the morning stewards should have been wiping down paint, cleaning brasswork, or getting ready to serve breakfast. The room was silent and deserted.
Jenkins P. Chase halted abruptly and his hands went out in a nervous, puzzled gesture. O’Shea brushed past him and advanced along an aisle between the tables to the galley or kitchen doors at the farther end of the saloon. These, too, were locked, but he could hear the rattle of pans and pots and a sound of voices, as if the cooks had begun the day’s work.
“That is the first cheerful symptom,” he said to himself. “The news will put heart into Johnny Kent, though I wish there were more indications of circulatin’ the grub among the passengers.”
The dictatorial manner of Jenkins P. Chase had become oddly subdued.
“You said we must take our medicine?” he remarked to O’Shea. “For God’s sake, what is wrong with this ship?”
“I know very little, my dear man. We were locked in during the night, clapped under hatches, as the saying is. And the course of the vessel was altered to head her for the South Atlantic instead of the Newfoundland Banks.”
“But nothing of the sort could possibly happen on a steamer like the Alsatian,” protested Mr. Chase. “I mean to say there could be no blood-and-thunder business on an Atlantic liner.”
“A lot of things have happened at sea that were perfectly impossible,” gravely spoke Johnny Kent.
As if the mystery had communicated itself in some subtle, telepathic fashion, the passengers began to appear from their state-rooms at an earlier hour than usual. Unable to go on deck, they congregated in the halls, the library, and the parlor. Rumor spread swiftly and intense uneasiness pervaded the company. For some inscrutable reason they had been made prisoners. This much was evident. The realization inspired a feeling akin to panic. Angry denunciation, with not a solitary member of the ship’s crew discoverable, sounded rather foolish. The men loudest in airing their opinions soon subsided and eyed one another in a mood of glum bewilderment. One or two women laughed hysterically.
Captain O’Shea looked about to find that friendly scientist Professor Ernst Wilhelm Vonderholtz, who was usually ready with a cordial morning greeting. He was not among the assembled passengers. Presumably he was still in his state-room. A few minutes after this O’Shea found occasion to stroll past the professor’s door, which stood open. The room was empty.
Inexplicably, persistently, the personality of the blond scientist had linked itself with O’Shea’s strange sense of foreboding. He decided to investigate the empty state-room, for he observed at once that the bedding had not been disarranged in either berth.
“Nobody slept in here last night,” said O’Shea to himself.
The room contained no luggage, and no personal effects excepting several articles of discarded clothing. O’Shea picked up a coat and examined it curiously. The pockets were empty, but he made an interesting discovery. The label stitched inside the collar bore the name of a well-known ready-made clothing firm of Broadway, New York.
“And he told us it was his first trip to our wonderful country,” was O’Shea’s comment. “As a liar he has me beaten both ways from the jack.”
He resumed his careful investigation of the room, and was rewarded by discovering a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on the floor beneath the lower berth, where they must have been purposely tossed aside. It was reasonable to conclude that the owner had no more use for them.
“The bird has flown,” soliloquized O’Shea, gazing hard at the spectacles and handling them rather gingerly, as if they might be bewitched. “He couldn’t fly overboard. Anyhow, he didn’t. I’ll bet me head on that. And he has not eloped with the black-eyed school-teacher, for I saw her in the library just now. And where would they elope to? He must be still in the ship.”
In a very thoughtful mood he returned to the main staircase, where Johnny Kent was hopefully peering in the direction of the dining-saloon.
“There’s something doin’ down there,” announced the engineer. “The doors were shut and bolted from the inside a few minutes ago. Maybe they’ll open again pretty soon and the bell will ring for grub.”
“Forget that awful appetite and listen to me,” exclaimed O’Shea. “The professor has vanished entirely.”
“Committed suicide, you suppose? If he really fell in love with the school-teacher, it’s not unlikely, Cap’n Mike. It takes ’em that way sometimes. I’ve felt like it myself once or twice.”
“If he jumped overboard, he took his baggage with him. And he had a couple of hand-bags when he came on board, for I saw them. ’Tis more likely the divil flew away with him. Here’s his spectacles. He left them behind. I tell ye, Johnny Kent, and you may laugh at me all ye like, for you are a much older man than me, and you ought to be wiser, which you are not—that chemical gentleman was not as mild and nice as he made out. His eye was bad. And he has brought trouble to this ship. Where is he now? Can ye answer that?”
“One of those revolver bullets may have perforated him while he was strollin’ on deck and figurin’ out some new problems in chemistry.”
“Your language is a clean waste of words,” admonished O’Shea. “’Tis me rash intention to interview the school-teacher, Miss Jenness. She knows more about the professor than the rest of us. This is no joke of a predicament we are in, ye can take my word for it.”
Miss Jenness was to be discerned, at a casual glance, as a young woman with a mind of her own. The bold O’Shea approached her timidly, his courage oozing. Her black eyes surveyed him coldly and critically and made him feel as though his feet were several sizes too large.
“I beg pardon,” he stammered, “but have ye heard that the professor is missing?”
Surprise and alarm drove the color from her face. Evidently the tidings came as a shock to her. Her perturbation failed wholly to convince O’Shea that she could furnish no clew to the mystery. One question should have leaped swiftly to her lips. It was the one question to ask. Was it supposed that Professor Vonderholtz had committed suicide by leaping overboard? Captain O’Shea waited for her to say something of the sort. She sat pale and silent. The dark, handsome, matured young woman baffled him. He felt that he was no match for her.
“’Tis not a case of suicide, Miss Jenness,” said he.
“Then what is it, may I ask?” she replied in even tones.
O’Shea sat down beside her and spoke in the caressing, blarneying way which he had used to advantage in his time.
“As the most charming girl in the ship, ’twas quite natural for the professor to be nice to you, Miss Jenness. He is a man of taste and intelligence. Now ’tis apparent that something most extraordinary has happened aboard this liner. She is being navigated to parts unknown, and we are helpless to prevent it. ’Tis a wholesale abduction, as ye might say. Professor Vonderholtz disappears at the same time, bag and baggage, leaving his gold spectacles as a souvenir. What do you know about him, if you please? Did he drop any hints to you?”
The girl bit her lip and strove to hide an agitation which made her hands tremble so that she locked them in her lap.
“What should I know about him?” she demanded with a sudden blaze of anger, as if resenting the questions as grossly impertinent. “Why do you come to me? As a travelling acquaintance, Professor Vonderholtz did not take me into his confidence. Are you sure he is not in the steamer?”
“I am quite sure he is still in the steamer, Miss Jenness. For my part, I wish he was overboard,” grimly answered O’Shea.
“Then why all this commotion about him?” she asked.
“Are you sure he gave you no impression that he was not a university professor at all, but another kind of man entirely?” stubbornly pursued O’Shea.
“I did not discuss his profession. Chemistry does not interest me,” was her icily dignified answer. “If you must know, we talked about books we had read and places we had visited. Professor Vonderholtz is delightfully cosmopolitan and knows how to make himself interesting.”
“I am not making much headway with you,” sighed O’Shea. “Never mind. It will astonish ye, no doubt, and you will be very angry if I make a guess that you and Professor Vonderholtz knew each other before you met on the deck of the Alsatian. And ’tis more than a casual acquaintance that exists between you. You are taken all aback to hear the news that he cannot be found this morning. I grant ye that, but you know more about him than ye will tell me. I have said me say, Miss Jenness.”
She paid no heed to him, but rose abruptly and walked in the direction of her state-room. O’Shea watched her until she vanished, and then he murmured with an air of chagrin:
“I may be a pretty fair shipmaster, but as a detective ye can mark me down as a failure. ’Twas a random shot about their knowing each other ashore, though I have a notion it landed somewhere near the bull’s-eye.”
Johnny Kent was still posted within strategic distance of the dining-saloon entrance.
“What luck, Cap’n Mike?” he asked.
“Divil a bit.”
“Women move in mysterious ways. I can’t handle ’em myself. Say, are we goin’ to stay cooped up in these cabins like a flock of sick chickens? I ain’t reconciled and I don’t intend to stand for it.”
“No more do I, Johnny. As the only two seafarin’ men among all these landlubbers, ’tis up to us to twist the tail of this situation.”
“It surely ain’t right for us to knuckle under, Cap’n Mike, without putting up an almighty stiff argument. We’ve fought our way out of some pretty tight corners.”
From the dining-room entrance came the noise of the heavy bulkhead doors sliding on their bearings. Johnny Kent shouted joyfully and lumbered down the staircase. A moment later he was bellowing to the other passengers:
“Grub’s on the table. Come along and help yourselves. The worst is over.”
The hungry company hastened down and jostled through the doorway to the tables, upon which had been set dishes of oatmeal, potatoes, ham and eggs, and pots of coffee. The galley and pantry doors were still closed. Not a steward was visible. The passengers must help themselves. They could eat this simple fare or leave it alone.
The dining-saloon seemed empty, uncanny. Except for the steady vibration of the engines, it was as though the ship had been deserted by her crew. Such talk as went on was in low tones. There was in the air a feeling that hostile influences, unseen, unheard, but very menacing, were all around them. They ate to satisfy hunger, glancing often at the empty chairs of the commander and the chief officer of the Alsatian. O’Shea was more interested in the vacant chair of Professor Ernst Wilhelm Vonderholtz.
A few people carried trays and plates of food to their rooms, as if to make sure of the next meal. Palpitant uncertainty and dread were the emotions common to all. And during this time the Alsatian was steaming over the smooth sea, her bow pointing almost due south, her altered course veering farther and farther away from the transatlantic trade routes into a region of ocean mostly frequented by sailing-vessels and wandering tramp freighters. As Captain O’Shea and Johnny Kent returned to the upper hall the latter said with a great, resonant laugh:
“Breakfast has made a new man of me. I ain’t worried a mite about anything. My gun is in my pants pocket, and I’m pretty spry and sudden for an old codger. What’s the orders, Cap’n Mike?”
“There are some good men among the passengers, Johnny, but we will have to show them what to do. ’Tis time that the two of us held a council of war.”
They made a slow, painstaking tour of the first-cabin quarters and convinced themselves that every exit from the steel deck-houses was still securely fastened. Then they sought every window port which commanded a view of the upper decks or superstructures of the ship. They were unable to catch a glimpse, from any angle, of the canvas-screened bridge or to discover whether the captain and the navigating officers were on duty as usual. Upon the forward part of the ship they descried several seamen at work. Down below the rumble of an ash-hoist was heard. The essential business of the ship was going on without interruption.
“One trifle ye will note,” said O’Shea. “The decks were not washed down this morning.”
“The vessel looks slack, come to look at her close,” replied Johnny Kent. “A gang of sailors was paintin’ the boats and awning-stanchions yesterday, but they’ve knocked off.”
“’Tis curious how the passengers of a big steamer can be cut off from what is going on,” observed O’Shea. “I never realized how easy it was. And there’s no choppin’ a way out of these steel houses.”
“If we do get out, Cap’n Mike, what in blazes are we apt to run into?” the engineer exclaimed, rumpling his mop of gray hair with both hands “Whoever it was that done the fancy pistol-shootin’ last night ain’t likely to hesitate to do it again. And there’s only two of us with guns unless a few of the passengers happen to have ’em in their valises.”
“I will be ashamed of myself and disgusted with you if we don’t mix things up before this time to-morrow, ye fat old reprobate,” severely spake Captain Michael O’Shea, and the words were weighed with finality. “The Lord gave us brains, didn’t He? If we let ourselves be run away with aboard this floating hotel we ought to beg admittance to the nearest home for aged and decrepit seafarin’ men.”
“It’s a perfectly ridiculous situation to be ketched in, as I said before, Cap’n Mike.”