The Blankshire was a full and well-known ship. Not a few of the passengers had made several trips in her and some, as they met in saloon and corridors, exchanged loud hearty greetings and hailed one another as old friends. These were chiefly planters and officials from Ceylon, Southern India and Burma, who herded in parties both at meals and on deck.
It was not to be expected that Shafto would see one familiar face, and he felt completely “out of it,” as he took a seat at a draughty table between two elderly people, whose interest was entirely concentrated upon their meals and the weather.
The second day proved rough and wet and the smoking-room was crowded. Here Shafto made an acquaintance with a well-set-up, weather-beaten young man, his neighbour. Finding they had similar tastes with regard to cigars and boots, they proceeded to cement an acquaintance. Hoskins was the name of Shafto’s companion, and after half an hour’s lively talk, he exclaimed:
“I say, look here, we must dig you out of ‘the Potter’s Field,’ and bring you to our table.”
“What do you mean by ‘the Potter’s Field’?”
“Why, to bury strangers in! We bury dull folk and such-like in the table near the door; but I’ll speak to the head steward and get you moved.”
And before the next meal Shafto’s transition was an accomplished fact, and he found himself one of a merry and congenial circle. In his novel and detached position he realised a sense of independence; he was breathing a new existence, an exhilarating atmosphere, and enjoying every hour of the day.
At table and in the smoke-room he picked up a certain amount of useful information respecting Burma, listened to many a “Don’t” with polite attention, and was offered the address of a fairly good chummery in Rangoon. As he could play bridge without letting down his partners, was active at deck sports, and invariably cheery and obliging, he soon gained that effervescent prize, “board-ship popularity.”
Here was a different fellow from Douglas Shafto of “Malahide.” He seemed to have cast off a load of care; the cramped, monotonous life, his mother’s hard indifference, the octopus-like Cossie, all had slipped from his shoulders and were figuratively buried in the heaving, dark blue sea. What delicious hours of tranquil ease were enjoyed in a steamer chair; hours when he looked on the past five years as a distant and fading dream!
As he paced the deck with a companion he learnt many strange things. Odd bits of half-told stories, confidences respecting some girl, or some ambition—and now and then a warning.