The second-class deck was rapidly filling. Chairs, running in a double row about the deck-house were receiving bundles of women, rugs, and babies. Energetic youths, in surprising ulsters and sweaters, tramped in broken file between these chairs and the bulwarks. Older men, in woolen waistcoats and checked caps, or in the aging black of the small clergy and professional class, obstructed, with a rooted constancy, the few clear corners of the deck. Elderly women, with the parchment skin and dun tailored suit of the “personally conducted” tourist, tied their heads in veils and ventured into sheltered corners. On the boat-deck a game of shuffleboard was in progress. Above the main companion-way the ship's bands condescended to a little dance music on behalf of the second class. The Scotchman, clad in inch-thick heather mixture, was already discussing with all whom he could buttonhole the possibilities of a ship's concert. In a word, it was the third day out, the storm was over, and the passengers were cognizant of life, and of each other.
The Scot had gravitated to a group of men near the smoking-room door, and having received from his turtle-jawed neighbor of the dinner table, who was among them, the gift of a cigar, interrogated him as to musical gifts. “I shall recite mesel',” he explained complacently, sucking in his smoke. “Might we hope for a song, now, from you? I've asked yon artist chap, but he says he doesna' sing.”
His neighbor also disclaimed talents. “Sorry I can't oblige you. Who wants to hear a man sing, anyway? Where are your girls?”
“There seems to be a singular absence of bonny girrls on board,” replied the Scot, twisting his erect forelock reflectively.
“Have you asked the English girl?” suggested a tall, rawboned New Englander.
“Which English girrl?” demanded the Scot.
“Listen to him—which! Why, that one over there, you owl.”
The Scotchman's eyes followed the gesture toward a group of children surrounding a tall girl who stood by the rail on the leeward side. She was facing into the wind toward the smoking-room door.
“Eh, mon,” said the Scot, “till now I'd only seen the back of yon young woman,” and he promptly strode down the deck to ask, and receive, the promise of a song.
Stefan Byrd, after a silent breakfast eaten late to avoid his table companions, had just come on deck. It had been misty earlier, but now the sun was beginning to break through in sudden glints of brightness. The deck was still damp, however, and the whole prospect seemed to the emerging Stefan cheerless in the extreme. His eyes swept the gray, huddled shapes upon the chairs, the knots of gossiping men, the clumsy, tramping youths, with the same loathing that the whole voyage had hitherto inspired in him. The forelocked Scot, tweed cap in hand, was crossing the deck. “There goes the brute, busy with his infernal concert,” he thought, watching balefully. Then he actually seemed to point, like a dog, limbs fixed, eyes set, his face, with its salient nose, thrust forward.