Warren sat across from him on the couch under the porthole, smoking a cigarette. He wore white flannels, a careless blue coat, and a sportive tie; he showed not at all the rigours of last night, nor any depression of spirit. His hair was brushed smoothly again, unpropped by sticking-plaster. He said:
"Howdy, General," and tipped his hand to his head. "Wake up, can't you? Wow! it's a beautiful morning! Even our old sea-beetle of a skipper is going to be in better temper to-day. All the sea-sick lads are beginning to creep out of their holes and say it was only something they ate, no doubt. Haaaaa!" Breathing deeply, he arched his chest, knocked his fists against it, and beamed with seraphic good-humour. "Get ready and come down to breakfast. This is an important morning in the lives of several people, including Captain Whistler."
"Right," said Morgan. "Find something to amuse yourself with while I catch a bath and dress… I suppose there's some kind of story all over the boat about last night's activities, isn't there? We were doing a good deal of shouting out on that deck, now I remember it."
The other grinned.
"There is. I don't know how it happens, but there's a kind of wireless telegraphy aboard these tubs that always get a story even if it's a little cockeyed. But I've only heard two versions so far. When I came out this morning, I heard an old dame in 310 raising hell with the stewardess. She was furious. She says six drunken men were standing outside her porthole all night, having a terrible argument about a giraffe, and she's going to complain to the captain. I also passed two clergymen taking a morning stroll. One of them was telling the other some kind of a complicated story — I didn't get much of it. It was something to the effect that the boat's got in her hold a cargo of cages full of dangerous wild beasts, only they're keeping it quiet so as not to alarm the passengers. In the storm last night the cages worked loose and the Bengal tiger was in danger of getting out, but a seaman named Barnacle got it back in its cage. The preacher said A. B. Barnacle was armed only with a whisky-bottle. He said the sailor must be a very brave man, although he used horrible language."
"Come off it," said Morgan, staring.
"So help me, it's absolutely true!" the other declared fervently. "You'll see for yourself." His face clouded a little. "Look here, Hank. Have — have you thought any more about that other business?"
"The film?"
"Ah, hang the film! I'll trust you. We'll get it back somehow. No, I meant the — the other business, you know. It gives me the jitters. If it weren't for that… that, and the fact that when I get my hands on the lousy, low-down skunk who—"
"Save it," said Morgan.