I carry with me into the steerage just a bit of self-consciousness—there are so many trying to play upon me. I am looked upon as a celebrity, not a cricket player. But I do my part and try and we get into the game. Suddenly a motion-picture camera man bobs up from somewhere. What leeches! He snaps a picture. This gets sickening.
One of the crew has hurriedly made himself up as "Charlie Chaplin." He causes great excitement. This also impresses me. I find myself acting a part, looking surprised and interested. I am conscious of the fact that this thing has been done many times before. Then on second thought I realise it is all new to them and that they mean well, so I try to enter into the spirit of the thing. There comes a pause in the cricket game. Nobody is very much interested in it.
I find that I have been resurrected again in character and am the centre of attraction. There are calls, "What have you done with your moustache?" I look up with a grin and ready to answer anything they ask, these chaps who labour hard and must play the same way. But I see that hundreds of first-class passengers are looking down over the rail as though at a side show. This affects my pride, though I dare say I am supersensitive. I have an idea that they think I am "Charlie" performing for them. This irritates me. I throw up my hands and say, "See you to-morrow."
One of the bystanders presents himself. "Charlie, don't you remember me?" I have a vague recollection of his face, but cannot place him.
Now I have it, of course; we worked in some show together. Yes, I can actually place him. He has a negative personality. I remember that he played a small part, a chorus man or something of the sort. This brings back all sorts of reminiscences, some depressing and others interesting. I wonder what his life has been. I remember him now very plainly. He was a bad actor, poor chap. I never knew him very well even when we worked in the same company. And now he is stoking in the hold of a ship. I think I know what his emotions are and understand the reasons. I wonder whether he understands mine.
I try to be nice, even though I discover the incident is not over interesting. But I try to make it so—try harder just because he never meant a great deal before. But now it seems to take on a greater significance, the meeting with this chap, and I find myself being extra nice to him, or at least trying to be.
Darn it all, the first-class passengers are looking on again, and I will not perform for them. They arouse pride, indignation. I have decided to become very exclusive on board. That's the way to treat them.
It is five o'clock. I decide to take a Turkish bath. Ah, what a difference travelling first class after the experience in the steerage!
There is nothing like money. It does make life so easy. These thoughts come easily in the luxury of a warm bath. I feel a little more kindly disposed toward the first-cabin passengers. After all, I am an emotional cuss.
Discover that there are some very nice people on board. I get into conversation with two or three. They have the same ideas about lots of things that I have. This discovery gives me a fit of introspection and I discover that I am, indeed, a narrow-minded little pinhead.