But at length delightful Lili, who had by this time shed her amazement and awe (as in the living presence of a ghost) and had begun to beam in quite her accustomed manner, cried out: “The old dear!” and made for Jerome, her heart seeming vaguely touched at the expression on his face. It was Lili who really introduced the first ray of cheer and serenity and humour into the situation.
She seized his hand. It was a perfectly solid hand. She had held it before. Even had she had lingering suspicions they were now dispelled. This was no ghost. No, it was the clerk himself.
And then, somehow, the humour of it all took possession of the throng, and Lili led him about, and welcome, almost congratulation, was showered upon him. As for Jerome, while explanations were in progress he had looked greener and greener; but now a grin was emerging. It was at first a pretty sickly grin, but it helped lighten the awfulness of his position.
He had to grasp at things to keep his balance—not because he was still unsteady himself, but because the schooner was performing such violent antics; a panic he dared not profess made him somewhat faint. They would never cease tormenting were the fact to come out, after his boasting the night before, that the man who had danced the sailor’s hornpipe so convincingly was scared. He grinned instead; and the longer he grinned, the easier, as a matter of fact, it became. For the present, indeed, there was nothing else he could do.
“Ain’t it just too rich?” giggled Lili, beaming upon him with her gay, widening eyes.
III
Long before the excitement over Jerome had begun to abate, the cabin boy went about beating on a tom-tom, the summons being met by a mixed chorus of cheers and groans. There were those who had by this time settled down with white, set expressions, who wished the ship would sink, and rolled their eyes reproachfully; even a few had crawled into their bunks and would not be seen again. But there were also those for whom the sea would hold no discomfort unless it became unduly incensed; Lili, anticipating trouble, was as yet carrying on serenely, while Jerome, rather surprisingly, felt no symptoms at all—nothing but the sense of panic he dared not show. Every time the schooner heeled over, Jerome mentally gasped. But there was nothing to do but keep the grin active.
The saloon was not quite big enough comfortably to contain the table set to accommodate them all, and the cabin boy who waited had to squeeze a bit here and there. But nothing could daunt the blithe hilarity of the diners themselves, who thrust their legs in amongst wooden horses which formed the table’s sub-structure, and declared they’d never tasted anything half so good as the ship’s plain fare.
At the head of the table, looking exactly like an admiral, sat Captain Bearman. On his right was Miss Valentine, who could sing up to F, while on his left was the comfortable contralto. It was very delightfully arranged, and should have melted the stoniest heart; yet Captain Bearman, incessantly smoothing and fingering his flaming beard (parted in the middle and flying grandly two ways in an almost horizontal line) absolutely refused to unbend beyond ungracious monosyllables. People instinctively wanted to be impressed by him and take him for an admiral, yet he instinctively wouldn’t let them because of that fatal sense of his own inferiority.