Even this short speech, because it was delivered with rather more energy than usual, exhausted the enfeebled man, and he lay back in his chair breathless. C. B. immediately attended to him, looking round imploringly at the onlookers, who, taking the hint, at once melted away. But they carried away with them material enough for conversation to last them the passage apparently, the human interest in it entirely eclipsing that of the usual travel talk. But it must be admitted that the chief object of interest was C. B.; in the absence of accurate information concerning him the ladies formulated all sorts of fantastic theories, the excitement rising almost to fever heat during the luncheon hour.
At last, when the captain had been conveyed below, one of the girls, the only daughter of an immensely wealthy American, who was travelling with her mother and father, came up to C. B. who was resting himself, looking over the rail at the swiftly receding coast line. With that sweet insouciance which is the most charming feature of the American girl, she said—
“Say, Mr. Christmas, or is it Mr. Adams? we’re all just afire to hear the rest of that story of yours. We don’t want to trouble that poor captain, it would be too cruel to expect him to talk, but won’t you take pity on us and tell us your beautiful story?”
C. B. gazed down into the eager face with its big brown eyes and saw no vulgar curiosity there.
So after a moment or so of hesitation he replied, “Miss——”
“Oh, May Stewart’s my name,” she hastily remarked.
“Thank you, Miss Stewart,” he gravely interpolated and went on: “My dear mother always taught me to try and please people who didn’t want me to do anything wrong, and I am sure you don’t want me to do anything wrong. So I’ll tell you my story as far as I can, on the understanding that I’m free to leave off at any moment my captain wants me, for he is a sacred helpless charge.”
“That’s agreed on the instant,” she replied, “and I’ll bring the crowd along right now. I’m real glad, and I think it’s awfully good of you, for I do hate to be kept waiting for something that I feel I ought to know.”
“One moment, Miss Stewart,” said C. B., holding up a restraining hand. “If you’ve been weaving a mighty romance out of my story and making me its hero you’ll be gravely disappointed. All right, I’m ready whenever you are.”
Away fled the young lady, while C. B. took the opportunity of visiting his patient’s airy cabin to make sure that he was sleeping soundly and that everything about him was comfortable. Then he returned to the promenade deck, where such had been the energy of Miss Stewart that practically every passenger in the ship was present with the exception of half a dozen inveterate poker players who, I believe, would keep on at the monotonous business if the first notes of the last trump were ringing in their ears. As soon as Miss Stewart saw C. B. she sprang impetuously towards him, dragged him through the crowd to an elevated seat she had got the quartermaster to prepare for him, and having seen him comfortably installed, sat down on deck by the side of her mother and waited for him to begin.