“Well, where is Pops? He should be here. They’re sending all passengers back to their staterooms.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Newberry remarked, taking a carved ivory cigarette case from her purse. “And Carl is lost in the jam of people on the stairways. You know perfectly well he’s not one to elbow his way. No, thank you, Mr. Mason, I have a match. Don’t bother.”
She scratched a match with a deft motion and held it to the cigarette. Her hand trembled slightly.
Belle Newberry, standing in the doorway, said, “I wish Pops would come... Good Lord, where’s Roy?”
“In his stateroom, probably,” Mason said.
“I’ll be back,” she told them, and dashed out into the corridor.
Mrs. Newberry came over to join Mason and Della Street in front of the porthole. Searchlights sent beams crisscrossing out over the water. Floating flares tossed up and down on the angry waves. Mrs. Newberry put her hand on Mason’s shoulder. “I can’t bear to think of any human being out in that awful ocean. I... ” She broke off, choked back a sob and walked away.
Mason continued to stand at the porthole, staring moodily out at the tossing water. His legs, spread wide apart, braced his body against the motion of the ship.
With the slowing engines, sounds had been intensified, the creak of the ship, the rush of waves against the sides, the pound of feet running along the decks.
Della Street walked across the stateroom, to look down the corridor, and said, “The captain and the purser are coming this way, Chief... Here’s Belle... Was he all right, Belle?”