“You ought to search that man carefully,” advised Mr. Nicklestick.
“I have,” growled the sailor. “He says he never uses it in that form. I guess he's tellin' the truth.”
“Never uses what?”
“Tobacco, sir.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Nicklestick, and, catching a glimpse of Madame Obosky emerging upon the deck, unceremoniously deserted his companions and hurried off to join her, his speed being suddenly accelerated by the spectacle of Mr. Shine, the motion picture magnate, who approached the lady from an equidistant station and with similar haste. Mr. Block, being a trifle near-sighted and in some doubt as to the whereabouts of his wife, peered here and there intently, and then bore down upon the celebrated Russian dancer, who, it would seem, was in dire need of consolation.
Mr. Fitts followed them with a glance over his glasses and then turned to the sailor man.
“I suppose it's against orders for me to speak to this man,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The architect sighed, and walked away.
The parade became more interesting as the lack of news from the investigators restored a sort of hopeful optimism to the breasts of the anxious company. Those who had maintained a stubborn air of bravado, now became almost offensively jaunty. Others, frankly terrified at the outset, sauntered timidly away from the life-boats to which they were assigned. Every one was glad that the Captain had ordered a life-boat drill on the first afternoon out, and every one was glad that he had ignored the demand of Mr. Landover that the boats be lowered the instant he discovered that his passengers were in peril. No news was good news, argued the majority, and jesting was in order.