“More people know Tom Fool, old boy, than Tom Fool knows. I certainly don’t know either of those two sportsmen, but it’s more than likely they know me, at any rate by sight. And wouldn’t you swear if you had to wear a dog collar in this heat?”
Evidently Jim was inclined to dismiss the episode as trifling, and after a time I came around to the same view. Even at lunch that day, when the skipper was formally introducing us and the clergyman still gave no sign of claiming any previous acquaintance with Jim, I thought no more about it. Possibly to substantiate that claim he might have had to admit his presence in some place which would take a bit of explaining away to his little flock. For the man whose voice I had heard was evidently the shining light of the bunch.
He turned out to be the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, and his destination, as that of all the others, was Colombo. They were going to open a missionary house somewhere in the interior of Ceylon, and run it on novel lines of their own. But at that point Jim and I got out of our depths and the conversation languished. However, they seemed very decent fellows, even if they did fail somewhat signally to add to the general gaiety.
The voyage pursued its quiet, normal course for the first four or five days. The two Americans and the skipper made up the necessary numbers for a game of poker; the two ladies—mother and daughter they were by the name of Armstrong—knitted; the seven parsons prayed, and the colored gentleman effaced himself. The weather was perfect; the sea like a mill pond with every prospect of continuing so for some time. And so we lazed along at our twelve knots, making a couple of final calls before starting on the two-thousand-mile run to Colombo.
It was the first night out on the last stage that Jim and I were sitting talking with the skipper on the bridge. Occasionally the sharp, hissing crackle of the wireless installation broke the silence, and through the open door of the cabin we could see the operator working away in his shirt sleeves.
“I guess it’s hard to begin to estimate what we sailors owe to Marconi for that invention,” said Kelly thoughtfully. “Now that we’ve got it, it seems almost incredible to think how we got along without it. And what can I do for you, sir?”
An abrupt change in his tone made me look around to see the Reverend Samuel Longfellow standing diffidently behind us. He evidently felt that he was trespassing, for his voice was almost apologetic.
“Is it possible, captain, to send a message from your wireless?” he asked.
“Of course it is,” answered Kelly. “You can hand in any message you like to the operator, and he’ll send it for you.”