“You have a friend down there?”
“I met the man for the first time yesterday, and rather took to him. One of your naval petty officers, forcibly retired. He can’t live upon his pension, that is why he’s going out to Canada. Now you’ll excuse me.”
“I wonder,” ventured Agatha, “if you would let me go back with you?”
Wyllard looked at her curiously. “Well,” he said, with an air of reflection, “you’ll probably have to face a good deal that you don’t like out yonder, and in one way you won’t suffer from a little preparatory training. This, however, is not a case where sentimental pity is likely to relieve anybody. It’s the real thing.”
“I think I told you at Garside Scar that I haven’t lived altogether in luxury!” she replied.
Wyllard, who made no comment, disappeared, and merely signed to her when he came back. They reached the ladder that led down into the gloom beneath the hatch, and Agatha hesitated when a sour and musty odor floated up to her. She went down, however, and a few moments later stood, half-nauseated, gazing at the wildest scene of confusion her eyes had ever rested on. A little light came down the hatchway, and a smoky lamp or two swung above her head, but half the steerage deck was wrapped in shadow, and out of it there rose a many-voiced complaining. Flimsy, unplaned fittings had wrenched away, and men lay inert amid the wreckage, with the remains of their last meal scattered about them. There were unwashed tin plates and pannikins, knives, and spoons, sliding up and down everywhere, and the deck was foul with slops of tea, and trodden bread, and marmalade. Now and then, in a wilder roll than usual, a frowsy, huddled object slid groaning down the slant of slimy planking, but in every case the helpless passenger was fully dressed. Steerage passengers, in fact, seldom take off their clothes. For one thing, all their worldly possessions are, as a rule, secreted among their garments, and for another, most of those hailing from beyond the Danube have never been accustomed to disrobing. In the midst of the confusion, two half-sick steward lads were making ineffective efforts to straighten up the mess.
Agatha made out that a swarm of urchins were huddled together in a helpless mass along one side of the horrible place. The sergeant was haranguing them, while another man, whom she supposed to be the petty officer, pulled them to their feet one by one. A good deal of his labor was wasted, for the Scarrowmania was rolling viciously, and as soon as a few were placed upright half of them collapsed again. Wyllard glanced towards the boys compassionately.
“I believe most of them have had nothing to eat since they came on board, though it isn’t the company’s fault,” he said. “There’s food enough served out, but before we picked the breeze up the men laid hands upon it first and half of it was wasted in the scramble. Then it seems they pitched these youngsters out of their berths.”
“Don’t they belong to anybody?” Agatha asked. “Is there no one to look after them?”
Wyllard smiled. “I believe one of your charitable institutions is sending them out, and there seems to be a clergyman, who has a curate and a lay assistant to help him, in charge of them. The assistant won’t be available while this rolling lasts, and the other two very naturally prefer the saloon. In a way, that’s comprehensible.”