The gong had just sounded for afternoon tea when the ship began to rock slightly. A faint sound of waves breaking on the bow succeeded. A light breeze moved the canvas ever so little and the throb of the engines increased. Had we passed out of the canal? My first impulse was to tear at the canvas and bellow for water. But had we left Suez behind? This, perhaps, was only the Bitter Lakes? Or, if we had reached the Red Sea, the pilot might still be on board! To be set ashore now was a fate far more to be dreaded than during the first hours of my torture, for it meant an endless tramp through the burning desert, back to Port Saïd.
I held my peace and listened intently for any word that might indicate our whereabouts. None came, but the setting sun brought relief, and falling darkness found my thirst somewhat abated. The motion of the ship lacked the pitch of the open sea. I resolved to take no chances with victory so close at hand.
With night came the passengers, to lean against the boat and pour out confidences. How easily I might have posed as a fortune-teller among them during the rest of the voyage! A dozen schemes, ranging from an enthusiastic project for the immediate evangelization of all the Indias to the arrangement of a tiger-hunt in the Assam hills, were planned within my hearing during that motionless evening. But the sound of music below left the deck deserted, and I settled down to the less humiliating occupation of listening to the faint tread of the second mate, who paced the bridge above me.
An hour passed. Other thoughts drove from my memory the secrets that had been forced upon me. Suddenly, there sounded a light step and a frou-frou of skirts, suggestive of ballroom scenes. Behind came a heavier tread, a hurried word, and a ripple of laughter. Shades of the prophet! Why must every pair on board choose that particular spot to pour out their secrets? Because a man and a maid chanced to pause where I could hear their lightest whisper, was I to shout a warning and tramp back to starve in the alleyways of Port Saïd? I refused the sacrifice, and for my refusal, heard many words—and other sounds. The moon was beautiful that night—I know, though I did not see it. A young English commissioner had left his island home two weeks before, resolved to dwell among the hills of India in a bungalow alone—that, too, I know, though I saw him not. Yet he landed with other plans, plans drawn up and sealed on the hurricane deck of the Worcestershire in the waning hours of the second of March; amid many words—and other sounds.
The night wore on. Less fearful, now, of discovery, I moved, for the first time in thirty hours, and, rolling slowly on my side, fell asleep. It was broad daylight when I awoke to the sounding of two bells. The ship was rolling in no uncertain manner. I tugged at the cord that bound down the boat cover and peered out. For some moments barely a muscle of my body responded to the command of the will. Even when I had wormed myself out I came near losing my grip on the edge of the boat before my feet touched the rail. Once on deck, I waited to be discovered. The frock coat lay in the lifeboat. No landlubber could have mistaken me for a passenger now.
Calmly, I walked aft and descended to the promenade deck. A score of bare-legged Lascars were “washing down.” Near them, the sarang, in all the glory of embroidered jacket and rubber boots, strutted back and forth, fumbling at the silver chain about his neck. I strolled by them. The low-caste fellows sprang out of my way like startled cats. Their superior gazed at me with a half-friendly, half-fawning smile. If they were surprised, they did not show it. Probably they were not. What was it to them, if a sahib chose to turn out in a ragged hunting-costume for an early promenade? Stranger things than that they had seen among these enigmatical beings with white skins. Unfortunately the Worcestershire was a bit too cumbersome or I might have carried it off before my presence on board was suspected.
Some time I paced the deck with majestic tread without catching sight of a white face. At last a diminutive son of Britain clambered unsteadily up the companionway, clinging tenaciously to a pot of tea. “Here, boy,” I called; “who’s on the bridge, the mate?”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy, sidling away; “the mite, sir.”
“Well, tell him there’s a stowaway on board.”
“Wat’s that, sir? You see, sir, I’m a new cabin boy, on me first trip—”