"Nonsense, sir, nonsense! Your move—look sharp, and I'll soon have you mated!"
The poor artist did move, and quickly too, but it was to the outside of the cabin!
The Captain was triumphant at table, telling us of his victory, but his poor opponent could only point to his untouched plate and to the waves dashing against the portholes, and with that shrug of the shoulders, so suggestive to witness but so difficult to describe, would thus in dumb show explain the cause of his defeat.
I remember well on one beautiful afternoon, the sky bright and the sea calm, just before the pilot came on board when we were nearing the States, Signor Prosperi (for that was his name) came up to me, his face the very embodiment of triumph:
"Ah, I have beaten ze Captain at last—but ze sea is smooth!"
On the outward voyage, as I said before, we had a host in Mr. Edward Lloyd, but he was under contract not to warble until a certain day which had been fixed in New York, and no doubt his presence had a deterrent effect upon the amateur talent, with the exception of one lady, who came up to Mr. Lloyd and said:
"You really must sing;—you really must!"
"I am very sorry, madam, but I really can't—I am not my own master in this matter."
"Oh, but you must," she rejoined. "I have promised that if you will sing, I will!"
An American who had "made his pile," as the Yankees say, remarked to the hard-worked vocalist: