“Brack. He’s a geologist, mineralogist, oceanographer, and general shark on all that sort of stuff. Expert explorer. Quit exploring and went sealing. Lost his schooner, and had come down and was living at the Palace, waiting for capital to start again. Wonderful mind. He’s ashore at present framing up a little sport to help us pass the afternoon. We’ll get ready for luncheon now, Gardy. He’ll be here then and you’ll meet him. Sure you won’t have a tot of grog before eating, Gardy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I will, just a little. Simmons will show you to your stateroom. Hope you’re witty and full of scandal, Gardy, ’cause I’m awf’ly, awf’ly bored these days and I’ve got to be amused.”
Simmons, summoned by the bell, ushered me into the stateroom next to Chanler’s. The two rooms were nearly identical in size and furnishings, and I wondered idly why Chanler, as owner, did not occupy the owner’s suite forward. Later I had a glimpse into the owner’s suite through a half-open door, and was more puzzled: the suite was obviously furnished for feminine occupation.
Captain Brack had not arrived when we entered the dining-saloon of the Wanderer for luncheon. There were present Mr. Riordan, Chief Engineer, Dr. Olson, physician to the expedition, and the second officer, Mr. Wilson. Riordan was a pale, sour-looking Irishman, tall, loosely built, heavy-jawed, and with a bitter down-curve to the corners of his large, loose mouth. Once I saw him shoot a sly glance at George Chanler’s long, thin hands, and the look was not what a dutiful employee should have bestowed upon so generous an employer.
Opposite Riordan, and beside me, sat Mr. Wilson, second in command, who had come with the Wanderer from her former owner. He was a strongly built, silent, brown-faced man, of about thirty-five who always appeared as if he had just been shaven, as if his clothes had just been brushed, and whose shoes always seemed to be polished to the same degree. His face was square and lean, and against the weather-beaten neck his immaculate collar gleamed with startling whiteness. He spoke seldom except when spoken to and then modestly and to the point. “Yes sir” and, “No sir,” were the words most frequently on his lips.
Dr. Olson was a small, unobtrusive man with a light Vandyke beard, to whom no one paid any attention and who spoke even less than Mr. Wilson.
The introductions were barely over when a quick light step fell on the deck outside and Chanler, languidly waving his hand at the door behind me, said—
“Mr. Pitt, meet Captain Brack.”
I rose and turned with interest. My interest suddenly gave way to consternation. A chill went flashing along my spine. I stood like a dumb man. Captain Brack was the large man whom I had heard called “Laughing Devil” in Billy Taylor’s saloon a short time before.