He swung the steam-pipe savagely back into its clip, flung two hot towels down on a seat, and departed, banging the door behind him. That was the beginning and end of the second day's conversation.
Philip saw nothing of Miss Jennings during the next few days, for the weather continued to be boisterous, and that lady—unlike other and less considerate members of the ship's company—preferred to endure the pangs of mal-de-mer in the seclusion of her own cabin. It was not until the fourth day out that he saw her again. She was reclining languidly in a chair, convalescent, but obviously disinclined for conversation. Philip passed her by.
The fifth day broke bright and sunny, and the Bosphorus, clear of the Newfoundland Banks, with their accompanying fogs and ground-swell, became a centre of social activity. Vigorous couples tramped up and down, snuffing the breeze. Unpleasant children ran shrieking round the deck, galloping over the same sets of toes at regular intervals. Elderly gentlemen played interminable games of deck-quoits and bull-board. In the smoking-room enthusiastic alcoholists gathered, to splice the main brace and bid in the auction sweep-stake on the day's run. New York was only twenty-four hours away.
Philip, descending to his cabin for a book, passed Citizen Brand, polishing cabin doorhandles with fierce energy. He paused.
"Brand," he said, "I want to have a palaver with you. Can you come and see me in my cabin this evening?"
Brand considered.
"I shall get a telling-off from the second steward if I do," he said. "Regular Cossack, he is. This ship's full of rotten rules and red-tape. Still, after all, he can only sack me, which will save me the trouble of deserting. All right: I'll come."
He appeared in Philip's cabin at ten o'clock that night, and consented to drink whiskey-and-water out of a tooth-glass.
"Well," enquired Philip, lighting his pipe, "what are your prospects in the States. Got a berth?"