At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room. Instead of answering, they ceased their talk and stared at him. Presently Stoddard advanced, looking very uncomfortable.
"Let's go over there and have a drink," he indicated a secluded corner. "I want a chat with you."
"Oh, all right," said Francisco. He followed Stoddard, still softly whistling the tune which had, somehow, caught his fancy. They sat down, Charley Stoddard looking preternaturally grave.
"Well, my boy," Francisco spoke, "what's troubling you?"
"Oh--ah--" said the other, "heard from your folks lately, Francisco?"
"Yes, they're homeward bound. Ought to be off Newfoundland by now."
The drinks came. Stanley raised his glass, drank, smiling. Stoddard followed, but he did not smile. "Can you bear a shock, old chap?" He blurted. "I--they--dammit man--the ship's been wrecked."
Francisco set his glass down quickly. He was white. "The--The Raratonga?"
Stoddard nodded. There was silence. Then, "Was any-body--drowned?"
Stanley did not need an answer. It was written large in Stoddard's grief-wrung face. He got up, made his way unsteadily to the door. A page came running after with his hat and stick and he took them absently. Nearby was a newspaper office, crowds about it, bulletins announcing the Raratonga's total destruction with all on board.