Mr. Emmett was going to say something, but checked the words on his lips.
"Queer world," he muttered. "Queer world."
With that he devoted himself to planning out the watches. Soon he and the purser betook themselves to the depths with a roll-call. As they crept below gingerly—these sailor-men were not at home on companion ladders which moved not when the shock came—they met Enid, for the first time. She, coming up, held the swinging lantern level with her face. They hung back politely.
"Please come," she cried in her winsome way. "These stairs are too narrow for courtesy."
They stepped heavily onward. She flitted away. Emmett raised his lantern between the purser's face and his own.
"What do you think of that?" he whispered, awe-stricken.
The man of accounts smiled broadly.
"Pretty girl!" he agreed, with crudely emphatic superlatives.
Emmett shook his head. He murmured to himself: "I guess I'm tired. I see things."
Enid handed an armful of dry linen to the damp, steaming women in the lower bedroom. She was hurrying out; someone overtook her at the door. It was Mrs. Vansittart.