Mr. Tarrant, an aesthetic gentleman of about twenty-five or thirty, sat on Miss Vivian's left. Next to him was Miles, an undersized, white-faced individual with an unlimited amount of "push and go" as far as his calling was concerned, and almost a complete apathy towards everything else.
At the foot of the table was Mr. Angus, the Chief Engineer. He was, like the majority of chiefs in the Mercantile Marine, Scotch. His appearance, accent, and mannerisms all pointed to the undeniable fact that he hailed from the Clyde. Five feet ten in height, broad-shouldered, rugged-featured, and with sandy hair, he was both the terror and admiration of the crowd of rapscallions who comprised the rank and file of the Donibristle's stokeholds.
Angus was reported to be "near". If he spent a dollar he took good care to get a dollar's worth in return for his outlay. He never parted with a cent without due consideration—and lengthy consideration at that. But in greater matters he was generous in the extreme. Whenever a subscription list came round for some worthy cause—usually for the widow or dependent of one of the company's former servants—the scrawled initials "J. A." invariably appeared for a substantial amount from Jock Angus's funds. If a fireman, down on his luck, was unable to provide himself with a kit suitable for the climatic conditions and changes of the voyage, the Chief would stealthily interview the purser and see that the man got an outfit at the expense of dour Jock Angus.
And he knew his job from A to Z. Left alone with the necessary tools he could transform a scrap heap into a set of engines and guarantee a good head of steam. He had been in charge of the Donibristle's engines for two years of almost constant running, and never once had they broken down or stopped through mechanical defects.
Beneath the Scotsman's rugged exterior beat the heart of a kindly man. Almost everyone on board took his troubles to Angus, knowing that his confidence would be respected, and that the advice he received was blunt, sympathetic, and sound, while the relations between the Old Man and the Chief ran as smoothly as the well-tuned triple-expansion engines of the good ship Donibristle.
The rest of the officers, with the exception of a few actually on duty, were seated on either side of the long table—good and true men all, typical of the great Mercantile Marine, without which the British Empire would crumble into the dust. Most of them have already been brought to the reader's notice; and since it is yet too early to bring upon the stage the arch-villain Ramon Porfirio and his satellites and myrmidons, they must be temporarily detained in the wings.
CHAPTER II
Hilda Vivian
At daybreak, in a strong off-shore wind, thick with snow, the S.S. Donibristle cast off and proceeded on her voyage. By noon, working up to eleven knots, she had passed through the broad strait of San Juan de Fuca—the waterway between Vancouver Island and the Federal State of Washington—and was rolling heavily in the following seas.