"He showed great interest in my scrap heap," replied Withers. "The greatest interest. I explained every mortal thing in the engine-room—twenty-five minutes steady chin-wag. And when I'd finished he just asked: 'And do they work by steam or gasoline?' I've been off my feed ever since," he added pathetically.
"To get back to the Alvarado," said the purser "It's jolly strange for a vessel to drop out of existence nowadays and leave no trace. We can dismiss the mine theory. Fritz didn't try that game on in the North Pacific, and it's hardly likely that the mine laid by the Japs in '05 would be still barging about. Rammed a derelict? Blown up by internal explosion? Turned turtle during a hurricane?"
"A hurricane, perhaps," replied Burgoyne. "We had it a bit stiff just about that time—when Robert was lost overboard."
"Ships do vanish," continued the pessimistic purser. "Wireless and other scientific gadgets notwithstanding. I remember——"
"Chuck it, old man!" interrupted Branscombe.
"Don't try to give us all cold feet. It's cold enough on deck—an' it's my watch," he added dispassionately. The Fourth Officer pushed aside his cup and plate, struggled into his greatcoat, and left the mess-room. It was his job to superintend the clearing up of the decks after the cargo had been stowed, and the stevedores had taken their departure.
The rest of the mess relapsed into silence. Some were deep in the evening papers, others were reading torn and thumb-marked novels. A few, Burgoyne amongst them, retired to the more secluded part of the room in order to write to their relatives and friends, and send the mail ashore before the Donibristle got under way.
"Any passengers?" asked Withers, breaking the prolonged silence.
"Yes, young fellah-me-lad," replied Holmes, the purser. "Boiled shirts and stiff collars for everyone."
"Is that the menu, Holmes?" inquired Withers with well-feigned innocence.