“But you got your steamer at last?” I asked.
“Yes,” he admitted, “we got it. But I never want to go through another voyage like that again, no sir!”
“What was wrong with it?” I asked, “bad weather?”
“No, calm, but a peculiar calm, glassy, with little ripples on the water,—uncanny sort of feeling.”
“What was wrong with the voyage?”
“Oh, just the feeling of it,—everything under strict rule you know—no lights anywhere except just the electric lights,—smoking-room closed tight at eleven o’clock,—decks all washed down every night—officers up on the bridge all day looking out over the sea,—no, sir, I want no more of it. Poor old Loo Jones, I guess he’s quite used up: he can’t speak of it at all: just sits and broods, in fact I doubt...”
At this moment Parkins’s conversation was interrupted by the entry of two newcomers into the room. One of them had on a little Hungarian suit like the one Parkins wore, and was talking loudly as they came in.
“Yes,” he was saying, “we were caught there fair and square right in the war zone. We were at Izzl in the Carpathians, poor old Parkins and I—”
We looked round.
It was Loo Jones, describing his escape from Europe.