The next day when I went below, I found the doctor and his wife waiting for me. The lady had her face wrapped up in towels, and the doctor was reading, sitting near the bed, which was a brass one, bolted to the deck.
I excused myself, and was just on the point of leaving when I noticed the smell of alcohol. It was mixed with one similar to the heated odor of a red-hot stovepipe, burning metal.
"Have any trouble with the lights?" I asked.
"Oh, no, everything is all right—one of the electrics broke and made a little smell—no, all is as comfortable as one could wish, thank you," said the doctor.
"I suppose you'll go the route all the way up?" I asked.
"No, we'll transship at Queenstown—there's a yacht waiting for me there, and we'll take her for the rest of the way to the African coast, by way of Gibraltar. You might help us with our luggage to-morrow—our little trunk is very heavy, you see." And he tried to raise one end of a small steamer trunk that was allowed in the room.
"Oh, that will be all right—the steward will fix you up—I'll see you before you go," I said, turning away.
"I hope so," returned the doctor, with a most peculiar intonation in his voice that made me look at him. But he was now turning the leaves of the book again, and a moan from the bed made me hesitate no longer.
I left them, and sent word to the head steward to see to my friends getting ashore in the morning.
As we entered the Channel, the passengers who were to go ashore came on deck. Doctor Jackson and his wife appeared at the gangway, and waited quietly for the boat.