Mr. Clemens scowled at Kipling. “Now, don’t mock your elders, young man. You’re likely to make poor Wentworth think I’m not entirely veracious. He’s been with me since early summer, and I don’t think he’s caught me in a lie yet. Don’t go spoiling my reputation.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There was some sort of tale you tried to tell me about alligator nets . . .”
“There, Kipling, see what you’ve done?” Mr. Clemens knit his brows fiercely. “You’ve roused up Wentworth’s suspicions, and I reckon I’ll never be able to impose on him again. You have no idea what a loss that is. Now I’ll just have to shut up entirely—or worse yet, confine myself strictly to the truth. See if I let you have any of my champagne!”
“Hoist by my own petard,” said Kipling, a wide smile on his features. “Could I possibly change your mind by offering you one of these excellent Havana cigars? I bought a box specially in New York, thinking they’d be just the thing to help pass the voyage.”
Mr. Clemens took the proffered cigar and sniffed it, then smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Kipling—you have a good sense of the priorities. Let’s see if these things want to burn properly.” He snipped the end of the cigar with his pocket knife, and struck a sulfur-match to light it. Soon the two writers were happily smoking, and I sat back to look around the room.
The cribbage players were still locked in combat, calling out the scores and watching each other’s hands like hawks for stray points they could steal: “Fifteen, two. Fifteen, four. Run of three, seven. And nobby, for eight.” They gave the impression of being old rivals, who had met over the card table more than once. Another fellow of about the same vintage had joined them, and was looking over the shoulder of the nearer player with manifest interest.
A lean man with a fringe of gray hair around a balding pate and an expensively cut dark blue suit had sat down next to the gentleman who had been reading the newspaper, and they were now engaged in a sober discussion of the stock market. “My broker says to stay away from the railroad stocks for the next six months,” said the newcomer, and the other shook his head gravely. “Can’t imagine what the fellow’s thinking about. There’s nothing sounder than railroads, nothing at all. I just took on ten thousand B and O, myself. If I were you, I’d do the same.” My own familiarity with stocks and finance was extremely limited, but I had the instant impression that I was hearing two of the prime movers of American commerce in conference, and wondered how much money might be gained or lost when one of these gentlemen decided to change his portfolio.
I became aware of a bit of noise at the entrance, and looked up to see a uniformed steward attempting to prevent several younger-looking men from entering. At second glance, I was startled to recognize two of them as former Yale classmates of mine. What a surprise! I stood up and said, “Excuse me a moment,” to Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling, and walked over to see what they were doing here.
“I’m sorry, this is the first-class lounge,” the steward was saying. “Steerage passengers strictly forbidden. You’ll have to go back to your own deck.”
“Oh, bosh, old man, we’re not going to break anything,” said one of the fellows. “We just want to come in and have a smoke like everyone else.”
“Hello, Bertie,” I said. “What, are you going to Europe?”
“Good Lord, it’s Wentworth Cabot!” said Bertie Parsons—he’d had a room just down the hall from me our last year at Yale. “Hullo, old boy, what on earth are you doing aboard? Tell this chap we’re regular fellows, will you? You remember good old Johnny DeWitt, don’t you? And this is his brother Tom—he’s finished his first year up at New Haven.”
I turned to the steward, who seemed overwhelmed by the sudden influx of sons of Eli. “I know these fellows,” I said. “Is my word enough to let them in?”
“It’s hardly regular,” said the steward, flustered. He was a little worried-looking fellow with a red face and blond hair parted in the middle. A premature bald spot had started to show toward the back of his skull. He kept glancing around as if he hoped to find someone of higher authority to back him up.
“Oh, they can be my guests, if you need authorization,” I said. “They’re none of them ruffians, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t just let you bring in a pack of people who don’t belong,” said the steward, although he was clearly beginning to waver.
“Here, what’s the problem?” It was Mr. Clemens, who’d come up behind me. “Do you know these fellows, Wentworth?”
“Why, yes,” I said, and quickly introduced them to my employer. I was secretly pleased to see that Bertie and the DeWitts seemed properly impressed to learn that I was traveling with none other than Mr. Clemens, whom they probably knew as Mark Twain.
“Well, I’m pleased to say that I’m a Yale man myself,” said Mr. Clemens. “If a man that can get into Yale College ain’t good enough to sit in the smoking lounge, then you might as well throw all five of us overboard and get it done with. Are you going to let these boys in—as my guests?”
At this, the steward had to confess that he was out of his league, and he beat a hasty retreat as Mr. Clemens and I escorted the three Yale men over to sit with us.
Bertie and Johnny and I had spent more than one late night with a bottle of wine and an endless stream of talk on every subject under the sun. Those were still some of my fondest memories of college. I had been looking forward to my Atlantic voyage, but now I was even more convinced it was going to be great fun.
5
Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling entertained my Yale classmates with stories and small talk for the better part of an hour. My friends had saved up their earnings from summer work and were now on their way to see the sights of Europe on the cheap by crossing the Atlantic as steerage passengers, after the prime season for eastbound travel. They had brought along bicycles to reduce their expenses on the European side, and were treating the entire expedition as a jolly adventure. Indeed, it sounded like grand fun—although, having had a sample of first-class accommodations with Mr. Clemens, I suspected that my taste for steerage travel was already spoiled. Certainly, there was something to be said for going to Europe first-class and being paid for it, especially if traveling on a shoestring were the only alternative. (Although, to be honest, Mr. Clemens was on a tighter budget than it must have seemed to our fellow passengers, and he would be earning his keep on the other end by giving a series of lectures and readings.)
As I had seen many times before, for Mr. Clemens merely to sit and hold a conversation in a public area was tantamount to issuing an invitation for all who recognized him to come introduce themselves, however slight the pretext. One of my normal responsibilities as his traveling secretary was to pry him away from such intruding members of the public when their demands grew excessive. But for the time being, he was clearly enjoying the crowd’s attention, and utterly charmed not only my friends but most of the others who ventured within earshot.
Among those who introduced themselves were several Philadelphians, who as it turned out were traveling in a group to explore the museums and architectural monuments of England, France, and Italy. Julius Babson and his family we had already met; now we made the acquaintance of Mr. Vincent Mercer, a prominent banker, and the father of young Robert Babson’s fiancée, Theresa. He had a somewhat pinched countenance, and the reserved manner of a man whose station in life depends upon his ability to convince others to trust him with their money. Nevertheless, he claimed familiarity with Mr. Clemens’s writings, and seemed genuinely pleased to make my employer’s acquaintance.
With him was Wilfred Smythe, a young man of about my own age, and the son of a Methodist minister in Philadelphia. (His parents were on board the ship, but his father was another who abjured the use of tobacco,