Without apology he laid down a rigid set of rules, and from these rules, he made it perfectly clear, there could be no deviation. The available supply of food was limited. It was his purpose to conserve it with the greatest possible care. Down in the holds, of course, was a vast store of consigned foodstuffs, but he had no authority to draw upon it and would not do so unless the ship's own stock was exhausted. Passengers and crew, therefore, would be obliged to go on short rations. “Better to eat sparingly now,” he said, “than not to eat at all later on.” He concluded his remarks in this fashion:
“Remember that we are all in the same boat. We don't know how long we'll be drifting like this and we don't know where we're drifting to. It's an everlastingly big ocean we're on. We ought to thank God we're not at the bottom of it now. If we're lucky we'll be picked up soon, if not,—well, it's up to us, every one of us, to make the best of it. We're alive, and that's certainly something. We'll all find it easier if we keep ourselves busy. That's why I'm asking you, one and all, to do a good day's work regularly, one way or another, from now until relief comes. We can't have any loafers or quitters on board this ship. That means everybody, rich and poor. You may think I'm putting a hardship on you, seeing as how you have paid for your passage and all that, but what I'm ordering you to do ain't a marker to what you'd be doing if you were out there in lifeboats, eight hundred miles from shore, and—well, we won't go into that. We've got to make the best of it, my friends. We're up against it good and plenty, that's the plain facts of the case. There's no use in me saying it's all going to turn out right in a day or so, because I don't know a da—- blamed thing about it. We're in God's hands. Maybe it will help to pray, but I doubt it. All I've got to say is this: go down on your knees as much as you like, but don't lick!”
Signor Joseppi lifted his voice, but not in song. In very bad English he wanted to know how long the Captain thought it would be before they were rescued, and when he was informed that it might not be for weeks or even months, he cried out in worse English that he was ruined. He would have to violate his contract! No impressario would think of engaging him again! His wonderful American tour! If he was not rescued within a week—Oh, my God, the consequences! He did not regret the paltry two thousand a week—for thirty weeks—but to violate a contract!
Mr. Mott looked rather helpless. He appreciated the fact that Signor Joseppi was a very great personage, but what was he saying? Was it—could it be mutiny?
“I'm sorry, Mr. Joseppi,” he broke in, “but if Madame Amori is willing to take her regular turn at making up berths, I guess it won't hurt you to help every now and then in the dining-room.”
Signor Joseppi did not understand a word of it. He turned to the man at his elbow for enlightenment.
“What did he say?” he whispered.
“He says you have a perfectly marvellous voice and that he'd give two thousand any time to hear you sing,” replied his neighbour in excellent Italian.
Whereupon the Signor favoured the severe-looking Mr. Mott with a beaming smile and as deep a bow as he could make in such close quarters.
“A most courteous officer,” he said to his neighbour. “It will be a joy to serve him, my friend. We should, one and all, do what he asks of us, no matter how mean the task. I, Joseppi,—you have heard of Joseppi, my friend?—I shall be the example for all of you. Should he say, 'Wash the dishes, Joseppi,' then will I wash the dishes. I, Joseppi, who never washed a dish in his life. Should he say, 'Cook the meals, Joseppi,' then will Joseppi, who never cooked a thing in his life, then will Joseppi cook the meals. Should he say, 'Joseppi, scrub the floor,' then will I scrub the floor. Should he say, 'Signor, steer the ship,' then will I do my best to steer the ship. I who have never steered a ship. So let me be your example, my friend.”
“That's fine,” said his neighbour, as they moved off together. “But supposing he asks you to sing occasionally to amuse the rest of us,—what then?”
“Amuse?” cried the Signor. “Amuse?”
“Well, then, entertain.”
The great Joseppi pursed his lips. His brows grew dark with trouble.
“Ah, but that would be violating my contract,” he said. “My contract specifically states that under no circumstances may I—” Then suddenly, as if renouncing a sacred principle, his brow cleared, and he cried out: “Damn the contract! Joseppi's voice is his own. Joseppi will do as he pleases with it. Let him but make the request, my friend,—and Joseppi will sing till he drops from exhaustion.” Lowering his voice to a confidential undertone, he went on: “And that, my friend, is more than you will find Careni-Amori willing to do. There is one cold-blooded, grasping woman for you. Money! She thinks of nothing but money. And flattery! Ah, how she thrives on flattery. That woman, my friend, beautiful as she is, has no more heart than a—”
“Excuse me, please,” broke in his listener, in English. “I've got to beat it.”
He had caught sight of a slim young figure at the head of the stairs,—a girl in a rumpled blue serge tailor-suit and a tan-coloured sport hat pulled well down over her dark hair. He made his way through the crowd and caught her up as she passed out on the deck.
“I've been terribly worried about you,” he began without other greeting, planting himself in front of her. “I thought maybe you might have—but, thank the good Lord, you weren't.”
She looked momentarily bewildered. Then she recognized him and held out her hand. Her face was serious, unsmiling, her voice low and tired.
“Isn't it dreadful, Mr. Percival? What a terrible experience it has been. Oh—and I am glad you came through safely, too. But—” as her eyes narrowed anxiously,-“you were hurt. Your hands?”
“I can't very well shake hands with you, Miss Clinton,” said he. “Scorched a little, that's all. You'd think it was serious, the way they're bandaged. One of the sailors fixed them up for me last night. I can't tell you how glad I am that you are all right. And your aunt? Is she—” He paused.
“Auntie is all right, Mr. Percival. She's in bed. Shock and exposure. We were out there all night. In one of the boats. Katherine,—” her voice shook a little,—“Katherine is gone. She leaped overboard. I—I saw her go. I shall never forget it,—never. Aunt Julia's maid. For, oh, so many years, Mr. Percival.” She spoke in sharp, broken sentences, as if breathless. “You must have been terribly burned. Your hair,—your eyes, how bloodshot they are.”
“Smoke,” he said succinctly. “Singed on this side only. Really nothing serious. I got off very lightly.”
“Some of the men were frightfully burned,” she said with a shudder. “I am trying to be a nurse. There are two men in my—in my—”
“I know,” he broke in hastily. “Don't talk about it, Miss Clinton. It's corking of you to take hold like this. Corking!”
“Tell me about yourself. Where were you when it happened?”'
“I hate to admit it, but I was having a bite to eat down in the galley. You see, they'd somehow forgotten to give me anything to eat,—in the excitement, of course,—and I had been so busy myself it didn't occur to me to be hungry till rather late in the day. I managed to get on deck but not until after the bombs had all gone off. My friend, Mr. Gray,—the Chief Engineer, you know,—was down in the engine-room. That's how I got my hands burned. Not badly, I assure you, but—well, they may be a little scarred. You may not know it, but Mr. Gray and I came from the same place. Baltimore. He belonged to a fine old family there—and he'd been very kind to me. Poor fellow! Penned in. They never had a chance down there. He was—well, he died a few minutes after he was dragged out