CHAPTER VI.

SCENE AT A SHIP’S CONCERT

Ships’ concerts are given in aid of the Seamen’s Orphans and Widows,

and, after one has been present at a few of them, one seems to feel

that any right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog along and take

a chance of starvation than be the innocent cause of such things. They

open with a long speech from the master of the ceremonies—so long, as a

rule, that it is only the thought of what is going to happen afterwards

that enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. This done, the

amateur talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins.

It was not till after the all too brief intermission for rest and

recuperation that the newly-formed team of Marlowe and Hignett was

scheduled to appear. Previous to this there had been dark deeds done in

the quiet saloon. The lecturer on deep-sea fish had fulfilled his

threat and spoken at great length on a subject which, treated by a

master of oratory, would have palled on the audience after ten or

fifteen minutes; and at the end of fifteen minutes this speaker had

only just got past the haddocks and was feeling his way tentatively

through the shrimps. “The Rosary” had been sung and there was an uneasy

doubt as to whether it was not going to be sung again after the

interval—the latest rumour being that the second of the rival lady

singers had proved adamant to all appeals and intended to fight the

thing out on the lines she had originally chosen if they put her in

irons.

A young man had recited “Gunga Din” and, wilfully misinterpreting the

gratitude of the audience that it was over for a desire for more, had

followed it with “Fuzzy-Wuzzy.” His sister—these things run in

families—had sung “My Little Gray Home in the West”—rather sombrely,

for she had wanted to sing “The Rosary,” and, with the same obtuseness

which characterised her brother, had come back and rendered plantation

songs. The audience was now examining its programmes in the interval of

silence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentence still

remaining unexpired.

It was shocked to read the following:—

7. A Little Imitation......S. Marlowe.

All over the saloon you could see fair women and brave men wilting in

their seats. Imitation...! The word, as Keats would have said, was like

a knell! Many of these people were old travellers and their minds went

back wincingly, as one recalls forgotten wounds, to occasions when

performers at ships’ concerts had imitated whole strings of Dickens’

characters or, with the assistance of a few hats and a little false

hair, had endeavoured to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare, and

other of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme there

was nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which this

S. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and wait

and hope that it would be short.

There was a sinking of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the room

and took his place at the piano. A pianist! This argued more singing.

The more pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to be

one of those imitations of well-known opera artistes which, though

rare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships’ concerts. They

stared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to be something ominous

in the man’s very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the face of

one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders. They could not

know that the pallor of Eustace Hignett was due entirely to the slight

tremor which, even on the calmest nights, the engines of an ocean liner

produce in the flooring of a dining saloon, and to that faint, yet

well-defined, smell of cooked meats which clings to a room where a

great many people have recently been eating a great many meals. A few

beads of cold perspiration were clinging to Eustace Hignett’s brow. He

looked straight before him with unseeing eyes. He was thinking hard of

the Sahara.

So tense was Eustace’s concentration that he did not see Billie

Bennett, seated in the front row. Billie had watched him enter with a

little thrill of embarrassment. She wished that she had been content

with one of the seats at the back. But Jane Hubbard had insisted on the

front row. She always had a front-row seat at witch dances in Africa,

and the thing had become a habit.

In order to avoid recognition for as long as possible, Billie now put

up her fan and turned to Jane. She was surprised to see that her friend

was staring eagerly before her with a fixity almost equal to that of

Eustace. Under her breath she muttered an exclamation of surprise in

one of the lesser-known dialects of Northern Nigeria.

“Billie!” she whispered sharply.

“What _is_ the matter, Jane?”

“Who is that man at the piano? Do you know him?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Billie. “His name is Hignett. Why?”

“It’s the man I met on the Subway!” She breathed a sigh. “Poor little

fellow, how miserable he looks!”

At this moment their conversation was interrupted. Eustace Hignett,

pulling himself together with a painful effort, raised his hands and

struck a crashing chord, and, as he did so, there appeared through the

door at the far end of the saloon a figure at the sight of which the

entire audience started convulsively with the feeling that a worse

thing had befallen them than even they had looked for.

The figure was richly clad in some scarlet material. Its face was a

grisly black and below the nose appeared what seemed a horrible gash.

It advanced towards them, smoking a cigar.

“Hullo, Ernest,” it said.

And then it seemed to pause expectantly, as though desiring some reply.

Dead silence reigned in the saloon.

“Hullo, Ernest!”

Those nearest the piano—and nobody more quickly than Jane Hubbard—now

observed that the white face of the man on the stool had grown whiter

still. His eyes gazed out glassily from under his damp brow. He looked

like a man who was seeing some ghastly sight. The audience sympathised

with him. They felt like that, too.

In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some little

miscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment’s thought

should have told Eustace Hignett that a half-smoked cigar was one of

the essential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney;

but he had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as an

absolute surprise to him and it could not have affected him more

powerfully if it had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it

pallidly, like Macbeth at the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively

young cigar, and its curling smoke played lightly about his nostrils.

His jaw fell. His eyes protruded. He looked for a long moment like one

of those deep-sea fishes concerning which the recent lecturer had

spoken so searchingly. Then with the cry of a stricken animal, he

bounded from his seat and fled for the deck.

There was a rustle at Billie’s side as Jane Hubbard rose and followed

him. Jane was deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking so pale and

piteous, at the piano, her big heart had gone out to him, and now, in

his moment of anguish, he seemed to bring to the surface everything

that was best and manliest in her nature. Thrusting aside with one

sweep of her powerful arm a steward who happened to be between her and

the door, she raced in pursuit.

Sam Marlowe had watched his cousin’s dash for the open with a

consternation so complete that his senses seemed to have left him. A

general, deserted by his men on some stricken field, might have felt

something akin to his emotion. Of all the learned professions, the

imitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can least easily be

carried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the leader of the

orchestra, is essential. He is the life-blood of the entertainment.

Without him, nothing can be done.

For an instant Sam stood there, gaping blankly. Then the open door of

the saloon seemed to beckon an invitation. He made for it, reached it,

passed through it. That concluded his efforts in aid of the Seamen’s

Orphans and Widows.

The spell which had lain on the audience broke. This imitation seemed

to them to possess in an extraordinary measure the one quality which

renders amateur imitations tolerable, that of brevity. They had seen

many amateur imitations, but never one as short as this. The saloon

echoed with their applause.

It brought no balm to Samuel Marlowe. He did not hear it. He had fled

for refuge to his state-room and was lying in the lower berth, chewing

the pillow, a soul in torment.