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 thatany right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog along and take achance of starvation than be the innocent cause of such things. Theyopen with a long speech from the master of the ceremonies--so long, as arule, that it is only the thought of what is going to happen afterwardsthat enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. This done, theamateur talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins.
It was not till after the all too brief intermission for rest andrecuperation that the newly-formed team of Marlowe and Hignett wasscheduled to appear. Previous to this there had been dark deeds done inthe quiet saloon. The lecturer on deep-sea fish had fulfilled his threatand spoken at great length on a subject which, treated by a master oforatory, would have palled on the audience after ten or fifteen minutes;and at the end of fifteen minutes this speaker had only just got pastthe haddocks and was feeling his way tentatively through the shrimps."The Rosary" had been sung and there was an uneasy doubt as to whetherit was not going to be sung again after the interval--the latest rumourbeing that the second of the rival lady singers had proved adamant toall appeals and intended to fight the thing out on the lines she hadoriginally chosen if they put her in irons.
A young man had recited "Gunga Din" and, wilfully misinterpreting thegratitude of the audience that it was over for a desire for more, hadfollowed it with "Fuzzy-Wuzzy." His sister--these things run infamilies--had sung "My Little Gray Home in the West"--rather sombrely,for she had wanted to sing "The Rosary," and, with the same obtusenesswhich characterised her brother, had come back and rendered plantationsongs. The audience was now examining its programmes in the interval ofsilence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentence stillremaining 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 intheir seats. Imitation...! The word, as Keats would have said, was likea knell! Many of these people were old travellers and their minds wentback wincingly, as one recalls forgotten wounds, to occasions whenperformers at ships' concerts had imitated whole strings of Dickens'characters or, with the assistance of a few hats and a little falsehair, had endeavoured to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare, andother of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme therewas nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which thisS. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and waitand hope that it would be short.
There was a sinking of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the room andtook his place at the piano. A pianist! This argued more singing. Themore pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to be one ofthose imitations of well-known opera artistes which, though rare, dooccasionally add to the horrors of ships' concerts. They stared atHignett apprehensively. There seemed to be something ominous in theman's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the face of oneapproaching a task at which his humanity shudders. They could not knowthat the pallor of Eustace Hignett was due entirely to the slight tremorwhich, even on the calmest nights, the engines of an ocean liner producein 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 peoplehave recently been eating a great many meals. A few beads of coldperspiration were clinging to Eustace Hignett's brow. He looked straightbefore him with unseeing eyes. He was thinking hard of the Sahara.
So tense was Eustace's concentration that he did not see BillieBennett, seated in the front row. Billie had watched him enter with alittle thrill of embarrassment. She wished that she had been contentwith one of the seats at the back. But Jane Hubbard had insisted on thefront 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 upher fan and turned to Jane. She was surprised to see that her friend wasstaring eagerly before her with a fixity almost equal to that ofEustace. Under her breath she muttered an exclamation of surprise in oneof 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 littlefellow, how miserable he looks!"
At this moment their conversation was interrupted. Eustace Hignett,pulling himself together with a painful effort, raised his hands andstruck a crashing chord, and, as he did so, there appeared through thedoor at the far end of the saloon a figure at the sight of which theentire audience started convulsively with the feeling that a worse thinghad befallen them than even they had looked for.
The figure was richly clad in some scarlet material. Its face was agrisly black and below the nose appeared what seemed a horrible gash. Itadvanced 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--nowobserved that the white face of the man on the stool had grown whiterstill. His eyes gazed out glassily from under his damp brow. He lookedlike a man who was seeing some ghastly sight. The audience sympathisedwith him. They felt like that, too.
In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some littlemiscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment's thoughtshould have told Eustace Hignett that a half-smoked cigar was one of theessential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney; but hehad completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as an absolutesurprise to him and it could not have affected him more powerfully if ithad been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it pallidly, like Macbethat the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively young cigar, and itscurling smoke played lightly about his nostrils. His jaw fell. His eyesprotruded. He looked for a long moment like one of those deep-sea fishesconcerning which the recent lecturer had spoken so searchingly. Thenwith the cry of a stricken animal, he bounded from his seat and fled forthe deck.
There was a rustle at Billie's side as Jane Hubbard rose and followedhim. Jane was deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking so pale andpiteous, at the piano, her big heart had gone out to him, and now, inhis moment of anguish, he seemed to bring to the surface everything thatwas best and manliest in her nature. Thrusting aside with one sweep ofher 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 aconsternation so complete that his senses seemed to have left him. Ageneral, deserted by his men on some stricken field, might have feltsomething akin to his emotion. Of all the learned professions, theimitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can least easily becarried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the leader of theorchestra, 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 ofthe saloon seemed to beckon an invitation. He made for it, reached it,passed through it. That concluded his efforts in aid of the Seamen'sOrphans and Widows.
The spell which had lain on the audience broke. This imitation seemed tothem to possess in an extraordinary measure the one quality whichrenders amateur imitations tolerable, that of brevity. They had seenmany amateur imitations, but never one as short as this. The saloonechoed with their applause.
It brought no balm to Samuel Marlowe. He did not hear it. He had fledfor refuge to his state-room and was lying in the lower berth, chewingthe pillow, a soul in torment.
The Girl on the Boat Page 7