“The only piano I will ever sit at will be one firmly fixed on a floor that does not heave and wobble under me.”
“Nonsense! The boat’s as steady as a rock now. The sea’s like a millpond.”
“Nevertheless, thanking you for your suggestion, no!”
“Oh, well, then I shall have to get on as best I can with that fellow Mortimer. We’ve been rehearsing all the afternoon and he seems to have the hang of the thing. But he won’t be really right. He has no pep, no vim. Still, if you won’t … well, I think I’ll be getting along to his stateroom. I told him I would look in for a last rehearsal.”
The door closed behind Sam, and Eustace Hignett, lying on his back, gave himself up to melancholy meditation. He was deeply disturbed by his cousin’s sad story. He knew what it meant being engaged to Wilhelmina Bennett. It was like being taken aloft in a balloon and dropped with a thud on the rocks.
His reflections were broken by the abrupt opening of the door. Marlowe rushed in. Eustace peered anxiously out of his berth. There was too much cork on his cousin’s face to allow of any real registering of emotion, but he could tell from his manner that all was not well.
“What’s the matter?”
Sam sank on the lounge.
“The bounder has quit!”
“The bounder? What bounder?”
“There is only one! Bream Mortimer, curse him! There may be others whom thoughtless critics rank as bounders, but he is the only man really deserving of the title. He refuses to appear! He has walked out on the act! He has left me flat! I went into his stateroom just now, as arranged, and the man was lying on his bunk, groaning.”
“I thought you said the sea was like a millpond.”
“It wasn’t that! He’s perfectly fit. But it seems that the silly ass took it into his head to propose to Billie just before dinner— apparently he’s loved her for years in a silent, self-effacing way—and of course she told him that she was engaged to me, and the thing upset him to such an extent that he says the idea of sitting down at a piano and helping me give an imitation of Frank Tinney revolts him. He says he intends to spend the evening in bed, reading Schopenhauer. I hope it chokes him.”
“But this is splendid! This lets you out.”
“What do you mean? Lets me out?”
“Why, now you won’t be able to appear. Oh, you will be thankful for this in years to come.”
“Won’t I appear! Won’t I dashed well appear! Do you think I’m going to disappoint that dear girl when she is relying on me? I would rather die!”
“But you can’t appear without a pianist.”
“I’ve got a pianist.”
“You have?”
“Yes. A little undersized shrimp of a fellow with a green face and ears like water-wings.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“Yes, you do. He’s you!”
“Me!”
“Yes, you. You are going to sit at the piano to-night.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s impossible. I gave you my views on the subject just now.”
“You’ve altered them.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, you soon will, and I’ll tell you why. If you don’t get up out of that damned berth you’ve been roosting in all your life, I’m going to ring for J. B. Midgeley and I’m going to tell him to bring me a bit of dinner in here and I’m going to eat it before your eyes.”
“But you’ve had dinner.”
“Well, I’ll have another. I feel just ready for a nice fat pork chop….”
“Stop. Stop!”
“A nice fat pork chop with potatoes and lots of cabbage,” repeated Sam, firmly. “And I shall eat it here on this very lounge. Now, how do we go?”
“You wouldn’t do that!” said Eustace piteously.
“I would and will.”
“But I shouldn’t be any good at the piano. I’ve forgotten how the thing used to go.”
“You haven’t done anything of the kind. I come in and say, ‘Hullo, Ernest!’ and you say ‘Hullo, Frank!’ and then you help me tell the story about the Pullman car. A child could do your part of it.”