He walked round the house to look into the lighted saloon. She was
there--the poor girl--sitting patiently by herself. Long before this the
orchestra had given up playing and only a dozen passengers or so were
there; but she was the only lone one--in a red plush chair under a
cluster of wall-lights. Besides the passengers, there was one steward
and a colored maid, both staring together through the lighted window.
Jan's feet were wet. He went down to the bar, where he called for a
drink of ginger ale and a pint flask of brandy. "Of your best," he
added.
Leaning against the bar he listened to the loungers there. Four of them
were at a table under a window which looked out on the open deck. One
was struggling in a loud voice with what should have been a funny story.
His companions neglected no chance to laugh, but after each laugh they
hastily sipped their drinks. At intervals the wind would shriek and at
each shriek they would look past each other with exaggerated calmness;
but when the sea pounded the hull, and the spray splashed thickly
against the window over their heads, they would look up at the window or
across at the door. And when the boat would roll down and, rolling,
threaten to dump them all on the floor, they would grab the table and
yell "Whoa!" or "Wait a second!" with just a suggestion of hysteria in
their throats; and somebody would call out, "Go on with the story, Joe!"
and the story-teller would hasten to resume.
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