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In a Steamer Chair And Other Stories

R >> Robert Barr >> In a Steamer Chair And Other Stories




Storm's face was very pale, and his lips seemed dry, for he moistened
them every now and then as the game went on. He was sitting on the sofa,
and I sat down beside him, paying no heed to the dark gambler's look of
annoyance. However, the alleged Buffalo man said nothing, for he was not
a person who did much talking. Storm paid no attention to me as I sat
down beside him. The gambler had just dealt. It was very interesting to
see the way he looked at his hand. He allowed merely the edges of the
cards to show over each other, and then closed up his hand and seemed
to know just what he had. When young Storm looked at his hand he gave a
sort of gasp, and for the first time cast his eyes upon me. I had seen
his hand, but did not know whether it was a good one or not. I imagined
it was not very good, because all the cards were of a low denomination.
Threes or fours I think, but four of the cards had a like number of
spots. There was some money in the centre of the table. Storm pushed a
half-crown in front of him, and the next man did the same. The gambler
put down a half-sovereign, and the man at his left, after a moment's
hesitation, shoved out an equal amount from the pile of gold in front of
him.

Young Storm pushed out a sovereign.

"I'm out," said the man whose next bet it was, throwing down his cards.

The gambler raised it a sovereign, and the man at his left dropped out.
It now rested between Storm and the gambler. Storm increased the bet a
sovereign. The gambler then put on a five-pound note.

Storm said to me huskily, "Have you any money?"

"Yes," I answered him.

"Lend me five pounds if you can."

Now, the object of my being there was to stop gambling, not to encourage
it. I was the president _pro tem_, of the Society for the Reformation of
Poker Players, yet I dived into my pocket, pulled out my purse under the
table and slipped a five-pound note into his hand. He put that on the
table as if he had just taken it from his own pocket.

"I call you," he said.

"What have you got?" asked the gambler.

"Four fours," said Storm, putting down his hand.

The gambler closed up his and threw the cards over to the man who was to
deal. Storm paused a moment and then pulled towards him the money in the
centre of the table and handed me my five-pound note.

When the cards were next dealt, Storm seemed to have rather an ordinary
hand, so apparently had all the rest, and there was not much money in
the pile. But, poor as Storm's hand was, the rest appeared to be poorer,
and he raked in the cash. This went on for two or three deals, and
finding that, as Storm was winning all the time, although not heavily, I
was not getting an object lesson against gambling, I made a move to go.

"Stay where you are," whispered Storm to me, pinching my knee with his
hand so hard that I almost cried out.

Then it came to the gambler's turn to deal again. All the time he deftly
shuffled the cards he watched the players with that furtive glance of
his from out his half-shut eyes.

Storm's hand was a remarkable one, after he had drawn two cards, but I
did not know whether it had any special value or not. The other players
drew three cards each, and the gambler took one.

"How much money have you got?" whispered Storm to me.

"I don't know," I said, "perhaps a hundred pounds."

"Be prepared to lend me every penny of it," he whispered.

I said nothing; but I never knew the president of a society for the
suppression of gambling to be in such a predicament.

Storm bet a sovereign. The player to his left threw down his hand. The
gambler pushed out two sovereigns. The other player went out.

Storm said, "I see your bet, and raise you another sovereign." The
gambler, without saying a word, shoved forward some more gold.

"Get your money ready," whispered Storm to I did not quite like his
tone, but I made allowance for the excitement under which he was
evidently labouring.

He threw on a five-pound note. The gambler put down another five-pound
note, and then, as if it were the slightest thing possible, put a
ten-pound note on top of that, which made the side players gasp. Storm
had won sufficient to cover the bet and raise it. After that I had to
feed in to him five-pound notes, keeping count of their number on my
fingers as I did so. The first to begin to hesitate about putting money
forward was the gambler. He shot a glance now and again from under his
eyebrows at the young man opposite. Finally, when my last five-pound
note had been thrown on the pile, the gambler spoke for the first time.

"I call you," he said.

"Put down another five-pound note," cried the young man.

"I have called you," said the gambler.

Henry Storm half rose from his seat in his excitement. "Put down another
five-pound note, if you dare."

"That isn't poker," said the gambler. "I have called you. What have you
got?"

"Put down another five-pound note, and I'll put a ten-pound note on top
of it."

"I say that isn't poker. You have been called. What have you got?"

"I'll bet you twenty pounds against your five-pound note, if you dare
put it down."

By this time Storm was standing up, quivering with excitement, his cards
tightly clenched in his hand. The gambler sat opposite him calm and
imperturbable.

"What have you got?" said Storm.

"I called you," said the gambler, "show your hand."

"Yes; but when I called you, you asked me what I had, and I told you.
What have _you_ got?"

"I am not afraid to show my hand," said the gambler, and he put down on
the table four aces.

"There's the king of hearts," said Storm, putting it down on the table.
"There's the queen of hearts, there's the knave of hearts, there's the
ten of hearts. Now," he cried, waving his other card in the air, "can
you tell me what this card is?"

"I am sure I don't know," answered the gambler, quietly, "probably the
nine of hearts."

"It _is_ the nine of hearts," shouted Storm, placing it down beside the
others.

The gambler quietly picked up the cards, and handed them to the man who
was to deal. Storm's hands were trembling with excitement as he pulled
the pile of bank notes and gold towards him. He counted out what I had
given him, and passed it to me under the table. The rest he thrust into
his pocket.

"Come," I said, "it is time to go. Don't strain your luck."

"Another five pounds," he whispered; "sit where you are."

"Nonsense," I said, "another five pounds will certainly mean that you
lose, everything you have won. Come away, I want to talk with you."

"Another five pounds, I have sworn it."

"Very well, I shall not stay here any longer."

"No, no," he cried eagerly; "sit where you are, sit where you are."

There was a grim thin smile on the lips of the gambler as this whispered
conversation took place.

When the next hand was dealt around and Storm looked at his cards, he
gave another gasp of delight. I thought that a poker player should not
be so free with his emotions; but of course I said nothing. When it came
his time to bet, he planked down a five-pound note on the table. The
other two, as was usual, put down their cards. They were evidently very
timorous players. The gambler hesitated for a second, then he put a
ten-pound note on Storm's five-pounds. Storm at once saw him, and raised
him ten. The gambler hesitated longer this time, but at last he said, "I
shall not bet. What have you got?"

"Do you call me?" asked Storm. "Put up your money if you do."

"No, I do not call you."

Storm laughed and threw his cards face up on the table. "I have
nothing," he said, "I have bluffed you for once."

"It is very often done," answered the gambler, quietly, as Storm drew
in his pile of money, stuffing it again in his coat pocket. "Your deal,
Storm."

"No, sir," said the young man, rising up; "I'll never touch a poker hand
again. I have got my own money back and five or ten pounds over. I know
when I've had enough."

Although it was Storm's deal, the gambler had the pack of cards in his
hand idly shuffling them to and fro.

"I have often heard," he said slowly without raising his eyes, "that
when one fool sits down beside another fool at poker, the player has the
luck of two fools--but I never believed it before."




THE MAN WHO WAS NOT ON THE PASSENGER LIST.


"The well-sworn Lie, franked to the world with all
The circumstance of proof,
Cringes abashed, and sneaks along the wall
At the first sight of Truth."

The _Gibrontus_ of the Hot Cross Bun Line was at one time the best ship
of that justly celebrated fleet. All steamships have, of course, their
turn at the head of the fleet until a better boat is built, but the
_Gibrontus_ is even now a reasonably fast and popular boat. An accident
happened on board the _Gibrontus_ some years ago which was of small
importance to the general public, but of some moment to Richard
Keeling--for it killed him. The poor man got only a line or two in the
papers when the steamer arrived at New York, and then they spelled his
name wrong. It had happened something like this: Keeling was wandering
around very late at night, when he should have been in his bunk, and he
stepped on a dark place that he thought was solid. As it happened, there
was nothing between him and the bottom of the hold but space. They
buried Keeling at sea, and the officers knew absolutely nothing about
the matter when inquisitive passengers, hearing rumours, questioned
them. This state of things very often exists both on sea and land, as
far as officials are concerned. Mrs. Keeling, who had been left in
England while her husband went to America to make his fortune, and
tumbled down a hole instead, felt aggrieved at the company. The company
said that Keeling had no business to be nosing around dark places on the
deck at that time of night, and doubtless their contention was just.
Mrs. Keeling, on the other hand, held that a steamer had no right to
have such mantraps open at any time, night or day, without having them
properly guarded, and in that she was also probably correct. The company
was very sorry, of course, that the thing had occurred; but they refused
to pay for Keeling unless compelled to do so by the law of the land, and
there matters stood. No one can tell what the law of the land will do
when it is put in motion, although many people thought that if Mrs.
Keeling had brought a suit against the Hot Cross Bun Company she would
have won it. But Mrs. Keeling was a poor woman, and you have to put a
penny in the slot when you want the figures of justice to work, so the
unfortunate creature signed something which the lawyer of the company
had written out, and accepted the few pounds which Keeling had paid for
Room 18 on the _Gibrontus_. It would seem that this ought to have settled
the matter, for the lawyer told Mrs. Keeling he thought the company
acted very generously in refunding the passage money; but it didn't
settle the matter. Within a year from that time, the company voluntarily
paid Mrs. Keeling £2100 for her husband. Now that the occurrence is
called to your mind, you will perhaps remember the editorial one of the
leading London dailies had on the extraordinary circumstance, in which
it was very ably shown that the old saying about corporations having no
souls to be condemned or bodies to be kicked did not apply in these days
of commercial honour and integrity. It was a very touching editorial,
and it caused tears to be shed on the Stock Exchange, the members having
had no idea, before reading it, that they were so noble and generous.

How, then, was it that the Hot Cross Bun Company did this commendable
act when their lawyer took such pains to clear them of all legal
liability? The purser of the _Gibrontus_, who is now old and
superannuated, could probably tell you if he liked.

When the negotiations with Mrs. Keeling had been brought to a
satisfactory conclusion by the lawyer of the company, and when that
gentleman was rubbing his hands over his easy victory, the good ship
_Gibrontus_ was steaming out of the Mersey on her way to New York. The
stewards in the grand saloon were busy getting things in order for
dinner, when a wan and gaunt passenger spoke to one of them.

"Where have you placed me at table?" he asked.

"What name, sir?" asked the steward.

"Keeling."

The steward looked along the main tables, up one side and down the
other, reading the cards, but nowhere did he find the name he was in
search of. Then he looked at the small tables, but also without success.

"How do you spell it, sir?" he asked the patient passenger.

"K-double-e-l-i-n-g."

"Thank you, sir."

Then he looked up and down the four rows of names on the passenger list
he held in his hand, but finally shook his head.

"I can't find your name on the passenger list," he said. "I'll speak to
the purser, sir."

"I wish you would," replied the passenger in a listless way, as if he
had not much interest in the matter. The passenger, whose name was not
on the list, waited until the steward returned. "Would you mind stepping
into the purser's room for a moment, sir? I'll show you the way, sir."

When the passenger was shown into the purser's room that official said
to him, in the urbane manner of pursers--

"Might I look at your ticket, sir?"

The passenger pulled a long pocket-book from the inside of his coat,
opened it, and handed the purser the document it contained. The purser
scrutinized it sharply, and then referred to a list he had on the desk
before him.

"This is very strange," he said at last. "I never knew such a thing to
occur before, although, of course, it is always possible. The people on
shore have in some unaccountable manner left your name out of my list. I
am sorry you have been put to any inconvenience, sir."

"There has been no inconvenience so far," said the passenger, "and I
trust there will be none. You find the ticket regular, I presume?"

"Quite so--quite so," replied the purser. Then, to the waiting steward,
"Give Mr. Keeling any place he prefers at the table which is not already
taken. You have Room 18."

"That was what I bought at Liverpool."

"Well, I see you have the room to yourself, and I hope you will find
it comfortable. Have you ever crossed with us before, sir? I seem to
recollect your face."

"I have never been in America."

"Ah! I see so many faces, of course, that I sometimes fancy I know a man
when I don't. Well, I hope you will have a pleasant voyage, sir."

"Thank you."

No. 18 was not a popular passenger. People seemed instinctively to
shrink from him, although it must be admitted that he made no advances.
All went well until the _Gibrontus_ was about half-way over. One
forenoon the chief officer entered the captain's room with a pale face,
and, shutting the door after him, said--

"I am very sorry to have to report, sir, that one of the passengers has
fallen into the hold."

"Good heavens!" cried the captain. "Is he hurt?"

"He is killed, sir."

The captain stared aghast at his subordinate.

"How did it happen? I gave the strictest orders those places were on no
account to be left unguarded."

Although the company had held to Mrs. Keeling that the captain was not
to blame, their talk with that gentleman was of an entirely different
tone.

"That is the strange part of it, sir. The hatch has not been opened this
voyage, sir, and was securely bolted down."

"Nonsense! Nobody will believe such a story! Some one has been careless!
Ask the purser to come here, please."

When the purser saw the body, he recollected, and came as near fainting
as a purser can.

They dropped Keeling overboard in the night, and the whole affair was
managed so quietly that nobody suspected anything, and, what is the most
incredible thing in this story, the New York papers did not have a word
about it. What the Liverpool office said about the matter nobody knows,
but it must have stirred up something like a breeze in that strictly
business locality. It is likely they pooh-poohed the whole affair, for,
strange to say, when the purser tried to corroborate the story with the
dead man's ticket the document was nowhere to be found.

The _Gibrontus_ started out on her next voyage from Liverpool with all
her colours flying, but some of her officers had a vague feeling of
unrest within them which reminded them of the time they first sailed on
the heaving seas. The purser was seated in his room, busy, as pursers
always are at the beginning of a voyage, when there was a rap at the
door.

"Come in!" shouted the important official, and there entered unto him a
stranger, who said--"Are you the purser?"

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I have room No. 18."

"What!" cried the purser, with a gasp, almost jumping from his chair.
Then he looked at the robust man before him, and sank back with a sigh
of relief. It was not Keeling.

"I have room No. 18," continued the passenger, "and the arrangement I
made with your people in Liverpool was that I was to have the room to
myself. I do a great deal of shipping over your--"

"Yes, my dear sir," said the purser, after having looked rapidly over
his list, "you have No. 18 to yourself."

"So I told the man who is unpacking his luggage there; but he showed me
his ticket, and it was issued before mine. I can't quite understand why
your people should--"

"What kind of a looking man is he?"

"A thin, unhealthy, cadaverous man, who doesn't look as if he would last
till the voyage ends. I don't want _him_ for a room mate, if I have to
have one. I think you ought--"

"I will, sir. I will make it all right. I suppose, if it should happen
that a mistake has been made, and he has the prior claim to the room,
you would not mind taking No. 24--it is a larger and better room."

"That will suit me exactly."

So the purser locked his door and went down to No. 18.

"Well?" he said to its occupant.

"Well," answered Mr. Keeling, looking up at him with his cold and fishy
eyes.

"You're here again, are you?"

"I'm here again, and I _will_ be here again. And again and again, and
again and again."

"Now, what the--" Then the purser hesitated a moment, and thought
perhaps he had better not swear, with that icy, clammy gaze fixed upon
him. "What object have you in all this?"

"Object? The very simple one of making your company live up to its
contract. From Liverpool to New York, my ticket reads. I paid for
being landed in the United States, not for being dumped overboard in
mid-ocean. Do you think you can take me over? You have had two tries at
it and have not succeeded. Yours is a big and powerful company too."

"If you know we can't do it, then why do you--?" The purser hesitated.

"Pester you with my presence?" suggested Mr. Keeling. "Because I want
you to do justice. Two thousand pounds is the price, and I will raise it
one hundred pounds every trip." This time the New York papers got hold
of the incident, but not of its peculiar features. They spoke of the
extraordinary carelessness of the officers in allowing practically the
same accident to occur twice on the same boat. When the _Gibrontus_
reached Liverpool all the officers, from the captain down, sent in their
resignations. Most of the sailors did not take the trouble to resign,
but cut for it. The managing director was annoyed at the newspaper
comments, but laughed at the rest of the story. He was invited to
come over and interview Keeling for his own satisfaction, most of the
officers promising to remain on the ship if he did so. He took Room 18
himself. What happened I do not know, for the purser refused to sail
again on the _Gibrontus_, and was given another ship.

But this much is certain. When the managing director got back, the
company generously paid Mrs. Keeling £2100.




THE TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE OF PLODKINS.


"Which--life or death? Tis a gambler's chance!
Yet, unconcerned, we spin and dance,
On the brittle thread of circumstance."

I understand that Plodkins is in the habit of referring sceptical
listeners to me, and telling them that I will substantiate every word
of his story. Now this is hardly fair of Plodkins. I can certainly
corroborate part of what he says, and I can bear witness to the
condition in which I found him after his ordeal was over. So I have
thought it best, in order to set myself right with the public, to put
down exactly what occurred. If I were asked whether or not I believe
Plodkins' story myself, I would have to answer that sometimes I believe
it, and sometimes I do not. Of course Plodkins will be offended when
he reads this, but there are other things that I have to say about him
which will perhaps enrage him still more; still they are the truth. For
instance, Plodkins can hardly deny, and yet probably he will deny, that
he was one of the most talented drinkers in America. I venture to say
that every time he set foot in Liverpool coming East, or in New York
going West, he was just on the verge of delirium tremens, because, being
necessarily idle during the voyage, he did little else but drink and
smoke. I never knew a man who could take so much liquor and show such
small results. The fact was, that in the morning Plodkins was never at
his best, because he was nearer sober then than at any other part of
the day; but, after dinner, a more entertaining, genial, generous,
kind-hearted man than Hiram Plodkins could not be found anywhere.

I want to speak of Plodkins' story with the calm, dispassionate manner
of a judge, rather than with the partisanship of a favourable witness;
and although my allusion to Plodkins' habits of intoxication may seem to
him defamatory in character, and unnecessary, yet I mention them only to
show that something terrible must have occurred in the bath-room to
make him stop short. The extraordinary thing is, from that day to this
Plodkins has not touched a drop of intoxicating liquor, which fact in
itself strikes me as more wonderful than the story he tells.

Plodkins was a frequent crosser on the Atlantic steamers. He was
connected with commercial houses on both sides of the ocean; selling
in America for an English house, and buying in England for an American
establishment. I presume it was his experiences in selling goods
that led to his terrible habits of drinking. I understood from him
that out West, if you are selling goods you have to do a great deal of
treating, and every time you treat another man to a glass of wine, or a
whiskey cocktail, you have, of course, to drink with him. But this has
nothing to do with Plodkins' story.

On an Atlantic liner, when there is a large list of passengers,
especially of English passengers, it is difficult to get a convenient
hour in the morning at which to take a bath. This being the case, the
purser usually takes down the names of applicants and assigns each a
particular hour. Your hour may be, say seven o'clock in the morning. The
next man comes on at half-past seven, and the third man at eight, and so
on. The bedroom steward raps at your door when the proper time arrives,
and informs you that the bath is ready. You wrap a dressing-gown or a
cloak around you, and go along the silent corridors to the bath-room,
coming back, generally before your half hour is up, like a giant
refreshed.

Plodkins' bath hour was seven o'clock in the morning. Mine was half-past
seven. On the particular morning in question the steward did not call
me, and I thought he had forgotten, so I passed along the dark corridor
and tried the bath-room door. I found it unbolted, and as everything was
quiet inside, I entered. I thought nobody was there, so I shoved the
bolt in the door, and went over to see if the water had been turned on.
The light was a little dim even at that time of the morning, and I must
say I was horror-stricken to see, lying in the bottom of the bath-tub,
with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, Plodkins. I am quite willing to
admit that I was never so startled in my life. I thought at first
Plodkins was dead, notwithstanding his open eyes staring at the ceiling;
but he murmured, in a sort of husky far-away whisper, "Thank God," and
then closed his eyes.

"What's the matter, Plodkins?" I said. "Are you ill? What's the matter
with you? Shall I call for help?"

There was a feeble negative motion of the head. Then he said, in a
whisper, "Is the door bolted?"

"Yes," I answered.

After another moment's pause, I said--

"Shall I ring, and get you some whiskey or brandy?"

Again he shook his head.

"Help me to get up," he said feebly.

He was very much shaken, and I had some trouble in getting him on his
feet, and seating him on the one chair in the room.

"You had better come to my state-room," I said; "it is nearer than
yours. What has happened to you?"

He replied, "I will go in a moment. Wait a minute." And I waited.

"Now," he continued, when he had apparently pulled himself together a
bit, "just turn on the electric light, will you?"

I reached up to the peg of the electric light and turned it on. A
shudder passed over Plodkins' frame, but he said nothing. He seemed
puzzled, and once more I asked him to let me take him to my stateroom,
but he shook his head.

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