Part 8 (1/2)

”Well, then, entertain.”

The great Joseppi pursed his lips. His brows grew dark with trouble.

”Ah, but that would be violating my contract,” he said. ”My contract specifically states that under no circ.u.mstances may I--” Then suddenly, as if renouncing a sacred principle, his brow cleared, and he cried out: ”d.a.m.n the contract! Joseppi's voice is his own. Joseppi will do as he pleases with it. Let him but make the request, my friend,--and Joseppi will sing till he drops from exhaustion.” Lowering his voice to a confidential undertone, he went on: ”And that, my friend, is more than you will find Careni-Amori willing to do. There is one cold-blooded, grasping woman for you. Money! She thinks of nothing but money. And flattery! Ah, how she thrives on flattery. That woman, my friend, beautiful as she is, has no more heart than a--”

”Excuse me, please,” broke in his listener, in English. ”I've got to beat it.”

He had caught sight of a slim young figure at the head of the stairs,--a girl in a rumpled blue serge tailor-suit and a tan-coloured sport hat pulled well down over her dark hair. He made his way through the crowd and caught her up as she pa.s.sed out on the deck.

”I've been terribly worried about you,” he began without other greeting, planting himself in front of her. ”I thought maybe you might have--but, thank the good Lord, you weren't.”

She looked momentarily bewildered. Then she recognized him and held out her hand. Her face was serious, unsmiling, her voice low and tired.

”Isn't it dreadful, Mr. Percival? What a terrible experience it has been. Oh--and I am glad you came through safely, too. But--” as her eyes narrowed anxiously,-”you were hurt. Your hands?”

”I can't very well shake hands with you, Miss Clinton,” said he.

”Scorched a little, that's all. You'd think it was serious, the way they're bandaged. One of the sailors fixed them up for me last night. I can't tell you how glad I am that you are all right. And your aunt? Is she--” He paused.

”Auntie is all right, Mr. Percival. She's in bed. Shock and exposure. We were out there all night. In one of the boats. Katherine,--” her voice shook a little,--”Katherine is gone. She leaped overboard. I--I saw her go. I shall never forget it,--never. Aunt Julia's maid. For, oh, so many years, Mr. Percival.” She spoke in sharp, broken sentences, as if breathless. ”You must have been terribly burned. Your hair,--your eyes, how bloodshot they are.”

”Smoke,” he said succinctly. ”Singed on this side only. Really nothing serious. I got off very lightly.”

”Some of the men were frightfully burned,” she said with a shudder. ”I am trying to be a nurse. There are two men in my--in my--”

”I know,” he broke in hastily. ”Don't talk about it, Miss Clinton. It's corking of you to take hold like this. Corking!”

”Tell me about yourself. Where were you when it happened?”'

”I hate to admit it, but I was having a bite to eat down in the galley.

You see, they'd somehow forgotten to give me anything to eat,--in the excitement, of course,--and I had been so busy myself it didn't occur to me to be hungry till rather late in the day. I managed to get on deck but not until after the bombs had all gone off. My friend, Mr.

Gray,--the Chief Engineer, you know,--was down in the engine-room.

That's how I got my hands burned. Not badly, I a.s.sure you, but--well, they may be a little scarred. You may not know it, but Mr. Gray and I came from the same place. Baltimore. He belonged to a fine old family there--and he'd been very kind to me. Poor fellow! Penned in. They never had a chance down there. He was--well, he died a few minutes after he was dragged out here on the deck. His clothes were on fire. But let's not talk about it. Tell me, is there anything I can do to make you more comfort-able? Or your aunt? I'm what you might call officer of the deck at present. Mr. Mott--”

”You ought to be in bed, Mr. Percival,” she interrupted sharply. ”Your face is burned, too,--you must be suffering terribly. Wait! Now don't tell me you are not. I know better. I've seen those other men who were burned. I--”

”It's nothing, I tell you,” he interrupted, almost roughly. ”There are dozens of men worse off than I am, and are they in bed? Not much. This is no time to lie down, Miss Clinton, if you've got a leg to stand on.

See that little chap over there with his head and hands covered with bandages,--and barely able to drag his feet after him? He's an American jockey. I don't know his name. He was blown twenty or thirty feet across the after-deck. Brought up at the bottom of a companion-way. He's nothing but cuts and bruises from head to foot. But he's around on his wobbly little pins today, just the same, trying to edge in on some sort of a job. Couldn't keep him in bed.”

Miss Clinton's eyes were full of wonder and incredulity. ”I cannot understand it,” she said. ”My cousin was with the American Ambulance in France. He says that the slightest flesh wound sends a soldier to the hospital.”

”They haven't any choice in the matter. Besides, it isn't the same. Poor devils, they may have been at it in the trenches for weeks and months. A wound of any sort means a pleasant vacation. Still,” he went on after a moment, a faint derisive smile on his lips, ”we had a big husky up in Camp who insisted on going to bed every time he had the nosebleed.”

She was looking into his blood-shot eyes, infinite pity and concern in her own.

”Will you let me dress your hands, Mr. Percival, whenever it is necessary? I am getting used to it now.”

”It's good of you, Miss Clinton,” he replied gratefully. ”But I think you'd better stick to the fellows who really need attention. Don't add an extra ounce to your burden. You'll need all of your strength and courage to face the demands of the next few days. Those chaps have just begun to suffer. They're going to have a tight squeeze getting through,--if they get through at all. You have not answered my question.

Is there anything I can do for you or your aunt?”