I awoke next morning after a sweet and dreamless sleep that was almost inspiring. Months and months had passed since I slept in a European bed, and, although necessity had accustomed me to the habit of a Japanese mat upon the floor and a block of wood for a pillow, I must confess that the bed of the West still seemed to me a very paradise of luxury. There were more patent contrivances about that yacht than I have ever seen in such small compass before. Of course it had electric lights everywhere. There was a water-condensing machine, an ice-making machine, and all the usual fittings that now go to the construction of a luxurious steamer for sailing in warm latitudes. There was a bathroom which was Oriental in its splendour and Occidental in its patent fittings. One could have any sort of bath that one desired. By simply turning a handle on a dial the great marble basin became filled with water at any temperature indicated by the figures at which you set the pointer, from boiling-hot to ice-cold. This was indeed a delight, and when I came to it from my room in dressing-gown and slippers I found the Japanese boy there with a cup of delicious tea such as can be had only in the immediate vicinity of China. On a dainty plate whose figure work was only partially obscured by a filmy lace napkin were some finger-lengths and finger-widths of buttered toast. “Rupert, my boy,” I said to myself, “you have indeed fallen upon your feet!”

I now knew that I was going to have the pleasantest voyage of my life. The clouds which yesterday threatened to obscure my acquaintance with Miss Hemster had cleared away, and although I had surmised that the young woman was somewhat quick to take offence when one approached the confines of either ridicule or criticism, yet I was well aware that no man has a right to inflict conversation that is distasteful upon any woman, and I thought I had sufficient power over my speech to prevent further errors in that direction. A most unaccustomed sense of elation filled me, and, as I tossed about my wardrobe, I came across a pair of Oxford bags that I had not worn for years. As they were still spotlessly white, I put them on, with a blazer which gave to the world the somewhat glaring colors of my college, and, thus gloriously arrayed with cap on head, I almost imagined myself about to stroll along the High, once more an extremely young man.

My costume made quite a sensation at the breakfast-table, and caused great laughter on the part of our worthy captain, who said the only thing it reminded him of was a clown in Barnum’s circus. Miss Hemster was good enough to compliment the outfit, and, after the meal was over, did me the honour of strolling up and down the deck for nearly an hour, after which she disappeared below. Silas K. Hemster occupied his customary place on deck in the wicker armchair, and after his daughter had deserted me I stood beside him for a few moments, endeavouring to engage him in conversation, but soon saw that he preferred his own thoughts, for which preference, to be sure, I could find no fault with him, for anything I had to say was neither novel nor entertaining. I was about to go below and select a book from the rather extensive library when there met me at the head of the companion-way the notes of the very subdued playing of one of Chopin’s most charming nocturnes. I paused for a moment at the head of the stair, then descended softly, saying to myself that Miss Hemster was a most accomplished musician.

Perhaps I have not stated that at the farther end of the saloon from the foot of the stairs stood an excellent piano, and at the stairway end an equally fine American organ. As I descended I soon saw that the musician was Miss Stretton, who sat with her back toward me, playing with a touch I have seldom heard equalled even by professionals. I am very fond of music, so I slipped quietly into a chair and listened to those divine harmonies divinely played. Miss Stretton went on from nocturne to nocturne, and I felt somewhat guilty at thus surreptitiously listening, but resolved that the moment she gave a sign of ceasing I would steal quietly up the stair again without revealing my presence.

Down the passage facing me, that formed a highway from the saloon to the suites occupied by the ladies, I saw Miss Hemster come out of her room, and, by the same token, she must have seen me. She advanced a few steps, then stood still, apparently listening to the music, finally turned, and re-entered her apartment with a distinct, emphatic slam of the door. I paid no attention to this, but then was the time for me to steal on deck again if I had had any wisdom in my head, which I so frequently must admit I have not. Miss Stretton, absorbed in the music, presumably had not heard the slam of the door, but a little later Miss Hemster emerged again, and this time came straight down the passage and through the saloon, with a swish, swish of silken skirts that sounded eloquent in anger. I have never heard silk skirts rustle since then without remembering the occasion I am endeavouring to describe; yet never before or since have I heard the hiss of silk that actually swore, if I may be permitted the use of such an expression.

The young woman marched past me with head erect, and a gleam in her eyes such as I had seen on one occasion before, but this time fixed and anything but transient, as the other flash had been. I rose respectfully to my feet as she passed, but she cast not even a glance at me, merely pausing for a second at the foot of the stairs to catch up the train of her magnificent gown, then up the steps she went at a run. Now I had consciously given the girl no cause of annoyance, but, the music having ceased suddenly, I turned around and saw Miss Stretton regarding me with something like dismay in her eyes.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Oh, only for a few minutes,” I replied. “Pray go on, Miss Stretton. I am very fond of music, and not for years have I been privileged to hear it so well played.”

“It is very kind of you to say that,” murmured Hilda Stretton, “but I think I have played enough for one morning.”

“At least finish the selection you were just now engaged upon,” I begged.

“Some other time, please,” she said in a low voice; and I did not urge her further, for I saw she was frightened.

“Very well,” I replied, “I shall take that as a promise.”

She inclined her head as she came down the room, and went up the stairs, disappearing also on deck, leaving me wondering what all this disquietude was about. I thought of going on deck myself, but, feeling slightly resentful at the treatment accorded me by Miss Hemster, I walked forward, sat down on the piano-stool, and began to drum a few of the catchy London tunes that ran through my head. I was playing “Knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road” with little idea of how excellent an overture it would prove for the act about to be commenced, and was thinking of the Strand, and the Tivoli, and Chevalier, and Piccadilly Circus, and the Empire, and Leicester Square, and the Alhambra, when I was startled by a woman’s appealing voice crying just above a whisper:

“Oh, don’t, Gertie; please don’t!”

I turned my head and saw, coming down the stairway, Gertrude Hemster followed by Hilda Stretton. The latter was evidently almost on the verge of tears, but the face of the former was shocking to behold. I could not have believed that a countenance so beautiful was capable of being transformed into a visage that might have stood model for a picture of murderous wrath.

“Will you stop your foolish pounding on my piano?” she cried, with a tremendous emphasis on the first personal pronoun.

“Madam, I have stopped,” I replied, giving a soft answer that failed to have the supposed effect.

“I guess you think you own the yacht and all it contains, don’t you? Now, I beg to inform you that we don’t allow employees to conduct themselves as if they were in a bar-room or a drinking-saloon.”

As she said this, she strode once up and down the length of the room.

“Madam,” said I, “I beg your pardon, and shall never touch your piano again. My only excuse is that I have been so accustomed to public liners, where the piano is free to all, that for the moment I forgot myself.”

At this juncture Miss Stretton was so injudicious as to touch the other on the elbow, apparently trying to guide her into the passage that led to her room, but Miss Hemster whirled around like an enraged tigress, and struck her companion a blow that would have landed on her cheek had not the victim suddenly and instinctively raised an arm to protect her face. Then with the viciousness of a harridan of Drury Lane Miss Hemster grasped the shrinking girl by the shoulders, and shook her as a terrier does a rat, finally forcing her down into a seat by the side of the table. One girl’s face was as white as paper, and the other’s nearly purple with rage. I had intended to go up on deck, but paused for two reasons. First I was afraid of injury to Miss Stretton, and secondly the struggle took place, if struggle it could be called when one was entirely passive, in the midst of the only route open to me.

“You dare to interfere, you little fool,” shrieked Miss Hemster. “You that are the cause of all the trouble, with your silly little ditties—tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle—and I’ll box your ears for you if you dare stir!”

“Madam,” said I, “you are possibly so ignorant as not to know that you were listening to Chopin’s most subtle harmonies.”

This had exactly the effect I desired, which was to turn her away from the trembling girl whom she had so harshly misused.

“Ignorant, you puppy! Have you the gall to apply such language to me, looking, as you do, like a monkey on a stick; like a doll that one can buy at the bargain counter.”

This graphic description of my Oxford blazer was so striking that in spite of the seriousness of the case I did the one thing I should not have done,—I laughed. The laugh was like a spark to a powder-mine, and what made the crisis worse was that the old gentleman in his armchair on deck, hearing the shrieking voice, came down, his face haggard with anxiety.

“Gertie, Gertie!” he cried. I would not like to say the young lady swore, but she came so near it that there was but tissue paper between the expression she used and that which an angry fish-wife would have employed. With the quickness of light she sprang at a large Japanese vase which temporarily decorated the center of the table. This she heaved up, and with the skill of a football player flung it squarely at me. Now, I have had some experience on the football field myself, and I caught that vase with a dexterity which would have evoked applause had any enthusiast of the game happened to be present. I suppose my placing of this huge vase on the top of the piano was the last straw, or perhaps it was her father coming forward, crying in a grief-shaken voice, “Oh, Gertie, Gertie, my child, my child!”

I was so sorry for him that I passed him and would have gone on deck out of the way, but my purpose was checked by a startling incident. The young woman had whisked open a drawer. I heard it come clattering to the floor, for she had jerked it clear from its place; then there was a scream. Turning quickly around I met the blinding flash of a pistol, and heard behind me the crash of a splintering mirror. The sound of the revolver in that contracted space was deafening, and even through the smoke I saw that my young friend was about to fire again. I maintain it was not fear for my own life that caused instant action on my part, but this infuriated creature, who seemed to have become insane in her anger, faced three helpless, unarmed people, and whatever was to be done had to be done quickly. I leaped through the air, and grasped her two wrists with an energetic clutch I daresay she had never encountered before.

“Drop that revolver!” I cried.

“Let go my wrists, you beast,” she hissed in my face. For answer I raised her arms and brought them down with a force that would have broken her fingers with the weight of the revolver if she had not let it go clattering to the floor.

“You beast, you beast, you beast!” she shrieked at me, as well as her choking throat would allow utterance. I swung her around a quarter-circle, then pushed her back, somewhat rudely I fear, until she sank down into a chair.

“Now, sit there and cool,” I cried, giving her a hearty shake, so that she should know how it felt herself. “If you don’t keep quiet I’ll box your ears.”

I don’t defend my action at all; I merely state that I was just as angry as she was, and perhaps a little more so.

“You brute, let go of my wrists! I’ll kill you for this! Hilda, call the captain and have this man put in irons. Father, how can you stand there like a coward and see a beastly ruffian use me in this way?”

“Oh, Gertie, Gertie!” repeated the father without moving.

She now burst into a passionate flood of tears, and I released her wrists, ready, however, to catch them again if she made any motion to reach the revolver.

During this fierce if brief contest,—it took less time in happening than it requires in telling,—Miss Stretton had been seated in the chair upon which the angry woman had thrust her, and she gazed at us in open-eyed terror. The old man stood half leaning against the table, steadying himself with his hands. Miss Hemster’s fit of weeping was as dramatic as everything else she did. It began with a burst of very angry and genuine tears, and this storm passed through a gamut of more or less varying emotions until it subsided into a hysterical half-sobbing, half-gasping wail which resembled the cry of the helpless child who had been tyrannized over. It was bogusly pathetic, but I saw it went straight to the old man’s heart and wrung it with very real agony, and this mean advantage which I knew she was taking of the father’s deep love for her increased my scornful contempt for the creature. His grief was actual enough, and she was quite consciously playing upon it, although,—wonderful actress that she was,—she pretended an utter abandon of heart-breaking sorrow.

As for me, I undoubtedly felt myself the brute she had named me, and even at that moment,—much more so later,—was shocked to find in my own nature depths of primeval savagery which had hitherto been unsuspected. Seeing, however, that the worst of the storm was over, and that the young woman would make no more attempts at gun-firing, I replaced the drawer in position and threw into it its scattered former contents. Then I picked up the revolver, saying:

“I will keep this, for there is nothing more dangerous than such an instrument in the hands of a woman who can’t shoot.”

The effect of this remark on the drooping figure was instantaneous. She abruptly raised her tear-sodden face, which now became crimson with a new wave of anger.

“You gaping baboon,” she cried, “I can shoot a great deal better than you can!”

I paid no heed to her, but, advising Mr. Hemster to lock up any other firearms he might have on board, abruptly left the saloon.