"So his name's Van Blarcom," whispered my ubiquitous neighbor. "And the
Italian chap over there is Pietro Ricci. The steward told me so. And the
captain's name is Cecchi; get it? And I know your name, too, Mr. Bayne,"
he added with a grin. "The steward didn't know what was taking you over,
but I guess I've got your number all right. Say, ain't you a flying man
or else one of the American-Ambulance boys?"
I mustered the feeble parry that I had stopped being a boy of any sort
some time ago. Then lest he wring from me my age, birthplace, and the
amount of my income tax, I made an end of my meal.
On deck again I wondered at my irritation, my sense of restlessness.
The little salesman was not responsible, though he had fretted me like
a buzzing fly. It was rather that I had taken an intense dislike to the
man calling himself Van Blarcom; that the girl, despite her haughtiness,
had somehow given me an impression of uneasiness--of fear almost--as she
saw him approach and heard him speak; and above all, that I should
have liked to flay alive the person or persons who had let her sail
unaccompanied for a zone which at this moment was the danger point of
the seas.
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