Part 4 (2/2)
He said nothing. Neither did Peter. The man in the boat did not stir. So went by a second of profound stillness. Then a somewhat blurred voice said:
”When a gentleman goes rowing--in a private boat--and is raided by a pair of unknown investigators--one of them wearing a Mother Hubbard-- who strike matches in his face and make personal remarks--he naturally awaits their explanations.”
The speech fell upon four of the most astonished ears in the State of New York.
Peter recovered first: the remark about the Mother Hubbard had stung him a little, even in that dumfounded moment, but he only laughed.
”The fact is, we made absolutely sure that you were a corpse. Our mistake.”
”But G.o.d save us!” murmured the young man. ”Can't a man die these days without a yacht-full of anxious persons steaming up and clamping a light against his eyeball?”
”But can't we do something for you?” asked Varney. ”That's what we are here for.”
The young man lay still and thought a moment, which he appeared to do with some difficulty.
”To be frank,” his voice came out of the dark, rather clearer now, ”you can. Give me a match, will you?”
Varney laughed; he produced and handed over a little box of them. Lying flat on his back in the boat, the young man fished a cigarette out of his pocket, hurriedly, and stuck it between his lips. The next minute the spurt of a match cut the air. The two in the s.h.i.+p's boat caught a brief, flas.h.i.+ng glimpse of him--thin white hands raised to thin white face.
”Something of a _poseur_, aren't you?” suggested Peter pleasantly.
”What's your role to-night?”
There followed a fractional pause.
”That of a vagrant student of manners and customs,” answered the colorless voice. ”Therefore, to imitate your frankness, you interest me greatly.”
”Those who study manners,” said Peter, ”should learn them after a while.
Why didn't you sing out, when you saw us hustling to get out a boat, and tell us not to bother, as you were only playing dead for the lark of the thing?”
”Singing, whether out or in, is an art at which I can claim small proficiency. But tell me the time, will you? I seem to have hocked my watch.”
Peter laughed a little ruefully. ”It's seven thirty-six--no more and no less.”
The young man sat up with an effort, and uncertainly gathered up his oars.
”You'll excuse me, then?” he said. ”I have an engagement at seven thirty, and as you see, there is little time to make it.”
”We gave you a light,” said Peter. ”Why not reciprocate? Who the devil are you?”
”I am a part of all that I have met,” said the stranger, pulling off. ”I am wily wandering Ulysses. I am--”
”That will do,” said Peter sharply.
He bowed gravely and rowed away. Peter looked after him for some time, in rather impressive silence.
”What d' you suppose was the matter with the beggar, anyway? He wasn't drunk.”
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