EM EM : monthly magazine - 01.07.1941, Blaðsíða 30

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WUPIRRPAl VI imT'^WHITMAN
X vAKIddLAJ >1 LAJU1 7 CHAMBERS
CHAPTER l i
It was just 10 o’clock that eve-(
ning, and the Alderbaron had bccn
under way for two hours, when the
room steward brought tlie letter
to my cabin.
“Sorry about the delay, sir,” the
steward said. “Somebody brought
it aboard at Caimora, but I guess
the purser forgot it, and—”
I glanced at the solled envelope
on which was written, in a school-
boyish scrawl: Lieut. Ray Leslie,
U. S. N. Steamer Alderbaron,
“Sorry, sir,” the man said.
“That’s all right.”
The steward bowed, backed outl
of the cabin and closed the door.
Puzzled, I tore open the envelope.
The note was on the stationery of
the American club of Caimora. It
was signed by Pedro Gonzales, the
club’s wizened, bright-eyed íittle
porter. I read:
Dear Patron:
You will pleez not take off
your cloz or go to bed tonite. The
Alderbaron will sink befor morn-
ing. I no this to be tru. Pleeze
beleev me,
w Yor frend
1 ' Pedro Gonzales. I
I stared at the note for a long
ttme, wondering what the devil had
come over old Pedro. In two years
I had lived at the American Club,
while stationed as naval attache
to the American Legation in Cai-
mora, I had come to know Pedro
pretty welL Though he was lazy
and not too dependable, he was not
a fool. And he had been, ever
since I got him out of a kniflng
scrape with some American sailors,
my loyal friend.
I read the waming again. I sald
to myself: “Has Pedro gone
screwy? , , . Or is this his idea of
a joke?” S
I knew instinctively that the an-
swer to each question was “No.”
And yet the whole thing was ut-j
terly absurd. The Alderbaron,'
15,000-ton pride of the White
Stack Line, was as steady as a
hotel. Through my open port I
could see the gleam of stars on a
flat and oily sea. An orchestra was
playing in the lounge, and people
were dancing. In the smoking
room men and women were sitting
at bridge, and drinking highballs,
and gmmbling about the heat.
The Alderbaron sink before
n'oming? Uttrr nonsense!
“Tomorrow at midnight,” 1 as-
sured myself, "this packet will
drop her hook in Limon Bay. And
the next mornmg I’H go ashore
and drive out to Coco Solo and
climb aboard the old S-52. I’ll put
on a suit of dungarees, good dirty
ones that smell of sweat, and I’U
have a nice little prowl for myself
about a pig-boat. I’ll get my
hands dirty, and I’ll get grease in
my hair, and I’ll have me one
whale of a good time.”
You see, two years In the foul
heat of Caimora is a lonsr tlma
Miiareo tuair. Klie brougnt up
short, her lovely lips parted m
surprise. I felt my heart tum
over and I heard my teeth grind
faintly as I clamped my jaw. For
two weeks, since I had made such
a fool of myself at Gen. Rico’s ball,
I had been trying to forget Mil-
dred Baird.
“Why—why, Ray!” she ex-
claimed.
I tcld mvself I ought to brush
I tooked around finally and saw Francisco Carretos standlng In th®
doorway.
Ana 1 was sick, very, very sicr
of it.
I thrust the letter in my pocket
and went out on deck. Colon was
26 hours away, there was no wind,
no fog and the sea was mirror-
smooth. The Alderbaron sink to-
night? What rot
At the entrance of the smoking
room I came face to face wltb
by ner auu go on aooui uie ousi-
ness of getting a drink. But I
couldn’t. Mildred was not a girl
one brushes by.
I looked at her now and felt my
heart finish tuming over and start
rising in my throat. Why did God
have to make a woman so beauti-
ful and so desirable?
“What in the world Rav. ara