“Juice, scrambled eggs and coffee. Your English is very good,” Mal said.
The boy flushed. “Thanking you, sar. Quick, I get them.”
Mal had just received the abundant plate of eggs and the boy had taken away the empty juice glass when the bald-headed man entered. He gave Mal an absent glance and went directly to the big table. Seconds later the second of the two husky young men came in. He did not glance in Mal’s direction. Their party was complete, except for Mrs. Temble. The four of them talked together in low tones. There seemed to be a hectic gaiety about them.
Mal was on his second cup of excellent coffee when the “dusky gentleman” came in. He looked somewhat as Gandhi might have looked if he were clad in the most extreme of Hollywood sports togs. His shirt was cerise, his slacks powder blue. He gave his order and while waiting for it to be brought in, he inserted an American cigarette into a filter holder and lit it with a wide-ribbed gold Dunhill. He smiled at nothing and at nobody with all the good will in the world.
Mal glanced up quickly as the dark-haired girl approached his table, smiling. She carried her own cup of coffee with her. Since she had been sitting when he entered the room he had been unable to see her costume. Below the frilly pink blouse she wore a pair of crisp, white, abbreviated shorts, straw shoes with high heels. Her legs were tanned to a honey-brown shade, ripe in contour.
She put her cup and saucer opposite him and said, “You are just going to think that I’m the most terribly, terribly brazen soul in the world at large, but I was just over there saying to Tommy that if we have to share all the space on this tiny little old boat for just weeks and weeks, the best old thing to do is just bust right out and give our first names. Don’t you think so?” She sank gracefully into the chair opposite Mal. “My silly name is Gina. Gina Farrow. What’s yours?”
The approach was a bit overwhelming, and so was her vividness at first hand. “Mal,” he said weakly. “Mal Atkinson.”
“Now you know that name just rings the teensiest little ole bell in my mind, Mal. I just know you’re about the famousest person I ever did meet. Me, I’m a little old widow nobody ever since Charlie got himself leukemia, that’s cancer of the blood, you know, and he just up and died on me and we were probably the happiest little couple you ever saw — and I will say we certainly were the happiest couple on the campus back there at Northeastern. But I’ve got to say we were nobodies because Charlie never did really get himself a chance to do all those wonderful things he used to tell me about at night after the lights were out. Not that I ever gave the old devil much chance for talking.” She giggled with a surprising loudness and ran the pointed tip of a pink tongue across her lower lip.
“I write for magazines,” he said while Gina was taking another breath.
“I just knew you were some sort of man like that, Mal. I would never have been here at all except Sara came to me and said ole Roger just wouldn’t have one woman all by herself going along on an expedition like this — and you know how lonesome a widow gets, all those black clothes and nothing to do, and so I just up and said yes, because I knew I’d run into all kinds of important people like you, but we haven’t met any — not any — because there we were back up in those old hills without even a movie within a couple thousand miles, near as I can find out. So this is what I really came for, Mr. Atkinson, Mal, I mean, and I just want you to talk and talk and talk, and if you can play a little bridge it will sure be a bonus for free, like with the soap wrappers.”
She ran out of breath, picked up her cup, and sipped coffee, looking at him over the rim with dark eyes that crackled and danced with secret fire.
Mal took a deep breath. “First, I am not a famous person. Second, I play bridge. Third, thanks for taking the initiative.”
“Why, we might be days and days and days before anybody made a move to get acquainted with anybody else, and think of all that time wasted. Now we’re just the best old friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course.”
She finished the cup and pushed it aside, standing up as she did so. “I promised Dr. Temble that I’d walk around the deck with him a few times. Believe me, that will do me good. All my friends, they say, 'Gina, you could be a real pretty girl if you just could take off some of those pounds you’re a-carryin’ around.’ Now you find us up on the deck and I’ll make sure you meet Roger because he’s a real honey, and I like you, Mal, and you two boys will get along real sweet for this trip.”
She followed in the wake of the three men who had just left the room. The engine shudder decreased in tempo. The mess boy saw Mal’s puzzled look. He stepped forward. “Vee dropping bilot. You vish vatch. Ah, no. More coffee? Goot coffee?”
Mal grinned and nodded. Again his cup was filled. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The captain and the young man Mal had guessed to be the second officer had left the officers' mess.
The man in the cerise shirt smiled over at Mal and said, “I heard the young lady introducing herself. I shall do the same.” He spoke with the smothered crispness of Oxford. “I am Mister Gopala, Mr. Atkinson.” He came over to the table, shook hands with one firm downward jerk.
“Won’t you sit down?” Mal asked.
“Thank you, no. I wish to watch this affair of dropping the pilot. You see, this is my first voyage in over twenty years. It seems quite new to me. Later I wish to talk with you. The esteemed Mr. Dolan informs me that you have recently been in China. I have a deep interest in that country.” He smiled, almost shyly. “And I, too, play bridge.” He bowed and left hurried, walking with short quick steps.
Mal could hear, at a distance, the shouted commands and instructions as the river launch came alongside to take off the pilot. The cessation of motion had stilled the air coming from the ventilators and the room began to grow uncomfortably warm. The coffee was still too hot to finish.
The door from the galley swung open and a short man of about thirty came in. The minus quality of chin, the protruding teeth, the bright eyes gave him the inevitable look of a chipmunk.
He stared at Mal. “Hullo! Another one! No wonder I had to give up my cabin. Who are you?” It was a harmless question, but insolently expressed.
“Another passenger,” Mal said flatly.
The short man clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Good!” He sat, unasked, at Mal’s table. “I’m damn tired of polite people. I’m Torgeson. Chief Engineer. Minnesota ’39. This is my one and only trip on this venerable old lady. I'm a specialist. We converted her from steam to diesel and I’m along to see how she takes the operation. What’d you expect? A dour Scot?”
Mal smiled. “I give up. My name is Malcolm Atkinson. I'm a reporter. I need a rest so I picked a slow ship.”
Torgeson signaled for coffee. “The word is that we have a couple of dollies aboard, Atkinson. Can you confirm that?”
“A very acceptable pair, Chief. One well-married and the other one hovered over by two boys with a mean look.”
The slight man sighed. “Always my luck. Do we ever get an unattached female aboard? No. My undeniable charm and beauty never gets a chance to function. I suppose you expect to enjoy the trip?”
“Why not?”
“Hark ye, Atkinson. Here’s a brief run-through. An incompetent captain. A jealous first officer of international fame. He’s the guy who lost the Cathay on the rocks outside Boston harbor on a sunny afternoon. A second officer with an IQ of about fifty-eight, I’d say. Sparks is an alcoholic, well into the delusion stage. And they all hate me because I say what I think. Happy trip, Atkinson!”
There was a dancing light of wry humor in the small bright eyes.