The second-class deck was rapidly filling. Chairs, running in a double
row about the deck-house were receiving bundles of women, rugs, and
babies. Energetic youths, in surprising ulsters and sweaters, tramped in
broken file between these chairs and the bulwarks. Older men, in woolen
waistcoats and checked caps, or in the aging black of the small clergy
and professional class, obstructed, with a rooted constancy, the few
clear corners of the deck. Elderly women, with the parchment skin and dun
tailored suit of the "personally conducted" tourist, tied their heads in
veils and ventured into sheltered corners. On the boat-deck a game of
shuffleboard was in progress. Above the main companion-way the ship's
bands condescended to a little dance music on behalf of the second class.
The Scotchman, clad in inch-thick heather mixture, was already discussing
with all whom he could buttonhole the possibilities of a ship's concert.
In a word, it was the third day out, the storm was over, and the
passengers were cognizant of life, and of each other.

The Scot had gravitated to a group of men near the smoking-room door, and
having received from his turtle-jawed neighbor of the dinner table, who
was among them, the gift of a cigar, interrogated him as to musical
gifts. "I shall recite mesel'," he explained complacently, sucking in his
smoke. "Might we hope for a song, now, from you? I've asked yon artist
chap, but he says he doesna' sing."

His neighbor also disclaimed talents. "Sorry I can't oblige you. Who
wants to hear a man sing, anyway? Where are your girls?"

"There seems to be a singular absence of bonny girrls on board," replied
the Scot, twisting his erect forelock reflectively.