out – much later than I had imagined. I came across the doctor, who was taking his first sniff of the morning air. He was a young man from the West of Ireland – a tremendous fellow, with black hair and blue eyes, already inclined to be stout; he had a happy-go-lucky, healthy look about him which was rather attractive.
‘Fine morning,’ I remarked, by way of introduction.
‘Well,’ said he, eyeing me with an air of ready interest, ‘it’s a fine morning and it’s not a fine morning. I don’t think it’s much of a morning.’
‘Well, no – it is not so very fine,’ said I.
‘It’s just what I call fuggly weather,’ replied the doctor.
‘It was very cold last night, I thought,’ I remarked. ‘However, when I looked about, I found that the porthole was wide open. I had not noticed it when I went to bed. And the state-room was damp, too.’
‘Damp!’ said he. ‘Whereabouts are you?’
‘One hundred and five – ’
To my surprise the doctor started visibly, and stared at me.
‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
‘Oh – nothing,’ he answered; ‘only everybody has complained of that state-room for the last three trips.’
‘I shall complain too,’ I said. ‘It has certainly not been properly aired. It is a shame!’
‘I don’t believe it can be helped,’ answered the doctor. ‘I believe there is something – well, it is not my business to frighten passengers.’
‘You need not be afraid of frightening me,’ I replied. ‘I can stand any amount of damp. If I should get a bad cold I will come to you.’
I offered the doctor a cigar, which he took and examined very critically.
‘It is not so much the damp,’ he remarked. ‘However, I dare say you will get on very well. Have you a room-mate?’
‘Yes; a deuce of a fellow, who bolts out in the middle of the night, and leaves the door open.’
Again the doctor glanced curiously at me. Then he lit the cigar and looked grave.
‘Did he come back?’ he asked presently.
‘Yes. I was asleep, but I waked up, and heard him moving. Then I felt cold and went to sleep again. This morning I found the porthole open.’
‘Look here,’ said the doctor quietly, ‘I don’t care much for this ship. I don’t care a rap for her reputation. I tell you what I will do. I have a good-sized place up here. I will share it with you, though I don’t know you from Adam.’
I was very much surprised at the proposition. I could not imagine why he should take such a sudden interest in my welfare. However, his manner as he spoke of the ship was peculiar.
‘You are very good, doctor,’ I said. ‘But, really, I believe even now the cabin could be aired, or cleaned out, or something. Why do you not care for the ship?’
‘We are not superstitious in our profession, sir,’ replied the doctor, ‘but the sea makes people so. I don’t want to prejudice you, and I don’t want to frighten you, but if you will take my advice you will move in here. I would as soon see you overboard,” he added earnestly, “as know that you or any other man was to sleep in one hundred and five.’
‘Good gracious! Why?’ I asked.
‘Just because on the last three trips the people who have slept there actually have gone overboard,’ he answered gravely.
The intelligence was startling and exceedingly unpleasant, I confess. I looked hard at the doctor to see whether he was making game of me, but he looked perfectly serious. I thanked him warmly for his offer, but told him I intended to be the exception to the rule by which everyone who slept in that particular state-room went overboard. He did not say much, but looked as grave as ever, and hinted that, before we got across, I should probably reconsider his proposal. In the course of time we went to breakfast, at which only an inconsiderable number of passengers assembled. I noticed that one or two of the officers who breakfasted with us looked grave. After breakfast I went into my state-room in order to get a book. The curtains of the upper berth were still closely drawn. Not a word was to be heard. My room-mate was probably still asleep.
As I came out I met the steward whose business it was to look after me. He whispered that the captain wanted to see me, and then scuttled away down the passage as if very anxious to avoid any questions. I went toward the captain’s cabin, and found him waiting for me.
‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I want to ask a favour of you.’
I answered that I would do anything to oblige him.
‘Your room-mate had disappeared,’ he said. ‘He is known to have turned in early last night. Did you notice anything extraordinary in his manner?’
The question coming, as it did, in exact confirmation of the fears the doctor had expressed half an hour earlier, staggered me.
‘You don’t mean to say he has gone overboard?’ I asked.
‘I fear he has,’ answered the captain.
‘This is the most extraordinary thing – ’ I began.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘He is the fourth, then?’ I exclaimed. In answer to another question from the captain, I explained, without mentioning the doctor, that I had heard the story concerning one hundred and five. He seemed very much annoyed at hearing that I knew of it. I told him what had occurred in the night.
‘What you say,’ he replied, ‘coincides almost exactly with what was told me by the room-mates of two of the other three. They bolt out of bed and run down the passage. Two of them were seen to go overboard by the watch; we stopped and lowered boats, but they were not found. Nobody, however, saw or heard the man who was lost last night – if he is really lost. The steward, who is a superstitious fellow, perhaps, and expected something to go wrong, went to look for him, this morning, and found his berth empty, but his clothes lying about, just as he had left them. The steward was the only man on board who knew him by sight, and he has been searching everywhere for him. He has disappeared! Now, sir, I want to beg you not to mention the circumstance to any of the passengers; I don’t want the ship to get a bad name, and nothing hangs about an ocean-goer like stories of suicides. You shall have your choice of any one of the officers’ cabins you like, including my own, for the rest of the passage. Is that a fair bargain?’
‘Very,’ said I; ‘and I am much obliged to you. But since I am alone, and have the state-room to myself, I would rather not move. If the steward will take out that unfortunate man’s things, I would as leave stay where I am. I will not say anything about the matter, and I think I can promise you that I will not follow my room-mate.’
The captain tried to dissuade me from my intention, but I preferred having a state-room alone to being the chum of any officer on board. I do not know whether I aced foolishly, but if I had taken his advice I should have had nothing more to tell. There would have remained the disagreeable coincidence of several suicides occurring among men who had slept in the same cabin, but that would have been all.
That was not the end of the matter, however, by any
