main courses had been cleared to make way for dessert, and dessert to make way for cheese and fruit, coffee and brandy. To be frank, I had stuffed myself, and was thinking that it might be a good idea to retire to my cabin early tonight—although not without following Mr. Clemens to the smoking room for a bit of after-dinner conversation. (If nothing else, that might give me my chance to sound out Mr. Kipling about the prince.) Mr. Kipling and Colonel Fitzwilliam were discussing the use of Indian natives as agents of the British crown—a fascinating topic on which Mr. Kipling said he was planning a book. Of course, I had no knowledge whatsoever of the subject, and therefore nothing useful to contribute. So out of the corner of my eye I happened to see Robert Babson just as he flicked a wine cork in the direction of Prinz Karl’s table. I have no idea whether anything except sheer mischief was behind this prank; nonetheless, Babson’s aim was true. The cork flew in a graceful arc over Prinz Karl’s shoulder and landed squarely in his coffee cup—just as he had raised it to take a sip.
The splash startled the prince, who managed to spill a good bit of the hot coffee on his jacket and trousers. He leapt up with an angry shout, looking around to determine whence the missile had come, and his eye quickly lit on young Babson’s table—where several of the young Philadelphians were trying to suppress giggles. “Who is responsible for this outrage?” roared the prince, advancing on the Philadelphians with menace in his eye. Not surprisingly, everyone in the room turned to see what the trouble was.
Robert Babson stared at Prinz Karl with an expression of utter incomprehension. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, mister,” he said. He pointed to the prince’s trousers. “Did you spill your coffee?”
“You very well know what I mean,” said the prince, his face red and his hands raised belligerently. “My uniform is ruined, and someone will pay for it.”
“Oh, I’m sure someone will,” said Babson, still seated calmly, raising his voice only a little. “They don’t clean them for free, you know.” At this witticism, two of his table companions nudged each other, grinning.
By now, the chief dining room steward had arrived on the scene, his expression anxious. “Is there some sort of difficulty, sir?” he said to Prinz Karl.
“Without question, there is,” said the prince. “This arrogant young monkey, or one of his fellows, has thrown something and coffee has splashed on my uniform. I must have satisfaction from him.” He turned briefly to look around the floor under his table, evidently for the cork that had caused the spill.
“I did nothing of the sort,” said Babson. “This fellow was over at his table, and I was sitting right here, minding my own business. He must have spilled the coffee on himself, I don’t see why he comes looking to me for satisfaction. Perhaps he’s had a few too many drinks.”
Robert Babson’s arrogance astonished me. Evidently no one else but his table companions and I had seen him flick the cork, although Prinz Karl was clearly convinced he knew the culprit. I wondered why Babson—or one of his friends—did not simply own up to the prank and plead that it was an accident—perhaps that they had been aiming at each other and missed. High spirits and bad aim might not be the most dignified of excuses, but as I had seen after a few embarrassing incidents in my own college days, a quick confession and apology often sufficed to put things in proportion.
I wondered whether it would be wise of me to tell what I knew—perhaps without admitting that I had seen who had flipped the cork, just that it came from that direction. Certainly the prince deserved better than to be made the butt of a malicious prank by an arrogant young devil. On the other hand, I did not see any advantage in taking sides or making enemies. But if none of Babson’s party were willing to confess, I might be forced to testify. Meanwhile, Babson’s father had risen to his feet and come forward as if to intervene. For her part, his sister sat with her head lowered, as if deeply embarrassed.
I was saved from having to make a decision by the arrival of Captain Mortimer. “Here now, we’ll not have any more of this,” he said in an authoritative voice. He turned to Prinz Karl. “If you’ll give your uniform to the cabin steward, it’ll be cleaned and returned to you by tomorrow noon, at our expense. We won’t let our passengers’ enjoyment of the cruise be spoiled by something so easy to set right.” His expression made it clear that he would tolerate no further discussion of the matter.
“Herr Captain, you have my humble appreciation,” said the prince, making a little bow. “I am not accustomed to having childish pranks played upon me, and I hope you will excuse my irritation.”
“I will excuse it,” said the captain, “and I hope it will be the last I hear of the matter.” He looked sternly at young Babson, then back at the prince, who bowed again and excused himself—presumably to go change his clothing. Apparently satisfied, the captain returned to his seat, as did the elder Babson. But I thought Robert Babson had gotten off far too easily as the perpetrator of the prank. I was even more convinced of it when I saw him arise from the table shortly afterwards, smirking with evident self-satisfaction. Then and there, I resolved to have as little to do with him as the close quarters aboard ship would permit.
After dinner, I was still somewhat tired, and went to tell Mr. Clemens of my plan to retire early. But he reminded me that he wanted me handy at the formal Bon Voyage reception, which I had forgotten. This took place in the Grand Saloon, a large, brightly lit room directly forward of the dining room. The Grand Saloon could double as a lecture hall, a concert chamber, or merely as a large sitting room for the day. There was a grand piano in one corner, and at least four fireplaces in the room, as well as ample electric light. A huge skylight was set into the center of the ceiling, so as to provide as much natural illumination as possible during the daytime. And, of course, there were comfortable chairs and sofas all about, conveniently arranged so that passengers might converse in groups, read quietly, or engage in other solitary activities.
As always in a new group, a large portion of the crowd was anxious to meet Mr. Clemens. While he had met a few at the dinner table, and more in the smoking room before dinner, here he was practically besieged—especially by the ladies, who of course were not among the devotees of tobacco. He chatted with them amiably, strewing his speech with little jokes and compliments in the manner of a born entertainer. Presently I recognized a person in the crowd whom I had noticed earlier on deck: Wilfred Smythe’s father, the Methodist minister, who waited patiently until my employer was somewhat free of the initial press of admirers.
“I am especially pleased to meet you, Mr. Clemens,” said the minister, stepping forward and smiling broadly. “I am the Reverend Dr. Charles Smythe, pastor of Trinity Church.”
“A pleasure, Dr. Smythe,” said my employer, shaking hands. I thought I detected a wary look in his eye. “That would be Doctor of Divinity, I assume.”
Dr. Smythe beamed. “Yes, I must confess I take a measure of pride—not an unbecoming measure, I hope—in having earned that distinction. But you know, Mr. Clemens, I take more pride in a distinction that I share with you.”
Mr. Clemens raised his eyebrows. “Really? Let me guess what that could be. Were you a riverboat pilot?”
“No, sir,” said the minister smugly.
Mr. Clemens peered intently at him, as if to learn the answer from his physiognomy. “Then maybe you were a gold miner, or a newspaper editor.”
“The latter is a close guess,” said Dr. Smythe. “I will not keep you any longer in the dark. I am an author in my own right.”
“You are? What a surprise!” said Mr. Clemens. “I meet so few fellow authors. Here, Kipling, here’s another author among us! Dr. Smythe, this is my friend Rudyard Kipling.
