to some of the pukka sahibs in India. The ones I’ve met have been decent enough chaps. You never know when a friend with money might come in useful, do you?”
“You’re right about that,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’d be in sad shape if Henry Rogers hadn’t been willing to help bail me out. He’s paying my passage over, and Wentworth’s, too—giving me the chance to work my way back into solvency. I used to think the Carnegies and Rockefellers were parasites on the human race. Now I think maybe millionaires have some purpose in the world, after all.”
“Aye, making it possible for writers to live by their wits,” agreed Mr. Kipling. “Shall we go see how the smoking room is set up?”
“Best suggestion I’ve heard today,” said Mr. Clemens. “No, make that second best—assuming that German makes good on his offer of a bottle of champagne. We’ll have a smoke, and then we’ll look back in my cabin and see if he’s remembered his promise.”
“And if he hasn’t, we can send for our own,” said Kipling. “Be a shame to cast off without a proper celebration. I’m looking forward to meeting this Prinz Karl; sounds like a capital fellow—although a bit of an odd one.” He laughed again, and we went in search of the first-class smoking lounge, while Mrs. Kipling made her way to the Grand Saloon.
I have never been one of the brotherhood of smokers—my one childhood experiment with a pipe and tobacco that one of my playmates “borrowed” from his father ended in such a way as to discourage me from further efforts along the same lines. And when I went out for football and other sports, I quickly learned that I had an edge in endurance over the fellows who smoked. But Mr. Clemens was an inveterate smoker, and his brain seemed to operate at full speed only when properly fumed with pipe or cigar smoke. So I had gotten used to doing much of our work, during his travels, in smoking cars and in hotel rooms with a thick aura of tobacco in the air. Knowing that the smoking lounge would be, in effect, our second home during the voyage, I saw no reason not to scout it out along with my employer and Mr. Kipling.
We found the area we were looking for not far from the dining room. The room was laid out much like a gentleman’s club on land, with card tables, plush sofas, several electric lights, and a supply of current newspapers and magazines. Half a dozen other passengers had already arrived in this sanctuary, and were putting it to good use—there were a pair of bewhiskered older men pegging away a hand of cribbage, two more quietly poring over the New York papers, and all adding their quota of smoke to the air. A few, evidently recognizing Mr. Clemens, looked up and nodded as we entered.
“Well, this is pleasantly laid out,” said Mr. Kipling, settling down on one of the sofas and pulling a cigar case out of his pocket. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get too crowded to have a quiet talk.”
“Oh, there are two other smoking lounges if we want to go hunt for them,” said Mr. Clemens, looking around at the appointments. “You young fellows are spoiled when it comes to ocean travel. Hell, I remember the old days, when we had to go out to the ‘fiddle’ for a smoke. That was just a shed covering the main hatch, with no place to sit, a stinking oil lamp, and cracks in the walls big enough to throw a tomcat through. I’d as soon smoke in a chicken coop—no, I’d rather smoke in a chicken coop. A well-made chicken coop is cleaner and keeps the weather out more efficiently, though I’ll grant you the company is a bit dull. But this room is as comfortable as you’ll find in most hotels—hell, I’ve been in German hotels that didn’t have a smoking room at all.”
Mr. Kipling leaned over to me and asked, in a stage whisper, “Is he going to give us his lecture on the old days, when the passengers had to row all the way across and catch their own fish to eat?” We all laughed, and I decided that Mr. Kipling was a fellow very much to my liking.
Mr. Clemens scowled at Kipling. “Now, don’t mock your elders, young man. You’re likely to make poor Wentworth think I’m not entirely veracious. He’s been with me since early summer, and I don’t think he’s caught me in a lie yet. Don’t go spoiling my reputation.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There was some sort of tale you tried to tell me about alligator nets . . .”
“There, Kipling, see what you’ve done?” Mr. Clemens knit his brows fiercely. “You’ve roused up Wentworth’s suspicions, and I reckon I’ll never be able to impose on him again. You have no idea what a loss that is. Now I’ll just have to shut up entirely—or worse yet, confine myself strictly to the truth. See if I let you have any of my champagne!”
“Hoist by my own petard,” said Kipling, a wide smile on his features. “Could I possibly change your mind by offering you one of these excellent Havana cigars? I bought a box specially in New York, thinking they’d be just the thing to help pass the voyage.”
Mr. Clemens took the proffered cigar and sniffed it, then smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Kipling—you have a good sense of the priorities. Let’s see if these things want to burn properly.” He snipped the end of the cigar with his pocket knife, and struck a sulfur-match to light it. Soon the two writers were happily smoking, and I sat back to look around the room.
The cribbage players were still locked in combat, calling out the scores and watching each other’s hands like hawks for stray points they could steal: “Fifteen, two. Fifteen, four. Run of three, seven. And nobby, for eight.” They gave the impression of being old rivals, who had met over the card table more than once. Another fellow of about the same vintage had joined them, and was looking over the shoulder of the nearer player with manifest interest.
A lean man with a fringe of gray hair around a balding pate and an expensively cut dark blue suit had sat down next to the gentleman who had been reading the newspaper, and they were now engaged in a sober discussion of the stock market. “My broker says to stay away from the railroad stocks for the next six months,” said the newcomer, and the other shook his head gravely. “Can’t imagine what the fellow’s thinking about. There’s nothing sounder than railroads, nothing at all. I just took on ten thousand B and O, myself. If I were you, I’d do the same.” My own familiarity with stocks and finance was extremely limited, but I had the instant impression that I was hearing two of the prime movers of American commerce in conference, and wondered how much money might be gained or lost when one of these gentlemen decided to change his portfolio.
I became aware of a bit of noise at the entrance, and looked up to see a uniformed steward attempting to prevent several younger-looking men from entering. At second glance, I was startled to recognize two of them as former Yale classmates of mine. What a surprise! I stood up and said, “Excuse me a moment,” to Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling, and walked over to see what they were doing here.
“I’m sorry, this is the first-class lounge,” the steward was saying. “Steerage passengers strictly forbidden. You’ll have to go back to your own deck.”
“Oh, bosh, old man, we’re not going to break anything,” said one of the fellows. “We just want to come in and have a smoke like everyone else.”
“Hello, Bertie,” I said. “What, are you going to Europe?”
“Good Lord, it’s Wentworth Cabot!” said Bertie Parsons—he’d had a room just down the hall from me our last year at Yale. “Hullo, old boy, what on earth are you doing aboard? Tell this chap we’re regular fellows, will you? You remember good old Johnny DeWitt, don’t you? And this is his brother Tom—he’s finished his first year up at New Haven.”
I turned to the steward, who seemed overwhelmed by the sudden influx of sons of Eli. “I know these fellows,” I said. “Is my word enough to let them in?”
“It’s
