t in
the same familiar attitude with rather less affection than the son of
her father's best friend might have expected. "I thought you said you
were going down to the promenade deck.

"I did go down to the promenade deck. And I'd hardly got there when a
fellow who's getting up the ship's concert to-morrow night nobbled me to
do something for it. I said I could only do conjuring tricks and
juggling and so on, and he said all right, do conjuring tricks and
juggling, then. He wanted to know if I knew anyone else who would help.
I came up to ask you," he said to Sam, "if you would do something."

"No," said Sam. "I won't."

"He's got a man who's going to lecture on deep-sea fish and a couple of
women who both want to sing 'The Rosary' but he's still a turn or two
short. Sure you won't rally round?"

"Quite sure."

"Oh, all right." Bream Mortimer hovered wistfully above them. "It's a
great morning, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Sam.

"Oh, Bream!" said Billie.

"Hello?"

"Do be a pet and go and talk to Jane Hubbard. I'm sure she must be
feeling lonely. I left her all by herself down on the next deck."

A look of alarm spread itself over Bream's face.

"Jane Hubbard! Oh, say, have a heart!"

"She's a very nice girl."

"She's so darned dynamic. She looks at you as if you were a giraffe or
something and she would like to take a pot at you with a rifle."

"Nonsense! Run along. Get her to tell you some of her big-game hunting
experiences. They are most interesting."

Bream drifted sadly away.

"I don't blame Miss Hubbard," said Sam.

"What do you mean?"

"Looking at him as if she wanted to pot at him with a rifle. I should
like to do it myself."

"Oh, don't let's talk about Bream. Read me some Tennyson."

Sam opened the book very willingly. Infernal Bream Mortimer had
absolutely shot to pieces the spell which had begun to fall on them at
the beginning of their conversation. Only by reading poetry, it seemed
to him, could it be recovered. And when he saw the passage at which the
volume had opened he realised that his luck was in. Good old Tennyson!
He was all right. He had the stuff. You could rely on him every time.

He cleared his throat.

"Oh let the solid ground
Not fail beneath my feet
Before my life has found
What some have found so sweet;
Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad,
I shall have had my day.

Let the sweet heavens endure,