CHAPTER III.

THE MAN FROM THE RIVER PLATE

As we drew alongside the German, it became evident that we were objects of much interest to her people. I had a good view of the third-class quarters; she had a deck-load of dagoes under her awnings that would have frightened a Chicago bootlegger.

We started up the ladder; and I thought it probable that some of the spectators would either fall overboard or break their necks, so urgently did they crane across the rails.

“They are anxious to see the gallant rescuer,” said Ensleigh.

I knew my dago better. They were anxious to see Nanette’s pretty legs.

On the deck, I turned and looked across to where Funchal climbed the hill. The sunlight was dazzling. I could trace the steep cobbled street, from point to point, down which one may slide in a wicker toboggan; see the square, too, with its powder-blue trees, and imagine the morning gathering at the tables outside the Golden Gate. Away over the bows I looked, and saw the flower-draped cliffs below Reid’s, where, on the lower terrace, over cocktails, Nanette would, I surmised, be the sole topic of conversation.

The lady in question, supremely indifferent to the somewhat marked curiosity of the passengers, was walking aft with Jack, doubtless in quest of the much-desired lager. Jack, his legs encased in sodden flannels, was ridiculously happy because Nanette hung on his arm.

“Leave them alone,” said Ensleigh. “God knows he’s earned it.”

We found our way to the smoke-room and ordered drinks. They were good and cheap. They served to wipe out one more of the old scores I had against our Teutonic friends (_nées_ enemies). It was a distinctly mongrel company. Germans predominated, with a big sprinkling of those nondescripts and none-such usually invoiced as Argentines but sometimes mistaken for Greeks.

One man, who sat alone, puzzled me. He was handsome, in a way. He wore his wavy hair rather long and was dressed in a perfectly cut and immaculately white drill suit. With the aid of a black-rimmed monocle attached to a thick ribbon, he read what looked like an official document.

“By Jove!” Ensleigh exclaimed.

Glancing aside, I saw that he, too, was staring at this romantic individual.

“Looks like John Barrymore,” said I.

“I know,” Ensleigh replied. “But he didn’t wear his hair like that the last time I saw him--coming out of the Salient with what was left of the Irish Guards. By Jove!”

He jumped up and crossed the room. I followed.

“O’Shea!” he cried.

The man addressed dropped his monocle and stood up; then:

“Ensleigh!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “Can it be Ensleigh!”

“Ensleigh it is!” was the reply; “and I want you to meet”--drawing me forward--“Mr. Decies. Decies, this is Major Edmond O’Shea.”

The Major readjusted his monocle and looked me over briefly, as if to determine whether he wanted to know me or not. I found myself looking into a pair of the coldest gray eyes that had ever examined my hidden motives.

But, to tell the truth, I was more than a little flurried. For, as Ensleigh spoke, the fact had dawned upon me that I stood in the presence not only of an Irishman of ancient family, nor merely in that of a distinguished British officer, but in the presence of a mess-room tradition; a thing infinitely more wonderful and holy. This was “The O’Shea”--a synonym for all that’s fine under the Colours from Whitehall to Khatmandu.

He dropped his monocle and grasped my hand warmly.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Decies,” he said. We formed a trio, and there were some inevitable reminiscences--and more drinks; then:

“What, in the name of wonder, are you doing on this ship?” Ensleigh asked.

O’Shea shrugged his shoulders. He had some queerly Gallic mannerisms. In fact, if one had not known better, one must have written him off as an incurable poseur.

“Peace-time soldiering is a dull business,” he replied. “I take on odd jobs to keep me out of mischief.”

He rang for the steward and ordered drinks in what I believe was unexceptionable German. Following some aimless chatter:

“Are you for Bremen?” asked Ensleigh.

“I don’t know,” said O’Shea surprisingly. He twirled his glass and stared around the smoke-room. “I may come ashore here.”

“You _may_!” I exclaimed and glanced at the clock. “You have twenty minutes to decide!”

“Two would be sufficient,” he assured me. “I travel light!”

He smiled--and, in the smile, I met for the first time the real O’Shea. The cold gray eyes were cold no longer; they smiled, too--whimsically, lovably. The cloak of inscrutability was dropped, just for a moment, and the clean, brave soul of the man peeped out. A vague dislike vanished as morning mist, and I knew that men would follow Edmond O’Shea into the thickest and the hottest, if he needed them; women, too, perhaps. A man like that is a man born to suffer. But suddenly I understood why the Guards had worshipped him.

“There goes the first shore signal,” said Ensleigh. “We had better rescue Nanette from the lager.”

We found her on deck with Jack and another man who had tacked himself on to the party. He was a poisonously handsome none-such, and his heavy-lidded dark eyes were literally devouring the girl’s dainty beauty. He had come across Jack in London; and now Jack was the most unhappy man in Madeira. Every time roguish blue eyes met lustful brown eyes, he visibly shuddered.

The dark gentleman was presented.

“Ensleigh, Decies--meet Senhor Gabriel da Cunha.”

We met him--reluctantly.

“This,” said Ensleigh, “is Mr. Jack Kelton--Major Edmond O’Shea. Doubtless, Senhor da Cunha, you have met already?”

“No,” murmured O’Shea, bowing coldly. “One does not meet everybody on board.”

“Nanette!” I called.

She had stepped to the rail with Da Cunha. She turned.

“Yes?”

“I want you to know Major Edmond O’Shea.”

She came forward and I introduced them formally. Nanette gave one quick, startled look at O’Shea--and O’Shea, noting her unusual attire, smiled. Nanette dropped her lashes, said something meaningless, and ran back to Da Cunha.

I heard Jack grind his teeth. When he joined the pair at the rail I stood at his elbow.

“We must be saying good-bye, Mr. da Cunha,” he began, but:

“Not good-bye at all!” Da Cunha exclaimed, turning and resting one hand on Nanette’s shoulder. “I am undecided until this morning, but now--it is settled! Here, in Madeira”--he indicated distant hills--“I have a bungalow, so charming. Do you know--” he included us all in the conversation--“that in Funchal is what they call a ‘blind spot’ in radio? Yes. But in my bungalow, high up, I have the most perfect set in the island; and one night--to-night, maybe--” he glanced aside at Nanette--“we shall dance to your Savoy band!”

“You are going ashore, then?”

“But certainly! It is settled. Is it not?”

The question was addressed to Nanette, and:

“I should just _hate_ to lose you so soon,” she replied. “Let’s go and see if your things are in the boat.”

Side by side with the radiantly smiling Da Cunha, she hurried forward. She glanced at Jack, at me, at Ensleigh. O’Shea was watching her, but she avoided his gaze. He turned and went in at the saloon entrance.

The last gong sounded. Jack had suddenly disappeared. I stared at Ensleigh. He whistled softly.

“Nanette has been bitten at last,” he remarked.

“Yes,” I said, “I think she has.”

Da Cunha’s baggage was loaded into Reid’s launch and we all got aboard. We were surrounded by a babbling gang in boats who held up Madeira lace and cane chairs and shawls and bedspreads, desperately inviting bids from the passengers. It was distracting, so that I scarcely noticed a steward coming down the ladder, carrying a suitcase and a valise. Jack sat right astern, his hands plunged in the pockets of his sodden flannels. Then, suddenly, I realized that someone was beside me.

I turned--and met the cold gray eyes of O’Shea!

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Your decision was a sudden one!”

“Yes,” he replied, “it was--very.”

“Hullo, O’Shea!” cried Ensleigh. “This is fine!”

Nanette bent toward Da Cunha, talking animatedly.