13 is the one thing I am superstitious about. It was a nice cabin too.
I inspected it,
wavered, but a foolish superstition prevailed. I appealed almost tearfully to the steward.
“Isn’t there any other cabin I can have?”
The steward reflected.
“Well, there’s 17, just along the starboard side. That was empty this morning, but I rather
fancy it’s been allotted to someone. Still, as the gentleman’s things aren’t in yet, and as
gentlemen aren’t anything like so superstitious as ladies, I daresay he wouldn’t mind
changing.”
I hailed
the proposition gratefully, and the steward departed to obtain permission from
the purser. He returned grinning.
“That’s all right, miss. We can go along.”
He led the way to 17. It was not quite as large as No. 13, but I found it eminently
satisfactory.
“I’ll fetch your things right away, miss,” said the steward.
But at that moment the man with the sinister face (as I had nicknamed him) appeared in
the doorway.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but this cabin is reserved for the use of Sir Eustace Pedler.”
“That’s all right, sir,” explained the steward. “We’re fitting up No. 13 instead.”
“No, it was No. 17 I was to have.”
“No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger.”
“I specially selected No. 17, and the purser said I could have it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said coldly. “But No. 17 has been allotted to me.”
“I can’t agree to that.”
The steward put in his oar.
“The other cabin’s just the same, only better.”
“I want No. 17.”
“What’s all this?” demanded a new voice. “Steward, put my things in here. This is my
cabin.”
It was my neighbour at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “It’s my cabin.”
“It is allotted to Sir Eustace Pedler,” said Mr. Pagett.
We were all getting rather heated.
“I’m sorry to have to dispute the matter,” said Chichester with a meek smile which failed
to mask his determination to get his own way.
Meek men are always obstinate, I have
noticed.
He edged himself sideways into the doorway.
“You’re to have No. 28 on the port side,” said the steward. “A very good cabin, sir.”
“I am afraid that I must insist. No. 17 was the cabin promised to me.”
We had come to an impasse. Each one of us was determined not to give way. Strictly
speaking, I, at any rate, might have retired from the contest and eased matters by offering to
accept Cabin 28. So long as I did not have 13 it was immaterial to me what other cabin I
had. But my blood was up. I had not the least intention of being the first to give way. And I
disliked Chichester. He had false teeth that clicked when he ate. Many men have been hated
for less.
We all said the same things over again. The steward assured us, even more strongly, that
both the other cabins were better cabins. None of us paid any attention to him.
Pagett began to lose his temper. Chichester kept his serenely.
With an effort I also kept
mine. And still none of us would give way an inch.
A wink and a whispered word from the steward gave me my cue. I faded unobtrusively
from the scene. I was lucky enough to encounter the purser almost immediately.
“Oh, please,” I said, “you did say I could have cabin 17? And the others won’t go away.
Mr. Chichester and Mr. Pagett. You
will
let me have it, won’t you?”
I always say that there are no people like sailors for being nice to women. My little
purser came to scratch splendidly. He strode to the scene, informed the disputants that No.
17 was my cabin, they could have Nos 13 and 28 respectively or stay where they were—
whichever they chose.
I permitted my eyes to tell him what a hero he was and then installed myself in my new
domain. The encounter had done me worlds of good. The sea was smooth,
the weather
growing daily warmer. Seasickness was a thing of the past!
I went up on deck and was initiated into the mysteries of deck quoits. I entered my name
for various sports. Tea was served on deck, and I ate heartily. After tea,
I played
shovelboard with some pleasant young men. They were extraordinarily nice to me. I felt that
life was satisfactory and delightful.
The dressing bugle came as a surprise and I hurried to my new cabin. The stewardess
was awaiting me with a troubled face.
“There’s a terrible smell in your cabin, miss. What it is, I’m sure I can’t think, but I doubt
if you’ll be able to sleep here. There’s a deck cabin up on C deck. You might move into that
—just for the night, anyway.”
The smell really was pretty bad—quite nauseating. I told the stewardess I would think
over the question of moving whilst I dressed. I hurried over my toilet, sniffing distastefully
as I did so.
What
was
the smell? Dead rat? No, worse than that—and quite different. Yet I knew it! It
was something I had smelt before. Something—Ah! I had got it. Asafoetida! I had worked in
a hospital dispensary during the war for a short time and
had become acquainted with
various nauseous drugs.
Asafoetida, that was it. But how—
I sank down on the sofa, suddenly realizing the thing. Somebody had put a pinch of
asafoetida in my cabin. Why? So that I should vacate it? Why were they so anxious to get me
out? I thought of the scene this afternoon from a rather different point of view. What was it
about Cabin 17 that made so many people anxious to get hold of it?
The other two cabins
were better cabins; why had both men insisted on sticking to 17?
17. How the number persisted! It was on the 17th I had sailed from Southampton. It was a
17—I stopped with a sudden gasp. Quickly I unlocked my suitcase, and took my precious
paper from its place of concealment in some rolled stockings.
17 1 22—I
had taken that for a date, the date of departure of the
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