“My dear old man, you have many worthy qualities, but you must know that you can’t sing. You can’t sing for nuts! I don’t want to discourage you, but, long ago as it is, you can’t have forgotten what an ass you made of yourself at that house-supper at school. Seeing you up against it like this, I regret that I threw a lump of butter at you on that occasion, though at the time it seemed the only course to pursue.” Sam started. “Was it you who threw that bit of butter?” “It was.” “I wish I’d known! You silly chump, you ruined my collar.” “Ah, well, it’s seven years ago. You would have had to send it to the wash anyhow by this time. But don’t let us brood on the past. Let us put our heads together and think how we can get you out of this terrible situation.” “I don’t want to get out of it. I confidently expect to be the hit of the evening.” “The hit of the evening! You! Singing!” “I’m not going to sing. I’m going to do that imitation of Frank Tinney which I did at the Trinity smoker. You haven’t forgotten that? You were at the piano taking the part of the conductor of the orchestra. What a riot I was—we were! I say, Eustace, old man, I suppose you don’t feel well enough to come up now and take your old part? You could do it without a rehearsal. You remember how it went.... ‘Hullo, Ernest!’ ‘Hullo, Frank!’ Why not come along?” “The only piano I will ever sit at will be one firmly fixed on a floor that does not heave and wobble under me.” “Nonsense! The boat’s as steady as a rock now. The sea’s like a mill-pond.” “Nevertheless, thanking you for your suggestion, no!” “Oh, well, then I shall have to get on as best I can with that fellow Mortimer. We’ve been rehearsing all the afternoon, and he seems to have the hang of the thing. But he won’t be really right. He has no pep, no vim. Still, if you won’t ... well, I think I’ll be getting along to his state-room. I told him I would look in for a last rehearsal.” The door closed behind Sam, and Eustace Hignett, lying on his back, gave himself up to melancholy meditation. He was deeply disturbed by his cousin’s sad story. He knew what it meant being engaged to Wilhelmina Bennett. It was like being taken aloft in a balloon and dropped with a thud on the rocks. His reflections were broken by the abrupt opening of the door. Sam rushed in. Eustace peered anxiously out of his berth. There was too much burnt cork on his cousin’s face to allow of any real registering of emotion, but he could tell from his manner that all was not well. “What’s the matter?” Sam sank down on the lounge. “The bounder has quit!” “The bounder? What bounder?” “There is only one! Bream Mortimer, curse him! There may be others whom thoughtless critics rank as bounders, but he is the only man really deserving of the title. He refuses to appear! He has walked out on the act! He has left me flat! I went into his state-room just now, as arranged, and the man was lying on his bunk, groaning.”