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The Wreck Of The Titan
by
In the first tumultuous riot of inquiry, when underwriters had climbed over desks and each other to hear again of the wreck of the Titan, one–the noisiest of all, a corpulent, hook-nosed man with flashing black eyes–had broken away from the crowd and made his way to the Captain’s room, where, after a draught of brandy, he had seated himself heavily, with a groan that came from his soul.
“Father Abraham,” he muttered; “this will ruin me.”
Others came in, some to drink, some to condole–all, to talk.
“Hard hit, Meyer?” asked one.
“Ten thousand,” he answered, gloomily.
“Serve you right,” said another, unkindly; “have more baskets for your eggs. Knew you’d bring up.”
Though Mr. Meyer’s eyes sparkled at this, he said nothing, but drank himself stupid and was assisted home by one of his clerks. From this on, neglecting his business–excepting to occasionally visit the bulletins–he spent his time in the Captain’s room drinking heavily, and bemoaning his luck. On the tenth day he read with watery eyes, posted on the bulletin below the news of the arrival at Gibraltar of the second boat-load of people, the following:
“Life-buoy of Royal Age, London, picked up among wreckage in Lat. 45-20, N. Lon. 54-31, W. Ship Arctic, Boston, Capt. Brandt.”
“Oh, mine good God,” he howled, as he rushed toward the Captain’s room.
“Poor devil–poor damn fool of an Israelite,” said one observer to another. “He covered the whole of the Royal Age, and the biggest chunk of the Titan. It’ll take his wife’s diamonds to settle.”
Three weeks later, Mr. Meyer was aroused from a brooding lethargy, by a crowd of shouting underwriters, who rushed into the Captain’s room, seized him by the shoulders, and hurried him out and up to a bulletin.
“Read it, Meyer–read it. What d’you think of it?” With some difficulty he read aloud, while they watched his face:
“John Rowland, sailor of the Titan, with child passenger, name unknown, on board Peerless, Bath, at Christiansand, Norway. Both dangerously ill. Rowland speaks of ship cut in half night before loss of Titan.”
“What do you make of it, Meyer–Royal Age, isn’t it?” asked one.
“Yes,” vociferated another, “I’ve figured back. Only ship not reported lately. Overdue two months. Was spoken same day fifty miles east of that iceberg.”
“Sure thing,” said others. “Nothing said about it in the captain’s statement–looks queer.”
“Vell, vwhat of it,” said Mr. Meyer, painfully and stupidly: “dere is a collision clause in der Titan’s policy; I merely bay the money to der steamship company instead of to der Royal Age beeple.”
“But why did the captain conceal it?” they shouted at him. “What’s his object–assured against collision suits?”
“Der looks of it, berhaps–looks pad.”
“Nonsense, Meyer, what’s the matter with you? Which one of the lost tribes did you spring from–you’re like none of your race–drinking yourself stupid like a good Christian. I’ve got a thousand on the Titan, and if I’m to pay it I want to know why. You’ve got the heaviest risk and the brain to fight for it–you’ve got to do it. Go home, straighten up, and attend to this. We’ll watch Rowland till you take hold. We’re all caught.”
They put him into a cab, took him to a Turkish bath, and then home.
The next morning he was at his desk, clear-eyed and clear-headed, and for a few weeks was a busy, scheming man of business.
CHAPTER XI
On a certain morning, about two months after the announcement of the loss of the Titan, Mr. Meyer sat at his desk in the Rooms, busily writing, when the old gentleman who had bewailed the death of his son in the Intelligence office tottered in and took a chair beside him.
“Good morning, Mr. Selfridge,” he said, scarcely looking up; “I suppose you have come to see der insurance paid over. Der sixty days are up.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Meyer,” said the old gentleman, wearily; “of course, as merely a stockholder, I can take no active part; but I am a member here, and naturally a little anxious. All I had in the world–even to my son and grandchild–was in the Titan.”