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 be 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 bowled, 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.”