The Altered Sailing List

When dinner was over, Dick sat by himself in a quiet spot on the liner's
quarter-deck. There was a tall, iron bulwark beside him, but close by
this was replaced by netted rails, through which he caught the pale
shimmer of the sea. The warm land-breeze had freshened and ripples
splashed against the vessel's side, while every now and then a languid
gurgle rose from about her waterline and the foam her plates threw off
was filled with phosphorescent flame. A string band was playing on the
poop, and passengers and guests moved through the intricate figures of a
Spanish dance on the broad deck below. Their poses were graceful and
their dress was picturesque, but Dick watched them listlessly.

He was not in a mood for dancing, for he had been working hard at the dam
and his thoughts were disturbed. Clare had refused him, and although he
did not accept her decision as final, he could see no way of taking her
out of her father's hands, while he had made no progress towards
unraveling the latter's plots. Kenwardine was not on board, but Dick had
only seen Clare at some distance off across the table in the saloon.
Moreover, he thought she must have taken some trouble to avoid meeting
him.

Then he remembered the speeches made by the visitors at dinner, and the
steamship officers' replies. The former, colored by French and Spanish
politeness and American wit, eulogized the power of the British navy and
the courage of her merchant captains. There was war, they said, but
British commerce went on without a check; goods shipped beneath the red
ensign would be delivered safe in spite of storm and strife; Britannia,
with trident poised, guarded the seas. For this the boldly-announced
sailing list served as text, but Dick, who made allowances for exuberant
Latin sentiment, noted the captain's response with some surprise.