“That’s our profession,” Stoss continued, “and not only our profession, but everybody’s profession—­to do his duty, whether with liking or disliking, whether with happiness or with anguish in his soul.  Every man is a tragi-comic clown, although he doesn’t pass for one, perhaps, as we do.  To me it is a triumph, after what I have gone through, to stand on the stage this evening without trembling, among three thousand sensation-seeking spectators, and shoot the middle out of an ace.”

By degrees Stoss fell more and more into a lively strain of boasting, which, though not disagreeable, utterly lacked wit.  “If you haven’t anything better to do,” he said, turning to the physicians, “you might come to Webster and Forster’s and see me cut my capers.  Work!  Work!”—­this was meant for Ingigerd—­“I very much wish you would make up your mind to dance.  Work is medicine, work is everything.  To lament the past is of no use.  Besides,” he said, turning serious, “don’t forget, stocks in us are booming.  Actors must not reject such an opportunity.  Just wait and see how we’ll be surrounded by reporters the moment we set foot on land.”

“How so?” said Frederick.  “Don’t you suppose that all the details of the sinking of the Roland have been telegraphed to New York from quarantine?  Look at those great skyscrapers, that one with the cupola is the World building.  We have already gone to press, and millions of newspapers have spun us out, in the greatest detail.  The next four or five days there won’t be a man or woman in New York who can vie in celebrity with the survivors of the Roland.”

Amid similar talk, the Hamburg reached its pier, and leave-taking began in earnest.  It was truly remarkable to see what emotion suddenly seized these people, who at bottom were strangers to one another.  Mrs. Liebling wept, and Frederick and Doctor Wilhelm had to submit to her overflowing kisses of gratitude.  Rosa kissed Bulke; she kissed Doctor Wilhelm’s and Frederick’s hands again and again, amid veritable howls.  It goes without saying that the ladies also exchanged endearments.  Praises were bestowed upon Flitte; and Captain Butor and Wendler, in fact the entire crew of the Hamburg, were extolled as brave, noble rescuers.  The physicians and Stoss called the sailors of the Roland, “Our dear comrades!  Our heroes!”

It was agreed that all should meet again, and Doctor Wilhelm made an appointment with Captain Butor, Wendler, and even the tattered painter, Fleischmann, for noon of the day after next.  The place chosen for the meeting was the Hoffman House bar.  From there, they would go together on a jaunt through the city.

Poor Jacob Fleischmann, the painter, was somewhat perplexed by the mad city, and turned rather mealy-mouthed.  He could not speak English, he had little cash, and he had lost his only capital, his paintings.  He tried delicately, though with evident anxiety, to attach himself to the men with whom fate had thrown him, and they did not withhold the support he sought.  They agreed to look out for him.  Even Arthur Stoss proffered his services and good advice.