“May I ask what your specialty is, Mr. Stoss?” asked Hans Fuellenberg.

“A very easy specialty, once you know how.  But if it should ever come to a duel between you and me, young man, you’d have to choose what eye or ear or tooth you’d be ready to part with.”

“He’s as good a shot as Carver,” someone said.  “He can take the middle right out of an ace three or four times in succession.”

“Just like any other display of skill.  But don’t for a moment suppose, gentlemen, that even if a man has arms and doesn’t have to hold the gun with his feet and pull the trigger with his toes, that he learns how to do it without sweating and self-denial and endless patience.”

“Somebody said you play the violin like Sarasate,” said Hans Fuellenberg.

“Not exactly.  Nor need I, considering the way I was born.  But I am fond of music and my audiences go wild over my playing.”

Captain von Kessel entered.  He was received with a general “Ah!” Through the door burst a great wave of sunlight.

“The barometer is rising, gentlemen.”

The fog had lifted, and now the men in the smoking-room realised that the Roland was rocking no more than easily and comfortably and was making its way with majestic speed.

This acted like a charm.  The captain left the door open and had Pander hook it back.  A man, who had been lying asleep in a corner—­in that half sleep which is the mildest symptom of seasickness—­rose to a sitting posture and rubbed his eyes.  Hans Fuellenberg and a number of other men hastened out on deck.  Doctor Wilhelm and Frederick, who had lost the game, followed.

XXV

The two physicians paced the full length of the promenade deck.  The air was mild.  The ship was moving quietly, as if its great body took delight in pushing onward through none but low waves.  It was surprising to see how gay the life on deck was.  They were constantly raising their hats and making way for somebody.  The stewards had carried the news of the good weather down to the passengers in their stuffy cabins, and all the seasick travellers had come crawling on deck.  There was much talking and laughing.  Each moment brought fresh surprise over the galaxy of merry women that had kept themselves stowed away in the Roland’s interior.  It was just an ordinary Saturday afternoon in January; yet suddenly an atmosphere of festivity prevailed not to be outdone by a Christmas eve.

Hans Fuellenberg passed by.  He was cracking jokes for everybody’s benefit and flirting desperately with his Englishwoman, who had recovered from her seasickness.  She had found a friend, a woman in a fur cap and coat, with a magnificent crown of light hair, like a Swedish woman’s.  She seemed to be greatly amused by Fuellenberg’s poor jokes and poor English.  He had abstracted her muff and was alternately conveying it to his stomach, his