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way … Perhaps I shall leave him … Sooner than he—

      (Cough. Footsteps)

      GREER: Well, lass, sharpening up your appetite? That’s right. But what’s this? Tears? Well now, this won’t do.

      ALICE: It’s nothing, Daddy. I—this baby makes me feel weak and silly. It’s nothing, really.

      GREER: Come now, that’s better, take my arm. We’ll go into the saloon. It’s just on dinner-time.

      (Footsteps recede. Noises of sea. Then fade into general conversation)

      LAURA: Well, that’s what I call a slap-up dinner. I only hope I will be able to keep it inside me. Is it going to be very rough tonight, Captain?

      GREER: Don’t you worry, Miss Annesley. Weather reports say we may run into a bit of local fog. Nothing worse than that. She’ll not jump about much till we get into the Bay, and you’ll have your sea-legs by then.

      LAURENCE: Well, Strangeways, how’s the—secretarial work going?

      NIGEL: O.K., thank you kindly.

      JAMES: Mr Strangeways is a confidential secretary, Annesley?

      LAURENCE: yes. To be sure. A formidable responsibility—to be the repository of Sir James Braithwaite’s secrets.

      (Embarrassed pause)

      LAURA: I’m sure it’ll be very nice for Mr Strangeways to have something to do—to keep his mind occupied, I mean. I mean, there are limits to one’s capacity for playing deck-quoits. I say—that reminds me—where are all the sailors, Captain?

      GREER: The sailors?

      LAURA: Yes. I was on the deck quite a long time before dinner, and I never saw a single one. I thought there’d be dozens of them—polishing the binnacle and letting the bullgine run, and so on.

      LAURENCE: Bad luck, Laura. All your beautiful cruise-wear wasted.

      GREER: A modern cargo vessel pretty well runs itself, Miss Annesley. You’ll not find seamen on the deck, except when the watches are being changed. We’ve nothing to do but squirt oil into the engine now and then; the rest of the time we spend knitting socks for our nippers.

      LAURA: Knitting socks?—He’s pulling my leg, isn’t he, Sir James?

      JAMES: The modern seaman certainly has an easy time if it, compared with the man of thirty years ago.

      GREER: Aye. All that brass we had to clean. Wherever they could put a bit of brass on those old tramps, they did.

      JAMES: —And nowadays he doesn’t know when he’s well off. Better food, more comfortable quarters, overtime pay.

      MACLEAN: He’ll have an easy time, maybe—till the ship starts to go down under his feet.

      (Another embarrassed pause)

      LAURA: Oh but how gruesome you are, Mr Maclean. Have you ever been in a shipwreck? Do tell us all about it.

      GREER: Well, if you ladies and gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll just see if the shore agent has got anything to tell me. He rings me up at 8.30. You see, Miss Annesley, I just put on these headphones, and turn this switch, and—

      (Pause. Faintly we hear, as over the radio telephone—)

      VOICE: ‘James Braithwaite’. ‘James Braithwaite’. ‘James Braithwaite’. Cullercoats radio calling. Cullercoats radio calling. Cullercoats radio calling the ‘James Braithwaite’. Over to you.

      GREER: ‘James Braithwaite’ answering. ‘James Braithwaite’ answering Cullercoats radio. Over to you.

      (Sound of switch being put over. The others begin to talk quietly, so that we now only hear the captain’s end of the conversation. His sudden excitement, however, soon stops their talk.)

      GREER: Hello, Tom … How’s the wife keeping?… That’s fine. Anything for me? What’s that? (Long pause: the passengers’ talk dies out: we hear squeaky unintelligible noises through the radio telephone.) Well, that’s a nice thing. Why can’t they keep a better look-out?… Eh?… And what am I supposed to do about it: I haven’t got a padded cell on my ship, have I?… Oh, get out with you!… Oh, he is, is he? Yes, I see. I’ll take action. Yes, I’ll take action. Goodbye, Tom.

      (Pause. They are expecting the captain to speak)

      JAMES: Well, Greer, what is it? What was all that about?

      GREER: I’ve had a rather disagreeable message … A warning, you might say.

      ALICE: ‘Warning’, Daddy? What—?

      GREER: it seems a chap escaped from that lunatic asylum at Newcastle last night.

      LAURA: Oo-er. Is he swimming after the ship?

      GREER: They’ve just had a report that someone answering to this chap’s description was seen hanging round the docks early this morning, near the ‘James Braithwaite’. A big chap, with a limp—a sort of shuffling walk—is the way they describe it. An ex-seaman, he is.

      JAMES: (sharply) Well, what about it?

      GREER: Well, it seems this chap has delusions. He’s what they call a homocidal maniac.

      ALICE: Oh!

      GREER: Now don’t upset yourself, lass. No reason to suppose the fellow got aboard. We’ll have the ship searched, just to make sure he’s not here. Mr Maclean, take a search-party if you please, and go right over her.

      MACLEAN: Very good, sir.

      (Gets up: sound of door closing)

      GREER: Lucky we’ve got a detective on board. May come in useful.

      LAURA: Detective? Well, I’ll say this is a surprise packet. First we get a loony, then a detective—what’ll you give us next?—the Grand Lama of Tibet? Where is this mysterious detective?

      GREER: (quickly) Now I think we’ll rearrange the cabins a bit. Miss Annesley won’t want to sleep alone. We’ll put her in with Alice: and Sir James can shift into Number 2 cabin—that’s the single one next to mine. Mr Annesley and Mr Strangeways stay as they are in Number 4. Just an extra precaution. No need to fret yourselves. Mr Maclean will find this chap, if he is on board.

      (Fade. Fade into forecastle. Talk. An accordion or mouth-organ playing)

      MACLEAN: Tumble out, the watch. Search-party. Stowaway aboard. Evans, take three men and search the deck—lifeboats and everything. Watch yourselves, he may show fight. Escaped lunatic. The rest, follow me.

      (Someone whistles. Feet running up ladder, dispersing. Voices. We follow footsteps along deck, down iron ladder into engine-room. Sound of engines grows louder. Following conversation carried on fortissimo)

      MACLEAN: Evening, Chief.

      VOICE: This is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you, Mr Maclean?

      MACLEAN: Search-party. There’s a lunatic escaped. He may have come on board last night.

      VOICE: Indeed? If you’re looking for lunatics, ye’d better try the bridge, Mr Maclean. Ye’ll not find them in the engine room.

      MACLEAN: Sorry, Chief. Captain’s orders.

      VOICE: Lunatics! In my engine room! T’chah!

      (Sounds of search. Noise of engines fades into noise of sea. On deck. Footsteps)

      VOICE I: He’s not in this lifeboat, any road.

      VOICE II: I always said it was unlucky, bringing women aboard.

      VOICE III: My sister’s husband went balmy. Used to see angels walking about in t’back yard,

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