Into the Storm Read Online Free PDF Page A

punch back that’s ’ot and ’eavy.”
    â€œAh, Mr. Grout,” said Mr. Clemspool, sitting and selecting a cigar, “you are a callow youth. Much too timid!”
    â€œMe? Timid? Not by yer life. It’s just that I knows about live folks as well as dead ones and pays heed to both kinds.”
    Mr. Clemspool waved his unlit cigar grandly. “You need not worry, sir. I have no intention of being dependent on you.”
    â€œDon’t yer?”
    â€œYou, sir, are — to make my point precisely — beneath me.”
    Flushing with anger, Mr. Grout pushed himself away from the wall. “Just don’t forget —”
    At that instant the door was flung open, and another man entered. His top hat, greatcoat, and silk muffler proclaimed him a gentleman. Moreover, though he was not tall, his considerable bulk and a mane of flowing graying hair helped give him a look of authority. His face was square with a firm chin and smooth, waxen cheeks, rather like the sculptured head of an ancient Roman. Of smile there was none. As for his eyes, they were small, gray, and set together closely, giving him a hard, disdainful expression.
    The newcomer nodded briskly to Mr. Clemspool and Mr. Grout as he rubbed his hands vigorously to create some warmth. “I fear I shall be chilled until home comes into view,” he announced in an American accent. “The sea air cuts to my bones.”
    â€œI am sorry to hear it, sir,” Mr. Clemspool allowed.
    â€œI hate these voyages,” the main informed his listeners, as if they needed to know his mind, “as you must. But when you have as many responsibilities as I do, you are in demand. A man’s business is his own. I trust my mother, sir, but no one else’s. No doubt you’ve come to the same conclusion.”
    â€œI certainly have,” Mr. Clemspool hastened to say as he rose and offered his hand to the stranger. “Mr. Matthew Clemspool of London. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
    â€œAmbrose Shagwell,” the man announced as he shook the proffered hand so hard it was all Mr. Clemspool could do to keep from crying out. “You must be the other first-class passengers. My home is in Lowell, fairest city in the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the United States of America. Engaged in the manufacture of cotton textiles. And you, sir?”
    â€œNot in any particular business, sir,” replied Mr. Clemspool, waving his hand airily. “I am sailing to America to see what might engage me. That’s to say, I have large funds at my disposal.”
    Mr. Grout snorted at the man’s boldness.
    The American, however, cast a newly appreciative eye upon Mr. Clemspool. “You are an investor then.”
    â€œI am, sir,” returned Mr. Clemspool with a nod that seemed to imply much.
    â€œWith large funds, you say?
    Mr. Clemspool plucked at the air. “Do you consider fifty thousand a lot?”
    Not only did Mr. Shagwell extend his hand to Mr. Clemspool a second time, his grip was quite tender.
    â€œYou are more than welcome to America, sir,” he said. “We have room for men of enterprise. Just understand that our ways and means are advanced and distinct from yours. Seek to impose Old World ways upon us, and we shall have trouble. America first and always!” Mr. Shagwell concluded, pointing to one of his eyes, then his nose, and with the same hand shaping his thumb and first finger into a circle. Finally, he nodded portentously, as if these signs held some significant meaning.
    Mr. Clemspool, though puzzled, chose to ignore them. “I’m not here to dispute you, sir,” he returned with an engaging smile.
    â€œWell then,” Mr. Shagwell enthused, “our friendship shall flourish. But you, young man,” he said to Mr. Grout, “I don’t have the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
    â€œToby Grout,” a baleful Mr. Grout