<h3>CHAPTER X</h3>
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">On</span> the first floor of the London Royal Exchange
is a large apartment studded with desks,
around and between which surges a hurrying, shouting
crowd of brokers, clerks, and messengers.
Fringing this apartment are doors and hallways
leading to adjacent rooms and offices, and scattered
through it are bulletin-boards, on which are daily
written in duplicate the marine casualties of the
world. At one end is a raised platform, sacred to
the presence of an important functionary. In the
technical language of the "City," the apartment is
known as the "Room," and the functionary, as the
"Caller," whose business it is to call out in a mighty
sing-song voice the names of members wanted at the
door, and the bare particulars of bulletin news prior
to its being chalked out for reading.</p>
<p>It is the headquarters of Lloyds—the immense association
of underwriters, brokers, and shipping-men,
which, beginning with the customers at Edward
Lloyd's coffee-house in the latter part of the seventeenth
century, has, retaining his name for a title,
developed into a corporation so well equipped, so
splendidly organized and powerful, that kings and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</SPAN></span>
ministers of state appeal to it at times for foreign
news.</p>
<p>Not a master or mate sails under the English flag
but whose record, even to forecastle fights, is tabulated
at Lloyds for the inspection of prospective employers.
Not a ship is cast away on any inhabitable
coast of the world, during underwriters' business
hours, but what that mighty sing-song cry announces
the event at Lloyds within thirty minutes.</p>
<p>One of the adjoining rooms is known as the Chart-room.
Here can be found in perfect order and sequence,
each on its roller, the newest charts of all
nations, with a library of nautical literature describing
to the last detail the harbors, lights, rocks,
shoals, and sailing directions of every coast-line
shown on the charts; the tracks of latest storms; the
changes of ocean currents, and the whereabouts of
derelicts and icebergs. A member at Lloyds acquires
in time a theoretical knowledge of the sea seldom
exceeded by the men who navigate it.</p>
<p>Another apartment—the Captain's room—is given
over to joy and refreshment, and still another, the
antithesis of the last, is the Intelligence office, where
anxious ones inquire for and are told the latest news
of this or that overdue ship.</p>
<p>On the day when the assembled throng of underwriters
and brokers had been thrown into an uproarious
panic by the Crier's announcement that the great
<i>Titan</i> was destroyed, and the papers of Europe and
America were issuing extras giving the meager details
of the arrival at New York of one boat-load of
her people, this office had been crowded with weeping
women and worrying men, who would ask, and remain
to ask again, for more news. And when it came—a
later cablegram,—giving the story of the wreck and
the names of the captain, first officer, boatswain,
seven sailors, and one lady passenger as those of the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</SPAN></span>
saved, a feeble old gentleman had raised his voice in
a quavering scream, high above the sobbing of women,
and said:</p>
<p>"My daughter-in-law is safe; but where is my son,—where
is my son, and my grandchild?" Then he
had hurried away, but was back again the next day,
and the next. And when, on the tenth day of waiting
and watching, he learned of another boat-load of
sailors and children arrived at Gibraltar, he shook
his head, slowly, muttering: "George, George," and
left the room. That night, after telegraphing the
consul at Gibraltar of his coming, he crossed the
channel.</p>
<p>In the first tumultuous riot of inquiry, when underwriters
had climbed over desks and each other to
hear again of the wreck of the <i>Titan</i>, one—the noisiest
of all, a corpulent, hook-nosed man with flashing
black eyes—had broken away from the crowd and
made his way to the Captain's room, where, after a
draught of brandy, he had seated himself heavily,
with a groan that came from his soul.</p>
<p>"Father Abraham," he muttered; "this will ruin
me."</p>
<p>Others came in, some to drink, some to condole—all,
to talk.</p>
<p>"Hard hit, Meyer?" asked one.</p>
<p>"Ten thousand," he answered, gloomily.</p>
<p>"Serve you right," said another, unkindly;
"have more baskets for your eggs. Knew you'd
bring up."</p>
<p>Though Mr. Meyer's eyes sparkled at this, he said
nothing, but drank himself stupid and was assisted
home by one of his clerks. From this on, neglecting
his business—excepting to occasionally visit the bulletins—he
spent his time in the Captain's room drinking
heavily, and bemoaning his luck. On the tenth
day he read with watery eyes, posted on the bulletin<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</SPAN></span>
below the news of the arrival at Gibraltar of the
second boat-load of people, the following:</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"Life-buoy of <i>Royal Age</i>, London, picked up among
wreckage in Lat. 45-20, N. Lon. 54-31, W. Ship <i>Arctic</i>,
Boston, Capt. Brandt."</p>
</div>
<p>"Oh, mine good God," he howled, as he rushed
toward the Captain's room.</p>
<p>"Poor devil—poor damn fool of an Israelite," said
one observer to another. "He covered the whole of
the <i>Royal Age</i>, and the biggest chunk of the <i>Titan</i>.
It'll take his wife's diamonds to settle."</p>
<p>Three weeks later, Mr. Meyer was aroused from a
brooding lethargy, by a crowd of shouting underwriters,
who rushed into the Captain's room, seized
him by the shoulders, and hurried him out and up to
a bulletin.</p>
<p>"Read it, Meyer—read it. What d'you think of
it?" With some difficulty he read aloud, while they
watched his face:</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"John Rowland, sailor of the <i>Titan</i>, with child passenger,
name unknown, on board <i>Peerless</i>, Bath, at Christiansand,
Norway. Both dangerously ill. Rowland speaks of ship cut
in half night before loss of <i>Titan</i>."</p>
</div>
<p>"What do you make of it, Meyer—<i>Royal Age</i>,
isn't it?" asked one.</p>
<p>"Yes," vociferated another, "I've figured back.
Only ship not reported lately. Overdue two months.
Was spoken same day fifty miles east of that iceberg."</p>
<p>"Sure thing," said others. "Nothing said about
it in the captain's statement—looks queer."</p>
<p>"Vell, vwhat of it," said Mr. Meyer, painfully
and stupidly: "dere is a collision clause in der <i>Titan's</i>
policy; I merely bay the money to der steamship company
instead of to der <i>Royal Age</i> beeple."<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"But why did the captain conceal it?" they
shouted at him. "What's his object—assured
against collision suits?"</p>
<p>"Der looks of it, berhaps—looks pad."</p>
<p>"Nonsense, Meyer, what's the matter with you?
Which one of the lost tribes did you spring from—you're
like none of your race—drinking yourself
stupid like a good Christian. I've got a thousand on
the <i>Titan</i>, and if I'm to pay it I want to know why.
You've got the heaviest risk and the brain to fight
for it—you've got to do it. Go home, straighten up,
and attend to this. We'll watch Rowland till you
take hold. We're all caught."</p>
<p>They put him into a cab, took him to a Turkish
bath, and then home.</p>
<p>The next morning he was at his desk, clear-eyed
and clear-headed, and for a few weeks was a busy,
scheming man of business.</p>
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