AN OCEAN EPISODE

New Zealand Tablet, 15 July 1920, Page 5

AN OCEAN EPISODE

The Mayurma had steamed quietly away from San Francisco and was already half-way through that famous portal of Western America The Golden —when Irving Newcomb, leaning on his wife’s arm, came on deck, only to find that a stranger had usurped one of the two steamer chairs he had chartered for the voyage. Having only lately passed through the hands of a surgeon, Newcomb was on a convalescing trip over the Pacific, but he looked what ho was, an invalid, and more than usually irascible. Ho was about to apostrophise the stranger when his wife prevented him. . “Wait a moment, Irving,” she observed. “I believe it’s a Catholic priest.” “Sure enough!” remarked the husband when he observed the clerical appearance of the usurper, the Roman collar and the inevitable' breviary. “But, confound it, ho went on, “the chairs are ours. I’m going to inform him.” - , , . ,

“Don’t just yet! Perhaps he doesn’t know they’re reserved,” ventured Mrs. Newcomb. “It’s nearly dinner time. Let us leave him there and go- to have the bags brought to the state room.” Newcomb yielded reluctantly, bewailing the fact that “those priests are übiquitous.” , . While the invalid and his wife descended the stairway Father Higgins, wholly unaware of the irate attention he had occasioned, finished up Matins and Lauds, and rose to take a glimpse of the ocean. As the great Pacific liner pushed farther and farther away from the fading coast line, the young missionary experienced within himself a curious medley of sentiments which might be summed up under the head of loneliness. He yielded for a moment to their depressing influence, but they were partly shaken off ill a brisk double circuit of the upper deck, after which ho went down to the dining saloon. • The mirth of the tourist parties gathered at the different tables harmonised so little with his present state of mind that he hesitated a moment at the door of the sumptuous ha'll, before seeking out a place. “This way, Father!” beckoned the head-waiter, who took him to a quiet corner where happily a port-hole at his elbow would enable him during his meal to enjoy the gorgeous spectacle of a Pacific sunset. ' The diners began to file in until all the places on his side of the saloon were taken, save the two directly opposite him. Even then a couple were being directed thither, although they seemed rather perturbed over something or

other. “At any rate, Irving,” the lady remarked in an undertone as they seated themselves, “we can enjoy the sunset.” . '

. ' “Well, that at least is something to bo thankful for!” concurred the other in a tone more or less sepulchral. Both exchanged a nod of recognition to the priest seated opposite, who noted its lack of friendliness and returned it as an “aboard ship” formality. “We’ve arranged with the steward for a special -service,” the woman said when the waiter appeared, while a peremptory bob of the head from her husband was the signal to the young Jap in white to dispatch himself. Father Higgins lingered over his coffee and dessert, but the “special service” arrived straightway, much to the dissatisfaction of Newcomb, who told the waiter he did not want buttered toast, but dry,'nor his eggs boiled so hard, etc.

- ; The missionary rose, said his grace, and then withdrew, to their greater comfort. “Well,” he mused, as he mounted to the deck, “it must be a miserable business to spend one’s life and strength in a constant effort to preserve it.” (9 • • • • • • Saturday was the third day out. As the passengers went up from dinner that evening they found on the bulletin board a modest typewritten notice : “Catholic services will be held to-morrow at 9 a.m. in the parlor saloon, second deck.” Though naturally retiring, Father Higgins had already made the acquaintance of many on board and had begun to exercise a quiet ministry among them. His “sign” on the bulletin board gave him wider recognition. Perhaps the best of his new-found friends was Reginald Bevins, a precocious youngster of twelve, universally popular, eternally lively, and a real companion. He was the priest’s rival at shuffleboard and quoits. He served his Mass each morning, and on this particular evening undertook the duties of “press agent” by inviting everybody to be present at the Mass on the morrow. By some mysterious influence, perhaps merely by his cheery frankness, Reginald broke through the barrier which the invalid Irving Newcomb had thrown up against the world aboard, and had awakened the man’s interest in his twelve years of life, and all he was going to do when he became a man. He had, then, as he thought, a half right to tip-toe up behind the two “reserved” deck chairs in the retired corner, and with a loud “wow!” scare their occupants into nervous tremors. The convalescent retaliated with a broken-breathed tirade against youthful thoughtlessness; Mrs. Newcomb sank back in her chair trembling and speechless. When the youngster saw what he had done all he could do was to confound the confusion with tears and protestations that he “didn t mean it.” And the couple forgot their panic to soothe the child. “Oh, come now, my boy, don’t cry,” urged Irving Newcomb; “we know you didn’t mean it.” “Yesyes; stop now!” his wife added, recovering herself somewhat.

“I—l only wanted —to tell you something,” sobbed the boy, hiding his tears in the big blue tie of his sailor blouse.

“Well, now, dear, what is it-?” Mrs. Newcomb inquired. “I just wanted to tell you that Father Higgins is going to say Mass to-morrow in the parlor if you’d like to come, and,” he added hopefully, “I’m going to serve.”

Late Sunday afternoon Father Higgins strode the upper-aft deck finishing a few remaining verses of his office. The weather was dull and grey, with a slight mist settling, which • made indoors preferable to deck for the majority of the passengers. Only here and there a rug stretched in a low lounging chair betokened the presence of some ‘salt air fiend.’" Newcomb was one of these; he had sent his wife below, while he spent that weary Sunday afternoon communing with himself and looking out upon the whipping and whirling of the Pacific. Seeing the priest walking to and fro, he saluted him with unusual affability. “It’s a very dark afternoon, Father,” he said, rising to a sitting position. “Yesvery,” answered the missionary drawing in from the railing. “Perhaps we’re in for a storm.” “I hope not,” said Newcomb. “I’d like good weather at least to Honolulu.”

“You port there?” asked Father Higgins. “Yes, for a month,” he responded, “and then we go to Tokio —and you?” “I’ve booked straight through to Japan myself—Tokio is my destination,” replied the priest, “with orders to be there as soon as possible.” Newcomb was silent. There was something he wished, but hesitated to say. The priest waited. - “My wife and I attended your service this morning,” he began. “It was quite impressive— of course, unintelligible to us.” *• “Oh, then you’re not Catholics?” queried the missionary.

“No, we’re nothing— at all,” his companion answered with a manner of self-disgust. “However I’ve been thinking all day, Father; we ought to be something, oughtn’t we?” “Yes, we ought to be something,” the priest repeated. “Isn’t it peculiar how all pagan —Chinese, Japanese, Turks, and Indians — all something when it comes to religion and so many of us Americans are just nothing?” “It’s strange,” agreed Newcomb, “and deplorable.”

Then changing the subject “ You’re bound for Japan, you say?” ■ ' “Yes,” returned Father Higgins, not to be waived from his vantage ground. “I’m going to teach in Tokio and to try, with God’s help, to make something else besides Buddhists of the -little Japanese. Of course the world will be hard the difficulties are innumerable. Then, too, I learn the material resources are decidedly scant. But the Church has had these handicaps for nineteen hundred years, and has always surmounted them. So why should they intimidate us?” “Well, I surely wish you all success in your project. You said nineteen hundred years. Do you claim that antiquity for your Church?” “Assuredly!” replied the missionary. “And it has. Now, take the Church as Christ founded it, and the Church to-day ” He was going to delineate the straight line of Apostolic succession when Mrs. Newcomb broke in upon the conversation. She could not hide her surprise at seeing the “usurper” back in the chartered chair, and moreover chatting with her husband. An invitation to the priest to dine with them closed an afternoon which was the forerunner of other developments.

During the five days that remained before they reached Hawaii, Father Higgins spent many hours in the company of both Newcomb and his wife. The invalid had found him so well read and withal so decidedly pleasing, that a third chair was added to the little nook on the Mayurma which the Newcombs had monopolised. Moreover, several heart-to-heart talks had succeeded not only in convincing the convalescent that he ought to be “something” religiouslybut “something very definite.” Newcomb’s reply was, “We’ll see. Anyhow, we’ll look you up in Japan.” From the first days after his arrival in Tokio Father Higgins started to prepare himself for his ministry. Every afternoon, betaking himself to a quiet, cosy kiosk hidden away in a corner of the schoolhouse grounds, he studied the strange but picturesque tongue of the land of his future labors. After a month of practice and effort he was able to gather from the neophyte porter’s explosion of syllables that visitors awaited him in the reception hall; nor was he surprised to find there his two friends of the Mayurma. “We were bound to look you up, Father,” Newcomb broke in, shaking the priest’s hand heartily. “Well, it was certainly good of you,” replied the latter. “And Japan— your trip from the north—you like it, Mrs. Newcomb? Yes and no, perhaps!” “That’s just it exactly,” agreed the lady. “It’s a land of pictures and flowers; but also of hardships for us; so few conveniences; sightseeing in Japan is too wearying to be enjoyable.” During the walk about the large school grounds, Father Higgins explained to the couple the aims and hopes of the institution as well as the work of the Church throughout the island. While they rested in the kiosk, the scene of the young missionary’s daily encounters with odd sounds and weird characters, Irving Newcomb, not yet restored to health, apparently, observed, “Father, I can’t begin to thank you for all you’ve done for me.” “It has not been much, I’m sure, Mr. Newcomb,” the priest modestly rejoined; “but I’m glad to have served you even so little.” “Little!” exclaimed the visitor, “why you’ve made life real for me. I’ve been chasing a phantom ; running from pillar to post trying to snatch up a little health; so wrapped up in myself that I’ve never given a thought to anyone or anything else.” “But one must safeguard his strength and vitality,” protested Father Higgins; “that’s only fair.” “Of course!” returned Newcomb, “but my case has been a stupid one, fighting death and disease, without a —folly, sheer folly! —and I never realised it before that dull Sunday on the boat. I assure you that I thought a great deal that afternoon, and more since.” “And the upshot of it all?” inquired, the missionary. “Is this,” Irving responded, taking out his pocketbook and handing a draft for a goodly sum to the surprised priest. “That’s for making 'something definite’—in other words, a Catholic—out of me, and to help you in your work here of making something else besides Buddhists out of your little Japanese. It is my intention to enter the Church for good when I get back to San Francisco.” The priest held the man’s extended hand for a moment, saying with evident emotion, “Mr. Newcomb, my dear man, thank God and not me for this great gift of your new faith. He uses the weakest instruments and the most unlooked-for occasions to work out His plans. The first step in this blessed change was the boisterous visit you received from my little Mass-server on the Mayurma, was it not?” “Right you are,” Newcomb agreed heartily, “and it had all the power and motion of the little rascal himself.” A few months later a letter reached Father Higgins

from San Francisco. .It was written by Mrs. Newcomb herself, telling him of her husband’s baptism and happy death, and giving interesting details of her own reception into the Church. He was filled with consolation, a sentiment which was intensified when he read for the second time the closing lines of a letter from Reginald Bevins which had arrrived by the same post: “Pray for me, dear Father, and maybe some day I shall be out there working with you. Reggie,” — Philip Mann, in the Messenger of the Sacred Heart.