Holding a melon-shaped chunk, sportsman Gladwell challenges strolling passengers. “A football match. Losers shout winners to last call.”
In the first class dining room, Mme. Gladwell delights in the band’s new waltz, Songe d’Automne.
Then angers: A maiden voyage… to repair a sundered marriage, wasting itself in hooligan antics.
Amidship, engines growl like wounded beasts facing slaughter.
Gladwell thrills to the players’ cheering, cautions an exuberant midfielder against rough play.
Alarm flares splatter fiery stains over inky water.
Casual North Atlantic swells wait to gather the losers, taunt the winners.