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Updated: May 3, 2025
Mr. Rinck was sitting on the threshold of his cabin, which was brightly lighted, smoking and petting his spotted cat. "It's good we're under way again," Frederick could not refrain from saying as he walked past. "Why?" said Rinck phlegmatically. "I for one," said Frederick, "would rather be running under full steam than drifting helplessly." "Why?" said Mr. Rinck again.
"Just take a look here, Doctor von Kammacher," he said, opening a door nearby, through which one could look into a deep, square pit filled half way up to the top with thousands of packages of all sizes. "Mr. Rinck has to arrange all of these." "Exclusive of the letters," Mr. Rinck supplemented phlegmatically. "Theridium triste," thought Frederick.
"I don't know who," said Wilhelm, "but some poet says, the sex is strongest when it is weak." Ingigerd was able to boast a new sensation, which she owed to Mr. Rinck, the officer in charge of the mail, a pretty little dog, a ball of white wool, scarcely larger than a man's two fists put together.
About thirty feet from Frederick, a man was standing in a cabin door, carefully hooked back. With incredible calm he was smoking a cigarette and inhaling, and stroking a yellow cat on his arm. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it, Mr. Rinck?" Frederick said, going up to him. "Why?" "Well, don't you think we're lost?" Mr. Rinck shrugged his shoulders without answering. "What's the matter?
He studied the first two years here under Schnyder von Wartensee, a distinguished Swiss composer; and his exercises have met with the warmest approval from Mendelsohn, at present the first German composer, and Rinck, the celebrated organist.
"Don't fall," said Rasmussen, who was still sitting there with the thermometer in his hand. But no, this time it was not Rasmussen. It was Mr. Rinck, with his yellow cat in his lap, the man who had been in charge of the mail on the Roland. "What are you doing here, Mr. Rinck?" Frederick roared.
The polar bear in miniature was barking wildly in its ridiculous thin falsetto at the great ship's cat, which Mr. Rinck was holding to its nose. "With your permission, Mr. Rinck, we shall sleep well to-night," said Wilhelm. "I always sleep well," replied the other phlegmatically.
"Yes." "Here is a letter for you," he said, drawing it from his waistcoat pocket. "It came by the French pilot-boat yesterday. The reason I did not deliver it is, that I could not find your name on the passenger list. My name is Rinck. I am in charge of the mail on board." Frederick thanked him. He was moved to see his father's handwriting.
He seemed to himself like an ant trying head over heels to escape the spell of the little spider, whose golden cobweb in long, open strands was luring on its victims. "That Rinck," said Wilhelm, as they resumed their promenading, "is a peculiar sort of chap. It is worth the while to get to know him. Twenty years ago he suffered hard luck from a woman of the same type as little Miss Hahlström.
People speak a great deal of fatalism, but to most of them the idea is merely a paper idea. To Rinck it is not a paper idea." The life on deck kept assuming a more and more unconcerned, mundane aspect. Frederick was astonished to see so many persons from Berlin whom he knew by sight.
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