When I draft a book manuscript, inevitably I omit sections that don’t serve the plot. But I never completely delete them. Below is a short omitted section of Sheltering Angel telling of stewards Sid Siebert and Andrew Cunningham in New York around 1907.   

By autumn Emily was in the final weeks before the new baby was due. I hired a nurse to look after her, and her mother moved in during the time I was away. I couldn’t be too cautious. We were a fair ways from London should anything go wrong.

For the next seventeen days at sea, I was in a dither. While we docked in New York, Sid asked, “Care for a foray into the city? We could use some distraction.” Sid had a wild streak Winnie had not yet tamed. With him being away for so many days at a time, I doubted she’d ever be able to domesticate him.

“I’m going into Manhattan this afternoon for an errand, if you’re of a mind to join me,” I told him.

“Errand?”

“A bit of shopping.”

“Shopping, is it? You’d best keep an eye out for thieves.”

“I doubt there’ll be thieves at this establishment,” I assured him. “Come along with me.”

“I trust I’ll be able to get a jigger of gin wherever we’re headed.”

I sniggered. “It’s not exactly the Tenderloin, my friend.”

I led Sid to Union Square and a storefront with the name F.A.O. Schwartz over the door. Inside, Teddy bears stared blankly at us and a toy train chugged around a track. Wooden animals on wheels, dolls, tin soldiers, spinning tops, puzzles, and games decorated the shelves. Growing up with an elderly aunt, Sid probably hadn’t had much of a childhood. He was like a youngster, his eyes gibbous with excitement.

When he wandered off to look at rocking horses and a life-sized jack-in-the-box, I turned my attention to picking out something for my boy Sandy and  settled on a toy boat for us to sail on the lake at Saint James Park.

When we met up again, Sid was carrying a binocular sort of contraption.

“Always wanted one of these.”

“What the devil is it?” I asked.

“A stereoscope.” He held it up for me to inspect. “See? You put a card in the slot at the end of this stick and then look through these two lenses.” He handed me the cards, each of them with two of the same photograph, side by side—a landscape, a crocodile, and a dozen other images.

“Here.” Sid took the card with the crocodile and put it in the slot. “Take a look.”

When I peered through the viewer, the beast looked as if it were in the room with us.

“For jings sake,” I said, turning the thing around in my hands. “How does it work?”

He made a V with his fingers and pointed to his eyes. “Each of your eyes sees a thing from a different angle. Your brain puts the two angles together and there you have it.”

“There I have what?”

“Don’t be dense, man. You have—” He searched for the words. “The perception of depth.”

“Well then,” I said, “how can I be sure you’re not a flat card and I’m just having a perception of you?”

“Cunningham, you are exasperating.”

“Anyway, why the devil would you want to look at vile animals when you’ve got the best view in the world from the ship?”

“Fantasy—and scantily clad girls.” He held up the card of a lady in her petticoat. “Found this at the back of a bin. Can’t get much of that aboard ship.”

I smirked and shook my head. “That’s wicked, Sid, you scoundrel. Put your toy in the bag and let’s get back to the dock.”

Sid insisted we stop for a pint or two at a scuzzy bar on our way through the Bowery. As always with him, two became three and before we realized it, night had fallen. Outside, he stopped on the sidewalk to light a cigarette. Behind him on a store sign I read the words O’Reilly Tattoo Parlor.

“A man’s not a man until he’s had some ink,” Sid said, pushing me through the doorway.

“Naw—” I started. Then, “Aw, what the pish.” Somewhere in the furry regions of my thinking, I knew I’d have to keep a tattoo covered so the posh travelers wouldn’t think me lower class. But I had wallowed in the bowels of the Bowery, and a mark of shame seemed appropriate. Besides, Sid promised to foot the bill.

A bloke named O’Reilly was the only artist that evening, so Sid said he’d wait for another occasion to get his branding. I took the chair, and within an hour the Union Jack blazed on my right arm, my initials—AC—under it.

“Why not Saint Andrew’s Cross?” Sid asked.

“My home’s England now,” I said. “But Saint Andrew’s Cross is tattooed on my Scottish heart.”