ut you can't appear without a pianist."

"I've got a pianist."

"You have?"

"Yes. A little undersized shrimp of a fellow with a green face and ears
like water-wings."

"I don't think I know him."

"Yes, you do. He's you!"

"Me!"

"Yes, you. You are going to sit at the piano to-night."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's impossible. I gave you my views
on the subject just now."

"You've altered them."

"I haven't."

"Well, you soon will, and I'll tell you why. If you don't get up out of
that damned berth you've been roosting in all your life, I'm going to
ring for J. B. Midgeley and I'm going to tell him to bring me a bit of
dinner in here and I'm going to eat it before your eyes."

"But you've had dinner."

"Well, I'll have another. I feel just ready for a nice fat pork
chop...."

"Stop! Stop!"

"A nice fat pork chop with potatoes and lots of cabbage," repeated Sam
firmly. "And I shall eat it here on this very lounge. Now how do we go?"

"You wouldn't do that!" said Eustace piteously.

"I would and will."

"But I shouldn't be any good at the piano. I've forgotten how the thing
used to go."

"You haven't done anything of the kind. I come in and say 'Hullo,
Ernest!' and you say 'Hullo, Frank!' and then you help me tell the story
about the Pullman car. A child could do your part of it."

"Perhaps there is some child on board...."

"No. I want you. I shall feel safe with you. We've done it together
before."

"But, honestly, I really don't think ... it isn't as if...."

Sam rose and extended a finger towards the bell.

"Stop! Stop!" cried Eustace Hignett. "I'll do it!"

Sam withdrew his finger.

"Good!" he said. "We've just got time for a rehearsal while you're
dressing. 'Hullo, Ernest!'"

"'Hullo, Frank,'" said Eustace Hignett brokenly as he searched for his
unfamiliar trousers.

CHAPTER VI

SCENE AT A SHIP'S CONCERT

Ships' concerts are given in aid of the Seamen's Orphans and Widows,
and, after one has been present at a few of them, one seems to feel that
any right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog along and take a
chance of starvation than be the innocent cause of such things. They
open with a long speech from the master of the ceremonies--so long, as a
rule, that it is only the thought of what is going to happen afterwards
that enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. This done, the
amateur talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins.

It was not