"Great Scott! Suppose it is impossible to get accommodations! I'll have
to ride as a stowaway in the hold, after all!" he thought.

At any rate he knew that the ten minutes were rapidly dissipating, and
from what he had learned by eavesdropping through the trunk, the Duke
was not the kindliest person in the world for a man in such a
predicament.

"Hello!" he called. "Hello, there.... Yes. I want the stateroom of Mr.
Jarvis.... Yes, Warren Jarvis.... No, I don't know the number of the
room.... All right."

There was a pause, and he improved the opportunity to unlimber his arms
and legs, while waiting by the instrument. At last came the welcome
voice with the African accents: "Yassir, hello. Who do you want?"

"Hello, Rusty!... Good boy.... Listen, come up to this stateroom, and
bring me an overcoat and a scarf. Yes, and bring me a damp towel with
some soap on it. Yes, and stick a comb into the coat pocket."

"Law, boss, I dunno whar you-all is?"

"That's right. Wait a minute." He opened the door to the cabin
passageway, and squinted at the number plate. Back again to the
telephone he continued: "Stateroom A, Promenade deck.... And bring up
that big bundle in the steamer rug. Quick now."

Jarvis hung up the receiver and walked stiffly to the window, peering
out at the disappearing shores.

"Well, good-by, Uncle Sam. I don't know when I'll see you again. And as
for you, Miss Liberty--I don't believe there will be any of your
sisters or cousins around this precious castle where Fate is taking me.
I don't know which of us two is the craziest--this Duke or myself."
Then, after a pause, he added, "Well, his taste is not to be sneered
at; that's certain."

There was a knock at the door. Warren was uncertain as to the wisest
thing to do. He called: "Go away--we're all very ill!" Then he darted
for one of the side staterooms.

But the door opened slowly, and the plump physiognomy of Rusty Snow
appeared. Rusty stumbled awkwardly over the elevated threshold,
dropping the large bundle, landing prone on the deck.

"Wha'f-f-foh they want to build a dern fool door like that?" complained
Rusty, scrambling up with a bruised shin, the tenderest spot of a
negro.

His master worked feverishly, untying the trays and fitting them into
the trunk from which he had tardily removed his dress coat, and the
revolver. Then he smiled at Rusty.

"How in de name of Moses did you-all git on de steamboat, Marse
Warren?" was his servant'