out of the
Clyde, and picked him up at Hamburg--him and others."

"A pleasure yacht?" I inquired.

"You may call it that. If it ain't that I don't know what it is, and I
ought to know, seeing I am purser. We've all signed on for twelve
months, anyway. Now, doctor, we want a doctor."

He laughed, as if this had been a joke, and I stared at him. "You
mean," said I slowly, "that I might apply."

"If it's worth your while," said he. "You know best."

"Well, I don't know about that," I replied. "It depends on a good many
things."

All the same I knew that I did know best. The whole of my discontent,
latent and seething for years, surged up in me. Here was the wretched
practice by which I earned a miserable pittance, bad food, and low
company. On the pleasure yacht I should at least walk among equals, and
feel myself a civilised being. I could dispose of my goodwill for a
small sum, and after twelve months--well, something might turn up. At
any rate, I should have a year's respite, a year's holiday.

I looked across at the purser of the _Sea Queen_, with his good-looking,
easy-natured face, his sleek black hair, and his rather flabby white
face, and still I hesitated.

"I can make it a dead bird," he said, wagging his head, "and you'll
find it pretty comfortable."

"Where are you going? The Mediterranean?" I asked.

"I haven't the least idea," he said with a frank yawn. "But if your
tickets are all right you can bet on the place."

"I'm agreeable," I said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Good man!" said he, with some of his former sparkle of interest. "And
now we'll have another to toast it, and then I must be off."

"Don't you think you'd better stay here the night?" I asked. "I can put
you up. And the fog's thicker."

"Thanks, old man," he replied with easy familiarity, "I would like a
roost, only I've got an engagement. I wired to some one, you know." And
he winked at me wickedly.

"Very well," said I. "If you have an appointment, I would suggest that
we leave over the toast."

"You're right," he said ingenuously. "But it was a nasty bath. All
serene. I'll fix that up. By the way," he paused on his road to the
door, "I haven't your name."

"Nor I yours," I answered. "Mine's Richard Phillimore."

"Mine's Lane," he said. "Qualified?"

"M.B. London," I replied.

"Good for you. That'll make it easier. I suppose I can go in your
togs."

"You're welcome," I said, "though they don't fit you very well."