"Steward," I thundered. My nerves were so shaken that I could not govern
my voice and conceal my agitation. This was the sort of thing that made
my terrifically whiskered mate tap his forehead with his forefinger.
I had detected him using that gesture while talking on deck with a
confidential air to the carpenter. It was too far to hear a word, but
I had no doubt that this pantomime could only refer to the strange new
"Yes, sir," the pale-faced steward turned resignedly to me. It was this
maddening course of being shouted at, checked without rhyme or reason,
arbitrarily chased out of my cabin, suddenly called into it, sent flying
out of his pantry on incomprehensible errands, that accounted for the
growing wretchedness of his expression.
"Where are you going with that coat?"
"To your room, sir."
"Is there another shower coming?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir. Shall I go up again and see, sir?"