“Shut the door, Harvey,” said the New Yorker. “Shut the door and stay outside. You’re not wanted here.”
“Who’ll stop me?” he answered, deliberately. “Did you pay for my passage, Mister Martin? Guess I’ve as good right here as the next man.”
He picked up some dice from a checkerboard and began throwing, right hand against left.
“Say, gen’elmen, this is deader’n mud. Can’t we make a game of poker between us?”
There was no answer, and he puffed his cigarette, swung his legs, and drummed on the table with rather dirty fingers. Then he pulled out a roll of bills as if to count them.
“How’s your mamma this afternoon?” a man said. “I didn’t see her at lunch.”
“In her stateroom, I guess. She’s ’most always sick on the ocean. I’m going to give the stewardess fifteen dollars for looking after her. I don’t go down more ’n I can avoid. It makes me feel mysterious to pass that butler’s-pantry place. Say, this is the first time I’ve been on the ocean.”
“Oh, don’t apologize, Harvey.”
“Who’s apologizing? This is the first time I’ve crossed the ocean, gen’elmen, and, except the first day, I haven’t been sick one little bit. No , sir!”
He brought down his fist with a triumphant bang, wetted his finger, and went on counting the bills.
“Oh, you’re a high-grade machine, with the writing in plain sight,” the Philadelphian yawned. “You’ll blossom into a credit to your country if you don’t take care.”