Memories of reading The Upper Berth floated through my mind.

“If you mean that it’s haunted,” I said, “we’re not going to sleep there, so I don’t see that it matters. Ghosts don’t affect typewriters.”

Pagett said that it wasn’t a ghost, and that, after all, he hadn’t got cabin 17. He told me a long, garbled story. Apparently he, and a Mr. Chichester, and a girl called Beddingfeld, had almost come to blows over the cabin. Needless to say, the girl had won, and Pagett was apparently feeling sore over the matter.

“Both 13 and 28 are better cabins,” he reiterated. “But they wouldn’t look at them.”

“Well,” I said, stifling a yawn, “for that matter, no more would you, my dear Pagett.”

He gave me a reproachful look.