“No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger.”
“I specially selected No. 17, and the purser said I could have it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said coldly. “But No. 17 has been allotted to me.”
“I can’t agree to that.”
The steward put in his oar.
“The other cabin’s just the same, only better.”
“I want No. 17.”
“What’s all this?” demanded a new voice. “Steward, put my things in here. This is my cabin.”
It was my neighbor at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “It’s my cabin.”