He was awakened the next morning long before his accustomed time by some one stirring noisily about the state-room. After lying in indignant silence for a while behind his drawn curtains, he touched the electric bell. When Judson's respectful knock responded, he said in tones of icy formality:
"Judson, tell the steward to draw my tub."
"I say," broke in a voice on the outer side of the curtain, "while you are drawing things, I wish you'd try your hand at this cork."
There was a brief parley at the door, and a "Very good, sir," from Judson.
Percival's anger rose. It was bad enough to share his room with a stranger, but to share his valet as well was out of the question. When a second tap announced that his bath was ready, he slipped a long robe over his silk pajamas and emerged imperiously from his berth. It is not easy to maintain a haughty dignity in a bath-robe, with one's hair on end, but Percival came very near it.
The effort was wasted, however, for a cheerful "Good morning, Partner," greeted him, and his cold eye discerned not a slant-eyed Oriental, but a round, pink American face, partly covered with lather, beaming upon him.
"My name is Black," continued the new-comer—"Andy Black. And yours?"
"Hascombe," said Percival, haughtily aware of all that that name stood for in the annals of southern England.
"Oh, you're the fellow that got left! Any kin to the Texas Hascombes?" asked the youth, drawing the razor over his upper lip as if there were real work for it to do.
"None whatever," said Percival. "I'll trouble you for my sponge-bag."