“That passenger I was speaking of—Mr. Pierson Trendell his name is—the one who came on board late. He was recommended to my care by a friend of one of the owners of this steamer, though I don’t know him personally. He’s going to Honolulu for his health I understand. Guess I’ll have to be decent to him, though I didn’t take much of a notion to him, and I don’t like anyone who can’t arrive on time.
“But I’ll take a chance, and ask him to come with us and have a little lunch. As you say, this sea air does give one an appetite.”
They were on the berth deck now—the deck where Tom’s stateroom, an outside one, was located. The captain turned into a passageway, and paused before the door of a room not far from our hero’s.
“This is his berth,” he remarked as he rapped on the panel.
“Who’s there?” came a quick demand.
“Captain Steerit,” was the reply. “Would you like to come to lunch with me, Mr. Trendell?”
“In a private room?” was the query.
“No, but at my private table.”
“Any one else?”
“Humph! You’re mighty particular,” murmured the commander. “Why, yes,” he made answer in a louder tone. “My friend, Tom Fairfield, is coming with us. Shall I have a place laid for you?”