"Registered as 'Monsieur Dragot, of Roumania,'" the proprietor answered.
"Roumania!" Tommy looked at me. "Let's go meet him, Jack."
Monsieur Dragot turned out to be the original singed cat, for assuredly he possessed more attractive qualities inside than were exteriorly visible, and from a first shyness that did not lack charm he expanded briskly. After visiting a "dry" café, to seal this fortunate acquaintanceship—as he insisted upon calling it—he warmed up to us and we to him, with the result that his bags were soon carried down and stowed in our spare stateroom. Leaving him there, we went on deck.
"Dragot," Tommy mused. "Speaks with a slight accent, but I can't make out what!"
"Roumanian, possibly," I suggested, "as he comes from there."
"You rather excel yourself," he smiled. "Registering from Roumania, however, isn't prima facie evidence that he's a Roumanian."
"He's a clever little talker, all the same."
"Right O! Too clever. I'm wondering if we aren't a pair of chumps to take him."
"Why?"