CHAPTER XXIV
Felixstowe carefully concluded the enfolding of Jacob’s outstretched form in an enormous rug, placed a tumbler of soda water and some dry biscuits within easy reach of him, and stepped back to inspect his handiwork.
“A bit drawn about the gills, old top,” he remarked sympathetically. “How are you feeling now?”
“Better,” Jacob murmured weakly. “And kindly remember that I am your employer, and don’t call me ‘old top.’”
“Sorry,” was the cheerful reply. “One has to drop into this sort of thing by degrees. I’ve a kind of naturally affectionate disposition, you know, when I’m with a pal.”
“Get your typewriter and practise,” Jacob directed. “I’ll try and give you a letter.”
“So to the daily toil,” the young man chanted, as he turned away. “I’ve got the little beauty in the saloon.”
Jacob groaned and closed his eyes, for the motion of the steamer, two days out of Liverpool for New York, still awoke revolutionary symptoms in his interior. Presently Felixstowe returned, carrying a small typewriter. He arranged himself in the adjoining chair, drew up his knees, took out the typewriter from its case, and, with his pipe in the corner of his mouth, sat waiting.