In the distance he saw his room steward, weaving his way in and out of the cabins under his care. The man was busy with his last duties for the night, refilling water carafes, laying out towels, putting things generally to rights.
"Evening, sir," he said as he entered John Quincy's room. Presently he came and stood in the door, the cabin light at his back. He was a small man with gold-rimmed eye-glasses and a fierce gray pompadour.
"Everything O. K., Mr. Winterslip?" he inquired.
"Yes, Bowker," smiled John Quincy. "Everything's fine."
"That's good," said Bowker. He switched off the cabin light and stepped out on to the deck. "I aim to take particular care of you, sir. Saw your home town on the sailing list. I'm an old Boston man myself."
"Is that so?" said John Quincy cordially. Evidently the Pacific was a Boston suburb.
"Not born there, I don't mean," the man went on. "But a newspaper man there for ten years. It was just after I left the University."
John Quincy stared through the dark. "Harvard?" he asked.
"Dublin," said the steward. "Yes, sir—" He laughed an embarrassed little laugh. "You might not think it now, but the University of Dublin, Class of 1901. And after that, for ten years, working in Boston on the Gazette—reporting, copy desk, managing editor for a time. Maybe I bumped into you there—at the Adams House bar, say, on a night before a football game."
"Quite possible," admitted John Quincy. "One bumped into so many people on such occasions."