"We'd better find our places while we can, and have one ready for him," prompted the Frémont man.
He picked up the bed rolls, and hurried ahead, Charley at his heels. At the rail an official glanced at his ticket, and waved him to the upper deck. Charley followed. The ticket gave first-class cabin privileges, but what did these amount to, when 1500 passengers were being crowded upon a 500-passenger boat? Even standing room seemed to be valuable.
They pushed along through the mass of passengers and friends and relatives, who acted, some of them, too dazed and confused to move aside, and mounted the stairs leading to the upper decks. When they emerged into the open air, the Frémont man paused uncertainly, puffing, to survey the outlook.
"There's no chance for a berth, I suppose, is there?" he asked, of a clerk, passing.
The clerk scanned him impudently.
"No, sir. Every berth was taken before we left New York."
"Then why did the company sell us tickets?"
"That, sir," said the clerk, with an irritating smile, "is none of my business." And he hurried away.
"Well, we might as well begin to rough it now as any time," remarked the Frémont man, after a keen look at the back of the retreating clerk. "We'll have to make our own way—and I reckon we can do it. Come on."
He shouldered ahead, Charley in his wake. The emerged aft, on the upper deck.