“What boat you goin’ in?” asked the yellow-gray man.
“The Congress.”
“Oh!”
“What’s the matter with the Congress?”
Blumpitty shook his head, murmured, “—pretty hot,” and slowly divested himself of his overcoat. That done he stood revealed in black from head to heel. Something inexpressibly funereal about him now, that the dun-colored coat had masked. “Pity you didn’t know about the Los Angeles,” he said dolefully.
“What is there to know about her?”
“She’s goin’ to be fitted up in style.”
“Oh, I shan’t mind style.”
“We’re goin’ on the Los Angeles,” said the little wife.