“It’ll look better,” says the agent, a little shamefaced, “when the beds are made. The company supplies a piller each, and a pair o’ blankets.”
No ventilation. No light of day. One electric burner to illumine the horror of the gloom.
“You don’t mean to say—” began Hildegarde, turning such a look upon the agent that he said hurriedly: “No, no. This won’t do for a noos—fur a lady.” And they climbed the ladders back to day.
He found the lady up-stairs quarters on the saloon deck.
“But there are only five berths here.”
“Best cabin on the ship,” said he, spitting with decision through the port.
“But on this card on the door there are five names already.”
“One’s comin’ out,” and he saw to that by the simple process of drawing an indelible pencil across “Miss Tillie Jump,” and substituting “Miss H. Mar.”
Still the young lady studied the card. “Look at this.”
He looked.