“I am though”, he said, “to a certain degree at least. Are you really going to America on your own?”
“I am”, I rejoined casually and rudely.
“What to do?” was his next query.
“Anything I can get” I replied.
“Hum”, he muttered, “I must see to this.”
Ten minutes later he returned again. “Come with me”, he said, and I followed him to his cabin—a comfortable stateroom with a good berth on the right of the door as you entered, and a good sofa opposite.
“Are you really alone?” he asked.
I nodded, for I was a little afraid he might have the power to forbid me to go and I resolved to say as little as possible.
“What age are you?” was his next question.
“Sixteen”, I lied boldly.