“Then get me ashore!” Crang snatched up his coat and put it on. “There's a tug, or something, out there, isn't there?”
“Yes,” said the purser, “that's the company's tug, and I suppose you could go back on her, if you think you——”
“Think!” howled Crang. “I don't think anything about it! I know that——” His eye suddenly caught the envelope on the couch containing the ticket. “And what about this?” He picked it up, jerked out the ticket, and waved it in the purser's face.
The purser refused the document.
“You'll have to see the New York office, sir, about that,” he said.
“I will, will I?” snapped Crang. “Well, that isn't all I'll see them about!”
“I am sure they will do what they can, sir, to make things right—if they are to blame,” said the purser a little sharply. “But it might have been your teamer, you know, who made the mistake.” He turned to the door. “I will arrange about your going ashore, Mr. Bruce.”
“Yes!” growled Crang savagely—and five minutes later, swearing volubly for the benefit of those within hearing, he wriggled his way down a rope ladder to the tug's deck.
A deck hand led him to the pilot house.
“The captain 'll be along as soon as we start,” the man informed him.