“I don’t know,” said Elliott, weakly; and he was all at once seized with another fit of sickness and leaned over the rail, vomiting. When he had recovered a little he clung limply to a stanchion. He must get off this ship in some way; he must get back at once to Hongkong, where Margaret was left helpless.
“Have we dropped the pilot yet?” he asked of the passenger, who was looking on with the amused sympathy which is the best that seasickness can elicit.
“Dropped him three hours ago.”
There was not a minute to lose. Elliott hurried down-stairs again in search of the purser’s office, and burst in unceremoniously.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “How do I come on this ship? I didn’t take passage on her. I’ve got no ticket. I must go back to Hongkong.”
“What the devil did you come aboard for, then?” inquired the purser, not unnaturally.
“I don’t know how I got aboard. I woke up just now sick in my berth.”
“You couldn’t have got a berth without a ticket. Say, you’ve been seasick, haven’t you? Hasn’t it knocked out your memory a little? See if you haven’t got a ticket about you somewhere. They haven’t been taken up yet.”
“Certainly I haven’t!” Elliott protested, but he felt through his pockets. In the breast of his coat he came upon a large folded yellow document which, to his utter amazement, proved really to be a ticket from Victoria to San Francisco, in the name of Wingate Elliott.
“I never bought this. I never saw it before!” he cried.