So it was not a policeman. Litizki showed his ticket, and the purser's assistant passed on. It must be approaching the hour of departure. The tailor, fully aroused, wished that his neighbor would offer him more liquor.
"Do you think," he asked, "that I would have time to go ashore and get a bottle of whisky?"
"Yes," was the facetious reply, "but you wouldn't have time to get back. Never mind, partner. Have a drop of this," and again the flask was passed to him.
Litizki did not lie down again immediately after drinking. He sat crouched over with his hands about his knees, wondering if Miss Hilman had received his letter. The men in his compartment were chatting and laughing noisily. The single port-hole admitted so little light that he could not have distinguished the features of any of them except by the closest scrutiny. The steerage steward looked in.
"There's one place here, sir," he said, "that your man can have."
"All right," was the reply, in a wheezy, cracked voice; "take it, Billings."
The tailor started. Was not that the name of the man whom Miss Hilman had mentioned as the driver of Strobel's second carriage? Could it be that he was taking flight, too? or was it a mere coincidence of names?
A young fellow, preceded by an odor of strong drink, and followed by a decrepit old man, edged into the compartment. He carried a black, shiny portmanteau which he threw upon the vacant bunk.
"There!" he growled, "that was heavy. Give me another swig, Mr. Dexter."
"You shall have it, my boy, and welcome," croaked the old man, producing a flask from his pocket; "take a good, long drink. That's it! down with it, he! he! Pleasant voyage to you, Billings, my boy!"