“Did you ring, sir?” said the man, respectfully.
“I did,” said Geltman, wrathfully.
“Yes, sir,” said the man. “Can I get you anything, sir?”
“Can you get me—?” began the bewildered Geltman. “Is there anything you can’t get me? Get me some food—my own clothes—and get me—get me—out of this. Where am I? What am I doing here?”
“You were sleeping, sir,” said the man, imperturbably. “I thought you might not wish to be disturbed.”
Geltman looked around him again as though unwilling to credit the evidence of his senses. He saw that the man kept his hand upon the door and eyed him narrowly.
“I’ve been drugged and shanghaied. What boat is this? Where are we?”
“We’re at sea, sir,” said the man, quietly. “Off Fire Island, I believe, sir.”
“Fire Island,” he cried, “and this—” as memory came back with a horrible rush—“what day is this?”
“Wednesday, June the twentieth,” replied the man, calmly.