With two dozen dress shirts, latest approved "Lunnon" style, safely cinched—I didn't propose to take any chances the balance of my trip, so I bought two dozen—I went to get that order changed for passage home.
"Why," the man told me, "we can't book you first cabin on anything sailing for America for six weeks. We can send you to New York steerage, on a ship sailing the day after tomorrow, if you speak quick. There are a couple of vacancies left. But you need not be afraid of steerage at this time. Owing to the war, the flower of America are going home steerage. The truly refined, the got-rich-quick, high-brows of the deepest dye, prize-fighters, captains of industry, and card-sharps are all traveling steerage these days.
"Why, Mr. Allen," he said, "traveling steerage is a picnic now. Owing to the class of people who are patronizing it, everything is done by the ship's management to make the steerage journey home a pleasurable experience."
As I have never been able to get enough picnics—I am a fiend for picnics—I spoke quick. I said: "Book me now."
"And," the man told me, "there will be a rebate coming to you. The fare, steerage, is only seven pounds. You hold a twenty pound order."
"Sure," I said, "thirteen pounds coming my way."
"Oh, no, not thirteen pounds; but there will be something. Come around this evening and I will tell you how much of a rebate you will be allowed."
"Why not thirteen pounds?" I asked. "Over on our side the difference between seven and twenty is thirteen."
"Oh, yes," he said, "but the P. & O. won't stand for such an adjustment; but I'll do the best I can for you."
When I went to get my rebate I was offered one pound eleven shillings.