"A pleasure yacht?" I inquired.
"You may call it that. If it ain't that I don't know what it is, and I ought to know, seeing I am purser. We've all signed on for twelve months, anyway. Now, doctor, we want a doctor."
He laughed, as if this had been a joke, and I stared at him. "You mean," said I slowly, "that I might apply."
"If it's worth your while," said he. "You know best."
"Well, I don't know about that," I replied. "It depends on a good many things."
All the same I knew that I did know best. The whole of my discontent, latent and seething for years, surged up in me. Here was the wretched practice by which I earned a miserable pittance, bad food, and low company. On the pleasure yacht I should at least walk among equals, and feel myself a civilised being. I could dispose of my goodwill for a small sum, and after twelve months—well, something might turn up. At any rate, I should have a year's respite, a year's holiday.
I looked across at the purser of the Sea Queen, with his good-looking, easy-natured face, his sleek black hair, and his rather flabby white face, and still I hesitated.
"I can make it a dead bird," he said, wagging his head, "and you'll find it pretty comfortable."
"Where are you going? The Mediterranean?" I asked.
"I haven't the least idea," he said with a frank yawn. "But if your tickets are all right you can bet on the place."