“Then you can go for five dollars. Step this way.”
Guy picked up his valise and bundle and followed the steward, who led the way along the deck toward the forward part of the vessel, finally turning into an apartment which looked very unlike the neatly furnished cabin they had just left. The floor was destitute of a carpet, and the rough bunks that were fitted up against the bulk-heads looked anything but inviting. Chests, bundles, and bed-clothes were scattered about, and in one corner were congregated a dozen or more persons of both sexes, who were eating bread and bologna and talking loudly.
Guy looked askance at them, and more than half made up his mind that he wouldn’t take passage in the steerage. He didn’t like the idea of being obliged to keep such company for a journey of seven hundred miles.
“You may take this bunk,” said the steward, pointing out the one he wished Guy to occupy.
“Where are the bed-clothes?” asked the boy.
“We don’t furnish them to steerage passengers. Every man finds his own.”
“But I haven’t got any,” said Guy, “and I can’t sleep on those hard boards. I think I had better wait a while. I have a friend, Ned Wheeler, who is going with me, and perhaps he will decide to take a cabin passage.”
The steward, not deeming any reply necessary, turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Guy alone with the emigrants. He did not know that it would be quite safe to leave his luggage there with no one to watch it, but after a little hesitation he decided to run the risk; and, pitching his valise and bundle into the bunk the steward had pointed out to him, he hurried below to watch for his expected companion. He wanted to post him. In a few minutes Bob made his appearance.
“Look here,” said Guy, as he ran to meet him, “your name isn’t Bob Walker any longer—at least while we remain on board this propeller.”
“I understand,” said Bob. “Let me see; I’ll call myself——”