"I," SHE SAID "AM MAJOR JONES"
This time it was a female voice which brought me to an instantaneous standstill. For the instant I could not see the owner of the voice—the previously-mentioned steamer rug being in the way—but the challenge conveyed by her tone was unmistakable.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Thus was I addressed.
Before replying, I sought to comply with the conventionalities of the occasion by doffing my hat. The difficulties of removing a hat with a hand which holds at the moment an umbrella and a small portmanteau can only be appreciated by one who has attempted the experiment. I succeeded, it is true, in baring my head, but knocked off my glasses and precipitated my steamer rug and a package of books to the floor, where my hat had already fallen. Lacking the aid of my glasses, my vision is defective, but I was able to make out the form of a lady of mature years, and plainly habited, who confronted me at a distance of but a pace or two.
"Pray forgive me," I said hastily, "pray forgive me, Madam. I was under the impression that this was stateroom B-34."
"It is," she answered in a manner which but served to increase my perturbation. "What of it?"
"Nothing," I said, "nothing—except that there must be some mistake. I was given to understand that I was to occupy B-34, sharing it with a Major Jones, a military gentleman, I assume."
"I," she said, "am Major Jones."
To a statement so astounding I could only respond by confusedly saying, "Oh, Madam! Oh, Madam!"