But 'twa'n't the hay that made everybody set up and take notice. 'Twas the waiter himself. Our regular steward was a spindling little critter with curls and eye-glasses who answered to the hail of “Percy.” This fellow clogged up the scenery like a pet elephant, and was down in the shipping list as “Jones.”
The doc left his invalid hanging on the edge of the grave, and stopped and stared. Old Mrs. Bounderby h'isted the gold-mounted double spyglass she had slung round her neck and took an observation. Her daughter “Maizie” fetched a long breath and shut her eyes, like she'd seen her finish and was resigned to it.
“Well, Mr. Jones,” says I, soon's I could get my breath, “this is kind of unexpected, ain't it? Thought you was booked for the main deck.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, polite as a sewing-machine agent, “I was, but Percy and I have exchanged. Cereal this morning, madam?”
Mrs. Bounderby took her measure of shavings and Jones's measure at the same time. She had him labeled “Danger” right off; you could tell that by the way she spread her wings over “Maizie.” But I wa'n't watching her just then. I was looking at Mabel Seabury—looking and wondering.
The housekeeper was white as the tablecloth. She stared at the Jones man as if she couldn't believe her eyes, and her breath come short and quick. I thought sure she was going to cry. And what she ate of that meal wouldn't have made a lunch for a hearty humming-bird.
When 'twas finished I went out on the porch to think things over. The dining room winder was open and Jonesy was clearing the table. All of a sudden I heard him say, low and earnest:
“Well, aren't you going to speak to me?”
The answer was in a girl's voice, and I knew the voice. It said:
“You! YOU! How COULD you? Why did you come?”