It was past midnight, and the chief steward of the Gambier was taking a last glance through the empty saloon to see that everything was in order before he turned in, when Swires, the purser's bedroom steward, came to him.
“If you please, sir, the gentlemen in No. 16 send their compliments, and would be obliged to you if you will let them have their lights on full for an hour or so for a game. And they want a couple of bottles of Usher's and a dozen of soda.”
“Why can't they play cards in the-smoking-room on deck?” grumbled the chief steward; “there's a man on duty there until two o'clock—they know that well enough. Who's going to wait on them, and see after the lights?”
“I will, sir, if you don't mind,” replied Swires, a clean-shaven, deferential young man with shifty eyes.
“Well, it's against the rules. And if the skipper or the purser comes along, and finds you loafing about in, the alley-way when you ought to be turned in, I'll get into trouble as well as yourself. Captain Forreste is a very liberal gentleman, but he puts it on a bit too thick when he asks me to run risks.” But as he spoke he took out his keys, and proceeded to open his sideboard lockers—he had already received several golden tips from Captain Forreste and his friends, and felt certain of more in the future.
“I told the gentlemen, sir, that I would get into trouble if the purser or yourself seen me in the alley-way after eight bells, and they said that I might sit in their state-room until they had finished their game.”
“Oh, well, I suppose I must give in to 'em. Tell 'em not to make too much noise.”
As soon as Swires entered No. 16 with the whisky and sodas, Cheyne turned the key in the lock.
“Well?” asked Forreste interrogatively, as the steward laid the bottles down in one of the berths.
Helping himself to a cigar from a box on the table, the man lit it, and then sat down familiarly.