Disappointed and indignant to the point of suppressed profanity, he elbowed out of the thronged saloon just in time to espy a steward (quite another steward: not him with whom Staff had left his things) struggling up the main companionway under the handicap of several articles of luggage which Staff didn’t recognise, and one which he assured himself he did: a bandbox as like the cause of all his perturbation as one piano-case resembles another.
Now if quite out of humour with the bandbox and all that appertained thereunto, the temper of the young man was such that he was by no means prepared to see it confiscated without his knowledge or consent. In two long strides he overhauled the steward, plucked him back with a peremptory hand, and abashed him with a stern demand:
“I say! where the devil do you think you’re going, my man?”
His man showed a face of dashed amazement.
“Beg pardon, sir! Do you mean me?”
“Most certainly I mean you. That’s my bandbox. What are you doing with it?”
Looking guiltily from his face to the article in question, the steward flushed and stammered—culpability incarnate, thought Staff.
“Your bandbox, sir?”
“Do you think I’d go charging all over this ship for a silly bandbox that wasn’t mine?”