“Yes, sir. You can see for yourself. Here it is: berths 432 and 433. You’ll find it quite cosy, I’m sure.”
Staff nodded, eyeing the cubicle indicated by the pencil-point.
“That’ll do,” said he. “I’ll take it.”
“Then-Q. Upper’r lower berth, sir?”
“Both,” said Staff, trying not to look conscious—and succeeding.
“Both, sir?”—in tones of pained expostulation.
“Both!”—reiterated in a manner that challenged curiosity.
“Ah,” said the clerk wearily, “but, you see, I thought I understood you to say you were alone.”
“I did; but I want privacy.”
“I see. Then-Q.”—as who should say: Another mad Amayrican.