Staff frowned and waited a minute, then, receiving no further response to his enquiry, grunted “Good night,” turned off the light and got into his berth.
A moment later the question came out of the darkness overhead: “I say—what do you think?”
“Are you Iff or Ismay—you mean?”
“Aye, lad, aye!”
“I don’t know. It’s for you to say.”
“But if you thought I was Ismay you’d shift quarters, wouldn’t you?”
“Why?”
“Because I might pinch something of yours.”
“In the first place,” said Staff, yawning, “I can’t shift without going into the second cabin—and you know it: the boat’s full up. Secondly, I’ve nothing you could steal save ideas, and you haven’t got the right sort of brains to turn them to any account.”
“That ought to hold me for some time,” Iff admitted fairly. “But I’m concerned about your sensitive young reputation. Suppose I were to turn a big trick this trip?”