CHAPTER VIII THE FIRST GERMAN GIFT—A ROSE
I went in earlier than he expected one evening in answer to his never-failing appeal: "Come and see me in bed, mother!" and found him sitting up in his berth with a scrap of pencil and a crumpled pocket notebook and his eyes glued on something that he saw through his open porthole.
He had the top inner berth, on the corridor side of the cabin, and by looking across the corridor he could get a complete view of nearly the whole of the dining-room of the liner. He thrust his pencil and paper out of sight under his blankets as I drew near; but he had done this too late, and he knew it as he met my look with one of his delightful smiles.
"Whatever are you doing, Little Yeogh Wough? Show me that notebook."
He drew forth the crumpled little pad of paper, and I found scribbled on it the following entries:
"Mr. B——, four whiskies and sodas, with the whisky more than half-way up the glass each time.
"Mrs. Delaplaine Waterton—three glasses of sherry and bitters.
"Mr. Pinkerby—a Kümmel and three whiskies.