"Eggs all right, sir?" he asked anxiously, a trace of accent in his pleasant voice.
"Yes, thanks." Miller looked at him casually. "I haven't seen you before; where's Jenkins?"
"Transferred to the café, sir," smoothing a wrinkle out of the tablecloth as he spoke. "I'll try to give satisfaction, sir."
Miller nodded absently. "Oh, it's all right," he said, stifling a yawn, and propping his newspaper against his coffee pot, ate his breakfast leisurely, so leisurely that the other habitués of the hotel had finished their breakfast and departed before he pushed back his chair. Turning, he signed to his waiter to bring his check, and not appearing to do so, watched his approach with keen interest.
"Been a steward, haven't you?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir." The waiter pocketed the tip with alacrity. "Hamburg-American
Line, sir."
"Thought so." Miller signed his name with careful attention to each stroke of the pencil. "How many of you are employed here?"
"Eight, sir. The lines are tied up; we must have work, and it's hard to get good berths, sir, with so many ships interned."
"Quite so," Miller rose. "Your name—?"
"Lewis. Just a moment, sir," as Miller started to cross the deserted dining-room, "Shall I reserve the table for you for luncheon, sir?"