“I know what I want,” I finally mumbled to myself, “and that’s a smoke.”
It seemed as if I must have that smoke. I have since cured myself of the habit, but it held me strong enough then, as is evident when I add that I finally decided to have a try at finding the humidor which Stroth had handed me in his picture-papered stateroom.
“It’s worth a try, anyway,” said I to myself. “He wouldn’t mind, of course. And I can manage it without disturbing a soul.”
I opened my door cautiously, and crossed the saloon, which was dimly lighted by a night lamp of small candle power. Fortune favored me in that the farther door was slightly ajar. I opened it a bit farther, then craned my neck for a view.
“There it is,” said I mentally, as I recognized the dim outline of the box of cigars, and noiselessly I opened it and took one.
I had almost regained the saloon when I heard a faint noise and the click of glassware. I turned attentively, and under the lower crack of the farther door there filtered out to me the deep-red glow of the dark room.
But, for all the trouble I had taken to get the cigar, I didn’t finish it. By the time it was half smoked I got very sleepy, and the next thing I knew—as Uncle Remus says—“I didn’t know nuffin.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE OWNER’S ORDERS.
I awoke to Saki’s knock next morning, shaved in the warm water he had had the good sense to bring, and was first to reach the table.
I was quickly joined by Stevens, and I saw that his mood had bettered little since the evening. He acknowledged my presence with a dry nod; but, as we were finishing the simple meal, he assured himself that we were alone in the saloon by a hasty glance around, then asked low, but sharply: