CHAPTER XII
WEBSTER'S trunk went aboard the steamer early the following morning, and at noon he entered a taxi with his hand baggage and was driven to the levee where La Estrellita lay tugging gently at her mooring lines. Owing to the congestion of freight and traffic the chauffeur stopped his cab a little distance from the gangplank, where Webster discharged him with a liberal tip.
The latter, however, swung his passenger's bag and suitcase to the ground, picked them up and started for the gangplank.
“Never mind my baggage, lad,” Webster called after him. “One of the deck boys will care for it.” The chauffeur turned. “You've been very generous with me, sir,” he answered, “so I think I had better carry your baggage aboard. If you permit a deck boy to handle it, you merely have to give another tip, and that would be sheer wanton waste. Why shouldn't I earn the one you gave me?”
“I hadn't figured it out that way, son, so here's another half dollar for being the only existing specimen of your species in captivity. My stateroom is No. 34, upper deck, port side,” Webster answered, smiling. The man took the tip eagerly and hurried toward the gangplank; the quartermaster on duty shouldered a way for him and he darted aboard?
Webster followed leisurely. At the gangplank the purser's clerk halted him, examined his tickets and punched them.
“Where is the other man?” he asked. “You have two tickets here.”
“Oh, that blamed valet of mine,” Webster answered, and glanced around as if in search of that mythical functionary. “It would be like the stupid fellow to miss the boat,” he added. “When he comes——”