Webster ceased speaking abruptly. He was looking straight into the malevolent orbs of Pucker-eye, who was standing just behind the clerk at the foot of the gangplank.
“I wonder if Popeye's around, also,” Webster thought, and he faced about. Pop-eye was standing in back of him, leaning over the railing of the gangway.
“Which is the valet?” the purser's clerk asked, scanning the names on the tickets.
“Andrew Bowers.”
“All right, Mr. Webster,” the other answered, with that genial camaraderie that seems inseparable from all of his calling. “When Andrew comes I'll send him aboard.”
He started to pass the tickets back to Webster, but a detaining hand rested on his arm, while a dark thumb and forefinger lifted the trailing strips of tickets. Pucker-eye was examining them also.
He sent his elbow backward violently into Pucker-eye's midriff and shook him off roughly.
“What do you mean, you black-and-tan hound?” he demanded. “Since when did you begin to O. K. my work?”
Pucker-eye made no reply to this stern reproof. He accepted the elbow with equanimity, and faced Webster with an evil smile that indicated mutual recognition.
“Bueno,” he said, with such genuine satisfaction that Webster could not help demanding: