“Why not?”
“Because you can't.”
“That's fighting talk. Now, just to prove to you the depth of error in which you flounder, young man, I am about to throw you out.” And he grasped Andrew Bowers in the grip of a grizzly bear and whisked him out of the top berth.
“Wait one second,” his helpless victim cried. “I have something to say before you go any further.”
“Say it,” Webster ordered. “Your tongue is the only part of you that I cannot control.”
“When you throw me out on deck,” Andrew Bowers queried, “do your pyjamas go with me? Does the hair go with the hide?”
“They cost me sixteen dollars in Salt Lake City, but—good lord, yes. I can't throw you out mother naked; damn it, I can't throw you out at all.”
“Didn't I tell you so? Be a good fellow and turn me loose.”
“Certainly—for the time being. You'll stay locked in this stateroom while I have a talk with the captain. He'll probably dig up a shirt, a pair of dungarees, and some old shoes for you and set you ashore before we get out of the river. If he doesn't do that he'll keep you aboard and you'll shovel coal for your passage.”
“But I'm Andrew Bowers and the purser has collected my first-class ticket!”