“What of it? I shall declare—and with truth—that you are not Andrew Bowers, that you are not my valet, and that I did not buy the ticket for you. I dare you to face the captain in my pyjamas and prove you aren't a stowaway.”
“You would win on that point,” the baffling guest admitted, “but it is a point you will not raise. Why? Because I have another trump up my kimono.” He climbed back into the upper berth and from that vantage point gazed down benevolently upon John Stuart Webster. “I'm disappointed in you,” he continued sadly. “I thought you'd show a little normal human curiosity about me—and you haven't. You do not ask questions or I could explain, while I cannot volunteer information without seeming to seek your pity, and that course would be repugnant to me. I have never shovelled coal, although I daresay I could manage to earn my passage as a stoker; indeed, I daresay I shall have to, if you insist on being belligerent, and if you insist I shall not oppose you. I am hoping, however, that you will not insist, but that you will, on the contrary, accept my word of honour that you shall be reimbursed two hours after you land in San Buenaventura.”
“New music to your song, my friend, but the same old words,” Webster retorted, and stepped to the stateroom door. “You're doomed to shovel coal or go ashore.”
“Listen. If I go ashore, your responsibility for my life ceases, Mr. Webster, but if the chief engineer happens to be short one coal-passer and the captain sends me down to the stokehole, your responsibility for my death begins, for I'll be put ashore publicly at San Buenaventura and two hours later I'll be facing a firing squad in the cemetery of the Catedrâl de la Vera Cruz.”
“Gosh,” John Stuart Webster murmured dazedly, “I'm afraid I can't take a chance like that for fifty dollars.”
A knock sounded on the door and Webster opened it. A waiter stood in the entrance. “Did you ring, sir?” he queried.
“I did,” replied John Stuart Webster. “Bring up two glasses and a quart of the best wine aboard the ship.”
The waiter hastened away and Webster turned to face the little, cryptic, humorous smile that made his travelling companion so singularly boyish and attractive.
“You win, son,” Webster declared. “I'm whipped to a frazzle. Any time I'm sitting in back of a royal flush and the other fellow bluffs me out of the pot, I always buy the wine. When it arrives we shall drink to our better acquaintance. Pending its arrival, please be advised that you are welcome to my pyjamas, my cigarettes, my book, and my stateroom. You are my guest and you owe me nothing, except, perhaps, your confidence, although I do not insist upon that point. Where I come from every man kills his own snakes.”
And he held up his hand for Andrew Bowers to shake.