“Not at all. The steamer will arrive in the harbour of San Buenaventura late in the afternoon—too late to be given pratique that day. After dark I shall drop overboard and endeavour to swim ashore, and in view of that plan clothes would only prove an embarrassment. I shall land in my own country naked and penniless, but once ashore I shall quickly find shelter. I'll have to risk the sharks, of course.”
“Man-eaters?”
“The bay is swarming with them.”
“You're breaking my heart,” Webster declared sympathetically. “I suppose you're going to feign illness throughout the voyage.”
“Not the land of illness that will interfere with my appetite. I have prescribed for myself a mild attack of inflammatory rheumatism, as an excuse for remaining in bed and having my meals brought to me. This service, of course, will necessitate some slight expense in the way of tips, but I am hoping you will see your way clear to taking care of that for your guest.”
Silently Webster handed Andrew Bowers ten dollars in silver. “That ought to hold you,” he declared. “For the rest, you're up to some political skullduggery in Sobrante, and what it is and what's your real name are two subjects in which I am not interested. I am on a vacation and intend to amuse myself. If I find you as amusing as you appear at the outset of our acquaintance I shall do my best to break the tedium of your confinement in this stateroom and if I find you dull I shall leave you to your own devices. Let us talk anything but business and personalities and let it be understood that you are my valet, Andrew Bowers. That's all I know about you and that's all I care to know about you. In fact, the less I know about you the less will I have to explain in the event of your sudden demise.”
“Fair enough,” quoth Andrew Bowers. “You're a man after my own heart. I thank you.”