"Eight hundred-odd," he says.
"I ast you for the number, not the description," I says. "How many's the limit?" I ast him.
"Thirteen hundred," he says.
"And would the boat sink if they was more'n that?" says I.
"I don't know if it would or wouldn't," he says, "but that's all the law allows."
For a minute I felt like offerin' him a lump sum to let seven or eight hundred more on the boat and be sure that she went down; meantime I'd be over gettin' a drink. But then I happened to think that the Missus would be among those lost; and though a man might do a whole lot better the second time, the chances was that he'd do a whole lot worse. So I passed up the idear and stayed aboard, prayin' for the time when we'd be three miles out on Lake Michigan.
It was the shortest three miles you ever seen. We hadn't got out past the Municipal Pier when I seen a steady influx goin' past the engine-room and into the great beyond. I followed 'em and got what I was after. Then I went up on deck, lookin' for my guests.
I found 'em standin' in front o' one o' the lifeboats.
"Why don't you get comfortable?" I says to Bishop. "Why don't you get chairs and enjoy the breeze?"
"That's what I been tellin' 'em," says the Missus; "but Mr. Bishop acts like he was married to this spot."