“You won’t tell any one, any one at all, sir?”
“No. At least, I’ll think over the matter, and if I see a way out I’ll let you know.”
“God bless you, sir.”
I turned the incident over in my mind a good deal that night, and I almost made a resolution to take Cupples into my confidence. Roger Cupples, a lawyer of San Francisco, sat next me at table, and with the freedom of wild Westerners we were already well acquainted, although only a few days out. Then I thought of putting a supposititious case to the captain—he was a thorough gentleman—and if he spoke generously about the supposititious case I would spring the real one on him. The stowaway had impressed me by his language as being a man worth doing something for.
Nest day I was glad to see that it was rainy. There would be no demand for ship chairs that day. I felt that real sunshiny weather would certainly unearth, or unchair, my stowaway. I met Cupples on deck, and we walked a few rounds together.
At last, Cupples, who had been telling me some stories of court trials in San Francisco, said, “Let’s sit down and wrap up. This deck’s too wet to walk on.”
“All the seats are damp,” I said.
“I’ll get out my steamer chair. Steward,” he cried to the deck steward who was shoving a mop back and forth, “get me my chair. There’s a tag on it, ‘Berth 96.’”
“No, no,” I cried hastily; “let’s go into the cabin. It’s raining.”
“Only a drizzle. Won’t hurt you at sea, you know.”