“Oh, well, it’s not settled yet,” I went on quickly. “I may not be able to make it for to-morrow. I may have to take a later boat. So don’t say anything about it, there’s a good fellow.”
“Oh, all right. The surprise will be all the jollier when they see you. Well, good-bye, old man, and good luck. You’ll get the news of the game by wireless. Gee! I wish I was in your shoes.”
Hadsley was off, leaving me gnawing at an imaginary moustache. “The Chumley Graces going on the Garguantuan. That means I can never go steerage, and I have set my heart on going steerage. Let’s see the paper again. Hurrah! There’s an Italian steamer sailing to-morrow morning. Well, that’ll do.”
I was now in a whirlwind of energy, packing and making final arrangements. At the steamship office, when I asked for a ticket, the clerk beamed on me.
“Yes, sir, we can give you a nice suite on the main deck, the best we have on the boat. Lucky it’s not taken.”
My moral courage almost failed me. “No, no!” I said hastily. “It’s not for me. It’s for one of my servants whose way I’m paying back to Italy. Give me a steerage ticket.”
“Coward! Coward!” hissed Conscience in my ear. “You’re making a bad beginning.”
Just before lunch I remembered my business with Quince, and, jumping into a taxi, whisked down to the Bank. The manager received me effusively. The note was prepared—only wanted a satisfactory endorser. I scratched my name on the back of it, then, speaking into the telephone on the manager’s desk, I got Quince on the line.
“Hullo! This is Madden speaking. I say, Quince, I have fixed up that note for you.”
(A confused murmur that might be construed as thanks.)