I strolled down the narrow companionway, into a cosy, but somewhat cramped, saloon.
After standing for a time in the hope of seeing some signs of life, I pushed open the door of a stateroom on the starboard side. The room had two berths. I tossed my knapsack and clubs into the lower one. As I turned to the door again, I espied a diminutive individual, no more than four and a half feet tall,—or, as I should say, small,—in the full, gold-braided uniform of a ship's chief steward.
He was a queer-looking little customer, grizzled, weather-beaten and, apparently, as hard as nails. He was absolutely self-possessed and, despite his stature, there was "nothing small about him," as an American friend of mine used to put it.
He touched his cap, and smiled. His smile told me at once that he was an Irishman, for only an Irishman could smile as he did. It was a smile with a joke, a drink, a kiss and a touch of the devil himself in it.
"I saw ye come down, sor. Ye'll be makin' for Glasgow?"
Glasgow! I cogitated, yes!—Glasgow as a starting point would suit me as well as anywhere else.
"Correct first guess," I answered. "But, tell me,—how did you know that that was my destination?"
He showed his teeth.
"Och! because it's the only port we're callin' at, sor. Looks like a fine trip north," he went on. "The weather's warm and there's just enough breeze to make it lively. Nothin' like the sea, sor, for keepin' the stomach swate and the mind up to the knocker."
I yawned, for I was dog-weary.