Chicken and barley broths at
eleven; the captain's table in the dining-saloon, breakfast, luncheon
and dinner; cabin housekeeper and luggage man at the ports; and always
a natty, stiffly starched jacket with a metal number; and "Yes, sir!"
and "No, sir!" and "Thank you, sir!" his official vocabulary. Fine job
for a poet!
It was all in the game he was going to play with fate. A chap who
could sell flamingo ties to gentlemen with purple moses, and shirts
with attached cuffs to coal-porters ought not to worry over such a
simple employment as cabin-steward on board an ocean liner.
Early the next morning they left port, with only a few first-class
passengers. The heavy travel was coming from the west, not going that
way. The series of cabins under his stewardship were vacant.
Therefore, with the thoroughness of his breed, he set about to learn
"ship"; and by the time the first bugle for dinner blew, he knew port
from starboard, boat-deck from main, and many other things, some
unknown to the chief-steward who had made a hundred and twenty voyages
on this very ship.
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