are you getting along? All right? Eh?" And he is just going on to join a
lively party of distinguished visitors when I detain him sharply, as the
Ancient Mariner did the guest, and hold him with my glittering eye.

"How about the berth?" I say, with as little show of anxiety as the
desperate circumstances of the case will permit.

"The berth!" he repeats. "Why, haven't you got a berth yet?"

"No," I return, abjectly, as if I were a poor stowaway, without a friend
to speak up for me. He meditates a moment. What can he be thinking
about? Putting me on shore at once? Getting rid of me politely, as a
sort of Jonah. I await his decision nervously.

"Come to the Purser," he says. I follow him.

The Purser is in his counting-house, counting out his billets. Aha! at
the sight of me he knows what we have come about. "You're all right," he
says to me. "Your berth is No. 273."

"There!" exclaims ROSSHER, triumphantly, exulting in the capabilities of
the M. & N.'s new ship _Regina_. "Now you're fixed up." I am. I could go
on my knees to ROSSHER; I could bless the Steward, Purser, I
mean,--whatever a Purser is,--but I content myself with concealing my
agitation, thanking ROSSHER simply but warmly, and then I follow a black
man dressed in white, who carries my bag to No. 273. A lovely outside
cabin, airy as if it were on deck, with an electric light, and three
empty bunks (I think they are called "bunks,"--but am not certain)
besides mine. How four persons on a long voyage, or a short one, can
live, move, and have their being in this, I don't know; but how _one_
can is evident, and temporarily I am that privileged one. I hope I shall
remain so. I do; and have it all to myself.

Up on deck again. Evening spent happily--chiefly in smoking-room. Turn
in at twelve. Up next morning at 5.30. Awoke by the light, and fresh
breeze. Lovely marble bath--then early coffee. Breakfast _a la
fourchette_, at 9.30. Everything as I had anticipated, _en prince
indien_. Lounge on deck. Newspapers arrive. More lounging. Refreshments.
Chatting. Then luncheon. The Review becomes quite a secondary
consideration. Ships everywhere, bunting and flags all about. Weather
lovely--scene gay. At three what is called "the fun" is to commence. The
"fun" for the coloured seamen in white, consists in their having to
stand in a row on the yards up aloft for about an hour and a half. If
this is nautical etiquette, I'm very glad I'm not one of the coloured
sailors.