West Wind Drift. George Barr McCutcheon

have been justified in suspecting him of being taller than he really was because of the more or less deceiving erectness with which he carried himself. As a matter of fact, he was not more than five feet ten or ten and a half.

      Captain Trigger eyed him narrowly for a moment.

      “What is your name?”

      “A. A. Percival, sir.”

      “Your full name, young man. No initials.”

      The stowaway seemed to add an inch to his height before replying.

      “Algernon Adonis Percival, sir,” he said, a very clear note of defiance in his voice.

      The Captain looked at the First Officer, and the First Officer, after a brief stare at the speaker, looked at the Captain.

      “It's his right name, you can bet, sir,” said Mr. Mott, with conviction. “Nobody would voluntarily give himself a name like that.”

      “You never can tell about these Americans, Mr. Mott,” said the Captain warily. “They've got what they call a keen sense of humour, you know.”

      Mr. Percival smiled. His teeth were very white and even.

      “I am a first and only child,” he explained. “That ought to account for it, sir,” he went on, a trifle defensively.

      Captain Trigger did not smile. Mr. Mott, however, looked distinctly sympathetic.

      “You say you are an American,—a citizen of the United States?” demanded the former.

      “Yes, sir. My home is in Baltimore.”

      “Baltimore?” repeated Mr. Mott quickly. “That's where Mr. Gray hails from, sir,” he added, as a sort of apology to the Captain for the exclamation.

      The Captain's gaze settled on the stowaway's spotless white shirt and collar. Then he nodded his head slowly.

      “Mr. Gray is the Chief Engineer,” he explained, with mock courtesy.

      “Yes, sir,—I know,” responded Percival. “He comes of one of the oldest and most highly connected families in Baltimore. He informs me that his father—”

      “Never mind!” snapped the Captain. “We need not discuss Mr. Gray's antecedents. How old are you?”

      “Thirty last Friday, sir.”

      “Married?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Parents living?”

      “No, sir.”

      “And now, what the devil do you mean by sneaking aboard this ship and hiding yourself in the—by the way, Mr. Mott, where was he hiding?”

      Mr. Mott: “It doesn't seem to be quite clear as yet, sir.”

      Captain Trigger: “What's that?”

      Mr. Mott: “I say, it isn't quite clear. We have only his word for it. You see, he wasn't discovered until he accosted Mr. Shannon on the bridge and asked—”

      Captain Trigger: “On the bridge, Mr. Mott?”

      Mr. Mott: “That is to say, sir, Mr. Shannon was on the bridge and he was below on the promenade deck. He asked Mr. Shannon if he was the Captain of the boat.”

      Captain Trigger: “He did, eh? Well?”

      Mr. Mott: “He was informed that you were at breakfast, sir,—no one suspecting him of being a stowaway, of course,—and then, it appears, he started out to look for you. That's how he fell in with the Chief Engineer. Mr. Gray informs me that he applied for work, admitting that he was aboard without leave, or passage, or funds, or anything else, it would seem. But, as for where he lay in hiding, there hasn't been anything definite arrived at as yet, sir. He seems to have been hiding in a rather wide-spread sort of way.”

      Mr. Percival, amiably: “Permit me to explain, Captain Trigger. You see, I have been obliged to change staterooms three times. Naturally, that might be expected to create some little confusion in my mind. I began in the second cabin. Much to my surprise and chagrin I found, too late, that the stateroom I had chosen,—at random, I may say,—was merely in the state of being prepared for a lady and gentleman who had asked to be transferred from a less desirable one. I had some difficulty in getting out of it without attracting attention. I don't know what I should have done if the steward hadn't informed them that he could not move their steamer-trunk until morning. There wouldn't have been room for both of us under the berth, sir. If the gentleman had been alone I shouldn't have minded in the least remaining, under his berth, but he—”

      Captain Trigger: “How did you happen to get into that room, young man? The doors are never unlocked when the rooms are unoccupied.”

      Mr. Percival: “You are mistaken, sir. I found at least three stateroom doors unlocked that night, and my search was by no means extensive.”

      Captain Trigger: “This is most extraordinary, Mr. Mott,—if true.”

      Mr. Mott: “It shall be looked into, sir.”

      Captain Trigger: “Go on, young man.”

      Mr. Percival: “I tried another room in the second cabin, but had to abandon it also. It had no regular occupant,—it was Number 221 remember,—but along about midnight two men opened the door with a key and came in. They were stewards. I gathered that they were getting the room ready for someone else, so when they departed,—very quietly, sir,—I sneaked out and decided to try for accommodations in the first cabin. I—”

      Mr. Mott: “Did you say stewards?”

      Mr. Percival: “That's what I took them to be.”

      Captain Trigger: “You are either lying, young man, or plumb crazy.”

      Mr. Percival, with dignity: “The latter is quite possible, Captain,—but not the former. I managed quite easily to get from the second cabin to the first. You'd be surprised to know how simple it was. Running without lights as you do, sir, simplified things tremendously. I found a very sick and dejected Jewish gentleman trying to die in the least exposed corner of the promenade deck. At least, he said he didn't want to live. I offered to put him to bed and to sit up with him all night if it would make him feel a little less like passing away. He lurched at the chance. I accompanied him to his stateroom, and so got a few much-needed hours of repose, despite his groans. I also ate his breakfast for him. Skirmishing around this morning, I found there were no unoccupied rooms in the first cabin, so I decided that we were far enough from land for me to reveal myself to the officer of the day,—if that's what you call 'em on board ship,—with a very honest and laudable desire to work my passage home. I can only add, Captain, that I am ready and willing to do anything from swabbing floors on the upper deck to passing coal at the bottom of the ship.”

      Captain Trigger stared hard at the young man, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

      “You appear to be a gentleman,” he said at last. “Why are you on board this ship as a stowaway? Don't you know that I can put you in irons, confine you to the brig, and put you ashore at the first port of call?”

      “Certainly, sir. That's just what I am trying to avoid. As a gentleman, I am prepared to do everything in my power to relieve you of what must seem a most painful official duty.”

      Mr. Mott smiled. The Captain stiffened perceptibly.

      “How did you come aboard this ship?” he demanded.

      “As a coal passer, sir. Day before yesterday, when you were getting in the last lot of coal. I had a single five dollar gold piece in my pocket. It did the trick. With that seemingly insignificant remnant of a comfortable little fortune, I induced one of the native coal carriers,—a Portuguese nobleman, I shall always call him,—to part with his trousers, shirt and hat. I slipped 'em on over my own clothes, stuffed my boots and socks inside my shirt, picked up his basket of coal, and