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.

Beautiful weather; a mild southwest blow, with a moderate beam-sea;
only the deck _would_ come up smack against the soles of his boots in a
most unexpected and aggravating manner. But after the third day out,
he found his sea-legs and learned how to "lean." From two till five
his time was his own, and a very good deal of this time he devoted to
Henley and Morris and Walt Whitman, an ancient brier between his teeth
and a canister of excellent tobacco at his elbow. Odd, isn't it, that
an Englishman without his pipe is as incomplete as a Manx cat, which,
as doubtless you know, has no tail. After all, does a Manx cat know
that it is incomplete? Let me say, then, as incomplete as a small boy
without pockets.