He sneered as I have seen men sneer only in melodrama.

"Oh, of course," he muttered. "Oh, of course."

He lurched toward me indignantly.

"You know perfec'ly well Jones is not my name. You know perfec'ly well
who I am."

"My dear sir," I said, "I don't know anything about you, except that
your are a damned nuisance."

He swayed from me, pained and surprised. Apparently he was upon an
outbreak of tears.

"Proud," he murmured, "AND haughty. Proud and haughty to the last."

I never have understood why an intoxicated man feels the climax of
insult is to hurl at you your name. Perhaps because he knows it is the
one charge you cannot deny. But invariably before you escape, as though
assured the words will cover your retreat with shame, he throws at you
your full title. Jones did this.

Slowly and mercilessly he repeated, "Mr.--George--Morgan--Crosby. Of
Harvard," he added. "Proud and haughty to the last."

He then embraced a passing steward, and demanded to be informed why the
ship rolled. He never knew a ship to roll as our ship rolled.

"Perfec'ly satisfact'ry ocean, but ship--rolling like a stone-breaker.