Next morning we was at the breakfast-table in my branch establishment,
me and Mabel and the five boarders. All hands was doing their best to
start a famine in the fruit market, and Dr. Blatt was waving a banana
and cheering us with a yarn about an old lady that his Burdock Bitters
had h'isted bodily out of the tomb. He was at the most exciting part,
the bitters and the undertaker coming down the last lap neck and neck,
and an even bet who'd win the patient, when the kitchen door opens and
in marches the waiter with the tray full of dishes of "cereal." Seems
to me 'twas chopped hay we had that morning--either that or shavings; I
always get them breakfast foods mixed up.

But 'twa'n't the hay that made everybody set up and take notice. 'Twas
the waiter himself. Our regular steward was a spindling little critter
with curls and eye-glasses who answered to the hail of "Percy." This
fellow clogged up the scenery like a pet elephant, and was down in the
shipping list as "Jones."

The doc left his invalid hanging on the edge of the grave, and stopped
and stared. Old Mrs. Bounderby h'isted the gold-mounted double spyglass
she had slung round her neck and took an observation. Her daughter
"Maizie" fetched a long breath and shut her eyes, like she'd seen her
finish and was resigned to it.

"Well, Mr. Jones," says I, soon's I could get my breath, "this is kind
of unexpected, ain't it? Thought you was booked for the main deck."

"Yes, sir," he says, polite as a sewing-machine agent, "I was, but Percy
and I have exchanged. Cereal this morning, madam?"