agreeable, in spite of the fact that they were so far from producing that impression upon the three pained observers. He was fifty, perhaps, and becoming comfortably convex, though without much risk of being defined merely as a fat man.
His toast to the ocean having been heartily honoured, he instantly commanded a refilling of the glasses. "There's only one thing wrong with this ship," he announced. "It's got oil-burning engines and conservatories and a candy store and hot and cold water and a good steam plant and orchestras and automatic watertight steel bulkheads; but it hasn't got any foot-rail on the bar. If they'd remembered to put one in, ocean life would be just perfect—perfect! But anyway, this is a lot nicer than sittin' in Doc's cabin or listening to high-brow opera music in that lobby downstairs. Let's all take our liquor with us, gentlemen, and go sit down over there on the other side of that sofa and have a nice cosy talk."
The location he proposed for this cosiness was highly unacceptable to the three critics. The divan upon which sat Macklyn and Albert Jones was double, with a high back separating the two long seats; and it was the occupation of the vacant one that the objec-
