girl he had met on the dock. With her was a superfluous young man who looked like a parrot. 

 “Oh, how are you?” asked the girl breathlessly. 

 “Splendid, thanks,” said Sam. 

 “Didn’t you get very wet?” 

 “I did get a little damp.” 

 “I thought you would,” said the young man who looked like a parrot. “Directly I saw you go over the side I said to myself: ‘That fellow’s going to get wet!’” 

 There was a pause. 

 “Oh!” said the girl. “May I—Mr.——?” 

 “Marlowe.” 

 “Mr. Marlowe. Mr. Bream Mortimer.” 

 Sam smirked at the young man. The young man smirked at Sam. 

 “Nearly got left behind,” said Bream Mortimer. 

 “Yes, nearly.” 

 “No joke getting left behind.” 

 “No.” 

 “Have to take the next boat. Lose a lot of time,” said Mr. Mortimer, driving home his point. 

 The girl had listened to these intellectual exchanges with impatience. She now spoke again. 

 “Oh, Bream!” 

 “Hello?” 

 “Do be a dear and run down to the saloon and see if it’s all right about our places for lunch.” 

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