“Yes, sir. You can see for yourself. Here it is: berths 432 and 433. You’ll find it quite cosy, I’m sure.” Staff nodded, eyeing the cubicle indicated by the pencil-point. “That’ll do,” said he. “I’ll take it.” “Then-Q. Upper’r lower berth, sir?” “Both,” said Staff, trying not to look conscious—and succeeding. “Both, sir?”—in tones of pained expostulation. “Both!”—reiterated in a manner that challenged curiosity. “Ah,” said the clerk wearily, “but, you see, I thought I understood you to say you were alone.”[Pg 6] [Pg 6] “I did; but I want privacy.” “I see. Then-Q.”—as who should say: Another mad Amayrican. With this the clerk took himself off to procure a blank ticket. While he waited, Staff was entertained by snatches of a colloquy at the far end of the counter, where the other patron was being catechised as to his pedigree by the other booking-clerk. What he heard ran something to the following effect: “What did you say the name was, sir?” “The name?” “If you please—” “What name?” “Your name, sir.” “I didn’t say, did I?” “No, sir.”