Sam could not help admiring his uncle’s unerring instinct—that amazing intuition which had led him straight to the realisation that if an uninvited stranger was slumbering in his pet chair, the responsibility must of necessity be his nephew Samuel’s.{12}

{12}

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know he was there.”

“A friend of yours?”

“It’s Hash.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hash Todhunter, you know, the cook of the Araminta. You remember I took a trip a year ago on a tramp steamer? This fellow was the cook. I met him on Broadway this afternoon and gave him lunch. I brought him back here because he wanted to see the place where I work.”

“Work?” said Mr. Pynsent, puzzled.

“I had no notion he had strayed into your room.”

Sam spoke apologetically, but he would have liked to point out that the blame for all these embarrassing occurrences was really Mr. Pynsent’s. If a man creates the impression that he is going to Philadelphia and then does not go, he has only himself to thank for any complications that may ensue. However, this was a technicality with which he did not bother his uncle.

“Shall I wake him?”

“If you would be so good. And having done so, take him away and store him somewhere and then come back. I have much to say to you.”

Shaken by a vigorous hand, the sleeper opened his eyes. Hauled to his feet, he permitted himself to be led, still in a trancelike condition, out of the room and down the passage to the cubbyhole where Sam performed his daily duties. Here, sinking into a chair, he fell asleep again; and Sam left him and went back to his uncle. Mr. Pynsent was staring thoughtfully out of the window as he entered.{13}

{13}

“Sit down, Sam,” he said.

Sam sat down.

“I’m sorry about all that, uncle.”

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