“Right!” says Jones, not a bit shook up. “A month goes.” Peter stepped back and looked him over, beginning with the tan shoes and ending with the whirligig hat. “Jonesy,” says he, finally, “you're on. Take him to the servants' quarters, Wingate.” A little later, when I had the chance and had Brown alone, I says to him: “Peter,” says I, “for the land sakes what did you hire the emperor for? A blind man could see HE wa'n't no waiter. And we don't need him anyhow; no more'n a cat needs three tails. Why--” But he was back at me before I could wink. “Need him?” he says. “Why, Barzilla, we need him more than the old Harry needs a conscience. Take a bird's-eye view of him! Size him up! He puts all the rest of the Greek statues ten miles in the shade. If I could only manage to get his picture in the papers we'd have all the romantic old maids in Boston down here inside of a week; and there's enough of THEM to keep one hotel going till judgment. Need him? Whew!” 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?” Mrs. Bounderby took her measure of shavings and Jones's measure at the same time. She had him labeled “Danger” right off; you could tell that by the way she spread her wings over “Maizie.” But I wa'n't watching her just then. I was looking at Mabel Seabury--looking and wondering.