“You know, it’s rather strange that you should be sending me over there,” said Sam meditatively. “I don’t think so. I am glad to have the chance.” “What I mean is--do you believe in palmists?” “I do not. Good-bye.” “Because a palmist told me----” “The door,” said Mr. Pynsent, “is one of those which close automatically when the handle is released.” Having tested this statement and proved it correct, Sam went back to his own quarters, where he found Mr. Clarence (Hash) Todhunter, the popular and energetic chef of the tramp steamer _Araminta_, awake and smoking a short pipe. “Who was the old boy?” inquired Mr. Todhunter. “That was my uncle, the head of the firm.” “Did I go to sleep in his room?” “You did.” “I’m sorry about that, Sam,” said Hash, with manly regret. “I had a late night last night.” He yawned spaciously. Hash Todhunter was a lean, stringy man in the early thirties, with a high forehead and a ruminative eye. Irritated messmates who had played poker with him had sometimes compared this eye to that of a perishing fish; but to the critic whose judgment was not biased and inflamed by recent pecuniary losses it would have been more suggestive of a parrot which has looked on life and found it full of disillusionment. There was a strong pessimistic streak in Hash, and in his cups he was accustomed to hint darkly that if everyone had their rights he would have been in the direct line of succession to an earldom. It was a long and involved story, casting great discredit on all the parties concerned; but as he never told it twice in the same way, little credence was accorded to it by a discriminating fo’c’sle. For the rest, he cooked the best dry hash on the Western Ocean, but was not proud. “Hash,” said Sam, “I’m going over to England.” “Me too. We sail Monday.” “Do you, by Jove!” said Sam thoughtfully. “I’m supposed to be going on the _Mauretania_ on Saturday, but I’ve half a mind to come with you instead. I don’t like the idea of six days _tête-à-tête_ with Lord Tilbury.” “Who’s he?” “The proprietor of the Mammoth Publishing Company, where I am going to work.” “Have you got the push here then?” It piqued Sam a little that this untutored man should so readily have divined the facts. He also considered that Hash had failed in tact. He might at least have pretended that he supposed it to be a case of handing in a resignation. “Yes, you might perhaps put it that way.” “Not because of me sittin’ in his chair?” “No. There are, apparently, a number of reasons. Hash, it’s a curious thing, my uncle taking it into his head to shoot me over to England like this. The other day a palmist told me that I was shortly going to take a long journey, at the end of which I should meet a fair girl.... Hash!” “Ur?” “I want to show you something.”