There was certainly a difference in my quarters of this night and the one previous; for that little stateroom, though plain enough, was the essence of convenience, and the berth was comfort itself. But, tired as I was, I couldn’t get to sleep right away. Things had been happening a trifle too fast, and one or two points were puzzling. I sat on a transom fully an hour. Then I crawled into the suit of pajamas that had been laid out for me, propped up the pillows at the bunk end, and ruminated. “I know what I want,” I finally mumbled to myself, “and that’s a smoke.” It seemed as if I must have that smoke. I have since cured myself of the habit, but it held me strong enough then, as is evident when I add that I finally decided to have a try at finding the humidor which Stroth had handed me in his picture-papered stateroom. “It’s worth a try, anyway,” said I to myself. “He wouldn’t mind, of course. And I can manage it without disturbing a soul.” I opened my door cautiously, and crossed the saloon, which was dimly lighted by a night lamp of small candle power. Fortune favored me in that the farther door was slightly ajar. I opened it a bit farther, then craned my neck for a view. “There it is,” said I mentally, as I recognized the dim outline of the box of cigars, and noiselessly I opened it and took one. I had almost regained the saloon when I heard a faint noise and the click of glassware. I turned attentively, and under the lower crack of the farther door there filtered out to me the deep-red glow of the dark room. But, for all the trouble I had taken to get the cigar, I didn’t finish it. By the time it was half smoked I got very sleepy, and the next thing I knew--as Uncle Remus says--“I didn’t know nuffin.” CHAPTER XII. THE OWNER’S ORDERS. I awoke to Saki’s knock next morning, shaved in the warm water he had had the good sense to bring, and was first to reach the table. I was quickly joined by Stevens, and I saw that his mood had bettered little since the evening. He acknowledged my presence with a dry nod; but, as we were finishing the simple meal, he assured himself that we were alone in the saloon by a hasty glance around, then asked low, but sharply: “I suppose you know what will be your best course?” “I believe you gave me that countersign even as far back as the dock end at College Point when you left me: ‘A closed mouth spills no mush.’” “Exactly!” And he quitted the room for the deck immediately, while I whirled at the opening of a door and rose as Miss Stella entered. “Why, are you all finished?” she cried. “I certainly must be a sleepyhead!” She was as fresh and clear as the summer morning sifting through the open ports. “Well, scarcely a sleepyhead,” I replied. “Your father hasn’t shown up yet, so you’re not the last.” “Oh, yes, I guess I am the last, for all that,” she returned, digging away in dainty defiance at an iced grapefruit.