The Man in the Brown Suit

Twelve
(Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)
There is something to be said for life on board ship. It is peaceful. My grey hairs
fortunately exempt me from the indignities of bobbing for apples, running up and down
deck with potatoes and eggs, and the more painful sports of “Brother Bill” and Bolster
Bar. What amusement people can find in these painful proceedings has always been a
mystery to me. But there are many fools in the world. One praises God for their existence
and keeps out of their way.
Fortunately I am an excellent sailor. Pagett, poor fellow, is not. He began turning
green as soon as we were out of the Solent. I presume my other so-called secretary is
also seasick. At any rate he has not yet made an appearance. But perhaps it is not
seasickness, but high diplomacy. The great thing is that 
I
 have not been worried by him.
On the whole, the people onboard are a mangy lot. Only two decent Bridge players and
one decent-looking woman—Mrs. Clarence Blair. I’ve met her in town, of course. She is
one of the only women I know who can lay claim to a sense of humour. I enjoy talking to
her, and should enjoy it more if it were not for a long-legged taciturn ass who attached
himself to her like a limpet. I cannot think that this Colonel Race really amuses her. He’s
good-looking in his way, but dull as ditch water. One of these strong silent men that lady
novelists and young girls always rave over.
Guy Pagett struggled up on deck after we left Madeira and began babbling in a hollow
voice about work. What the devil does anyone want to work for onboard ship? It is true
that I promised my publishers my “Reminiscences” early in the summer, but what of it?
Who really reads reminiscences? Old ladies in the suburbs. And what do my
reminiscences amount to? I’ve knocked against a certain number of so-called famous
people in my lifetime. With the assistance of Pagett, I invented insipid anecdotes about
them. And, the truth of the matter is, Pagett is too honest for the job. He won’t let me
invent anecdotes about the people I might have met but haven’t.
I tried kindness with him.
“You look a perfect wreck still, my dear chap,” I said easily. “What you need is a deck
chair in the sun. No—not another word. The work must wait.”
The next thing I knew he was worrying about an extra cabin. “There’s no room to work
in your cabin, Sir Eustace. It’s full of trunks.”
From his tone, you might have thought the trunks were black beetles, something that
had no business to be there.

---

I explained to him that, though he might not be aware of the fact, it was usual to take a
change of clothing with one when travelling. He gave the wan smile with which he always
greets my attempts at humour, and then reverted to the business in hand.
“And we could hardly work in my little hole.”
I know Pagett’s “little holes”—he usually has the best cabin on the ship.
“I’m sorry the Captain didn’t turn out for you this time,” I said sarcastically.
“Perhaps you’d like to dump some of your extra luggage in my cabin?”
Sarcasm is dangerous with a man like Pagett. He brightened up at once.
“Well, if I could get rid of the typewriter and the stationery trunk—”
The stationery trunk weighs several solid tons. It causes endless unpleasantness with
the porters, and it is the aim of Pagett’s life to foist it on me. It is a perpetual struggle
between us. He seems to regard it as my special personal property. I, on the other hand,