morning. Mine was half-past seven. On the particular morning in question the steward did not call me, and I thought he had forgotten, so I passed along the dark corridor and tried the bath-room door. I found it unbolted, and as everything was quiet inside, I entered. I thought nobody was there, so I shoved the bolt in the door, and went over to see if the water had been turned on. The light was a little dim even at that time of the morning, and I must say I was horror-stricken to see, lying in the bottom of the bath tub, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, Plodkins. I am quite willing to admit that I was never so startled in my life. I thought at first Plodkins was dead, notwithstanding his open eyes staring at the ceiling; but he murmured, in a sort of husky far-away whisper, "Thank God," and then closed his eyes.
"What's the matter, Plodkins?" I said. "Are you ill? What's the matter with you? Shall I call for help?"
There was a feeble negative motion of the head.
Then he said, in a whisper, "Is the door bolted?"
"Yes," I answered.
After another moment's pause, I said: "Shall I ring, and get you some whisky or brandy?"
Again he shook his head.
