"Why can't they stick the kitchens underground--in the hold, I mean--instead of bothering us up here on deck with them ?" The husband was a big, burly, rough-and-ready Yorkshireman--stout, somewhat pompous, about forty, with hair wearing bald on the forehead: the personification of the successful business man.

"My dear Emmie," he said, in a loud voice, with a North Country accent, "the cooks have got to live.

They've got to live like the rest of us.

I can never persuade you that the hands must always be humoured.

If you don't humour 'em, they won't work for you.