Or--and I felt almost affectionately towards him as the thought crossed my mind--even if he had come so far, he, like myself, might be a bad sailor, and prefer to spend the night on this side of the angry Channel.

I could have forgiven him much, I felt, had I been sure of that.
In any case, I asked myself earnestly, was I justified in running my employers into the further expense of a return ticket to Belfast without being reasonably sure that I was on the right track?
And _was_ I reasonably sure?
Was I even-- On the steerage deck of the steamer below me, with a portmanteau in one hand and a brand-new hat-box and a rug in the other, a figure staggered towards the companion ladder and disappeared below.

That figure, even to my unwilling eyes, was naught else but a tragic answer to my own question.
Michael McCrane was on board, and going below! A last lingering hope remained.
"Hardly put off to-night, will you ?" said I to a mate beside me, with the best assumption of swagger at my command.
He was encasing himself in tarpaulins, and appeared not to hear me.
I repeated my inquiry, and added, in the feeble hope that he might contradict me, "Doesn't look like quieting down." "No," said he, looking up at the sky; "there'll be a goodish bit more of it before we're over.

All aboard there ?" "No," I shouted, rushing towards the gangway; "I'm not!" Oh, how I wished I could have found myself just left behind.

As it was I was precipitated nearly head first down the gangway, amid the by no means friendly expletives of the sailors, and landed at the bottom a clear second after my hat, and two seconds, at least in advance of my umbrella.