He swayed from me, pained and surprised.  Apparently he was upon an outbreak of tears.

“Proud,” he murmured, “and haughty.  Proud and haughty to the last.”

I never have understood why an intoxicated man feels the climax of insult is to hurl at you your name.  Perhaps because he knows it is the one charge you cannot deny.  But invariably before you escape, as though assured the words will cover your retreat with shame, he throws at you your full title.  Jones did this.

Slowly and mercilessly he repeated, “Mr.—­George—­Morgan—­Crosby.  Of Harvard,” he added.  “Proud and haughty to the last.”

He then embraced a passing steward, and demanded to be informed why the ship rolled.  He never knew a ship to roll as our ship rolled.

“Perfec’ly satisfact’ry ocean, but ship—­rolling like a stone-breaker.  Take me some place in the ship where this ship don’t roll.”

The steward led him away.

When he had dropped the local pilot the captain beckoned me to the bridge.

“I saw you talking to Mr. Schnitzel,” he said.  “He’s a little under the weather.  He has too light a head for liquors.”

I agreed that he had a light head, and said I understood his name was Jones.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” said the captain.  “His name is Schnitzel.  He used to work for the Nitrate Trust in New York.  Then he came down here as an agent.  He’s a good boy not to tell things to.  Understand?  Sometimes I carry him under one name, and the next voyage under another.  The purser and he fix it up between ’em.  It pleases him, and it don’t hurt anybody else, so long as I tell them about it.  I don’t know who he’s working for now,” he went on, “but I know he’s not with the Nitrate Company any more.  He sold them out.”

“How could he?” I asked.  “He’s only a boy.”

“He had a berth as typewriter to Senator Burnsides, president of the Nitrate Trust, sort of confidential stenographer,” said the captain.  “Whenever the senator dictated an important letter, they say, Schnitzel used to make a carbon copy, and when he had enough of them he sold them to the Walker-Keefe crowd.  Then, when Walker-Keefe lost their suit in the Valencia Supreme Court I guess Schnitzel went over to President Alvarez.  And again, some folks say he’s back with the Nitrate Company.”

“After he sold them out?”

“Yes, but you see he’s worth more to them now.  He knows all the Walker-Keefe secrets and Alvarez’s secrets, too.”

I expressed my opinion of every one concerned.

“It shouldn’t surprise you,” complained the captain.  “You know the country.  Every man in it is out for something that isn’t his.  The pilot wants his bit, the health doctor must get his, the customs take all your cigars, and if you don’t put up gold for the captain of the port and the alcalde and the commandant and the harbor police and the foreman of the cargadores,