"You can get off, o' course," he says; "but you can't get back on.
That's the rules."
"What sense is they in that?" I ast him.
"If I let people off, and on again, my count would get mixed up," he
says.
"Who are you?" says I.
"I'm the government checker," he says.
"Chess?" says I. "And you count all the people that gets on?"
"That's me," he says.
"How many's on now?" I ast him.
"Eight hundred-odd," he says.
"I ast you for the number, not the description," I says. "How many's the
limit?" I ast him.
"Thirteen hundred," he says.
"And would the boat sink if they was more'n that?" says I.
"I don't know if it would or wouldn't," he says, "but that's all the law
allows."
For a minute I felt like offerin' him a lump sum to let seven or eight
hundred more on the boat and be sure that she went down; meantime I'd be
over gettin' a drink. But then I happened to think that the Missus would
be among those lost; and though a man might do a whole lot better the
second time, the chances was that he'd do a whole lot worse. So I passed
up the idear and stayed aboard, prayin' for the time when we'd be three
miles out on Lake Michigan.
It was the shortest three miles you ever seen. We hadn't got out past
the Municipal Pier when I seen a steady influx goin' past the
engine-room and into the great beyond. I followed 'em and got what I was
after. Then I went up on deck, lookin' for my guests.