The Irish woman lifted up her basket, and stood there enticing me. E. E. rushed up the plank, calling out: "Make haste, make haste!"
Cecilia sung out: "Come along, Phœmie!"
Two men had hold of the plank bridge. I had to cross then, or be left behind. I cast one yearning look towards the basket, rushed up the plank, and stood panting, by the side of Dempster.
"Oh dear, it is too bad!" says I.
"What is it, Phœmie?" says Dempster.
"Peaches!" says I. "Those delicious peaches—see how they glow in the sunshine!"
"Oh, nonsense! There is plenty on board," says he; "I'll go and get some."
"Not yet," says E. E.; "the deck is so crowded."
Dempster got seats for us and a stool for himself. The crowd was packed so close that one could hardly breathe. I was thirsty, I was tired out, and just ready to cry. E. E. was tired also, and a little cross. Cecilia was just as she always is—a nuisance. I felt like thanking Dempster when he jumped up, and says he:
"Now for the peaches!"