The cabin was warm—in reality, hot,—but Alice shuddered as she had when chilled by the mist and cold. She caught quickly at her husband's arm.
“I wish we were safe at Fernborough Hall with Aunt Ella.”
“And so do I, my dear, but the walking is poor, and we must put up with our present method of locomotion for a few days longer. Think of the good times we have had and those in store for us.”
Alice reassured by the words and the accompanying pressure of Quincy's hand exclaimed: “How delightful it was in the country, and how I enjoyed our visits. I shall always love Mason's Corner as it was called when—”
“I met my fate,” her husband added. “My line fell in a pleasant place—”
“Don't call me a fish,” said his wife, as she smiled half reprovingly.
“Well, we're on the water; if we were in it, we all might wish to be fish—or rather whales.”
The next moment all was confusion. Faces that were white became red—those that were red turned white—even through the colour that art had given to niggardly nature. Fully half the occupants of the saloon were thrown violently to the floor in a promiscuous heap. Others saved themselves from falling by grasping frantically at the nearest object. Many of the lights went out. Some of the women swooned, while men who had deemed themselves brave shook like palsied creatures.
A man half ran, half fell, down the stairway that led into the saloon and stood before the affrighted passengers. No tongue could form a question, but each eager face asked,
“What is it? What has happened?”