Cheviot leaned over. “Shut up!” he called down. “Say, Red! D’you hear? Shut up, I tell you!”
The dog looked critically at Cheviot, ears cocked, nose pointed, forefeet on the gunwale of the lighter, which was bobbing about at the foot of the Los Angeles’ ladder.
“Louis, is that father’s Reddy? Oh, I do so want to make friends with him! Red! Red! how d’you do? Be a good dog, we’re coming down in a minute.”
“I’ll get one of the sailors to bring him up. Here”—Cheviot adjusted his glass for her—“now look off there to the right—farther, beyond the wreck of the Pioneer. Do you see that big tent with the flag?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see what flag it is?”
“It isn’t Stars and Stripes. It looks all yellow.”
“Yes.”
“Who are the people who have a yellow flag?”
“The people who have smallpox. That’s the pest-house.”