“And then—I—ahem! Mr. Harry, what are your plans?” He was just a trifle troubled over all this.
“My plans, Peterson,” said I, “are to anchor off Timbalier to-night, to anchor in this channel of Côte Blanche to-morrow—and to eat breakfast now.” Saying which I left him gloomily shaking his head, but laying her now west by south as I had made the course.
“The glass is falling mighty fast, Mr. Harry,” he called over his shoulder to me by way of encouragement.
CHAPTER XXVIII
IN WHICH IS CERTAIN POLITE CONVERSATION
MY boy had ironed my trousers, that is to say, the trousers I had given him the year previous, and which he now had loaned to me, my extremity being greater than his own. He had laundered my collars—a most useful boy, my China boy. I had, moreover, delving in Cal Davidson’s wardrobe, discovered yet another waistcoat, if possible more radiant even than the one with pink stripes, for that it was cross hatched with bars of pale pea green and mauve—I know not from what looms he obtained these wondrous fabrics. Thus bravely attired after breakfast, just before luncheon, indeed, it was, I felt emboldened to call upon the captive ladies once more. With much shame I owned that I had not seen Auntie Lucinda for nearly two days—and with much trepidation, also, for I knew not what new bitterness her soul, meantime, might have distilled into venom against my coming.
I knocked at the door of the ladies’ cabin, the aftermost suite on the boat, and, at first, had no answer. The door, naturally, on a boat of this size, would be low, the roof rising above decks no higher than one’s waist; and as I bent to knock again, the door of the companion stairs was suddenly thrust open against my face, and framed in the opening thus made, there appeared the august visage of Auntie Lucinda herself.
“Well, sir-r-r-r!” said she, after a time, regarding me sternly. I can by no means reproduce the awfulness of her “r’s.”