“I must be on my way,” he said curtly. “We have been looking things over down below. The Captain is waiting for our report.”
He bowed and started off. She swung along at his side.
“What have you discover, Mr. Percivail?” she inquired anxiously.
“That, Madame Obosky, is something that will have to come from Captain Trigger.”
“I see. That means it is bad. I see.”
The lurching of the ship threw her body against his. She righted herself promptly, but did not reveal the slightest confusion nor utter a word of apology.
“By Jove, you're a cool one!” he exclaimed. “I don't believe you know the meaning of fear. Don't you realize, Madame Obosky, that we are in the gravest peril? Don't you know this ship has but one chance in a thousand to pull through?”
“Ah, my friend, but it has the one chance, has it not? Surely I know the meaning of fear. I am afraid of rats and snakes and thieves—and drunken soldiers. I am afraid of death,—terribly afraid of death. Oh, yes, I know what fear is, Mr. Percivail.”
“Then, why don't you show it now?” he cried. “Good Lord, I don't mind confessing that I'm scared half to death. I don't want to die like this,—like a rat in a trap.”
“But you are not going to die,” she proclaimed. “I too would be groaning and praying in my bed if I thought we were going down to the bottom of zis dreadful ocean. But we are not. I have no fear. We shall come out all right on top, and some day we will laugh and tell funny stories about how everybody else was frightened but us,—us apiece, I mean.”