"Y' don't say! Well, we'll see 'em tough enough before we sight
Funchal. Smells good up here; huh?"
"Yes; but I don't mind three months on land, full pay. Not me. But this Frenchman?"
"Oh, he had good papers from a White Star liner; an' you can leave it to me regardin' his lily-white hands. By th' way, George, will you have them bring up my other leg? Th' salt takes th' color out o' this here brass ferrule, an' rubber's safer."
"Yes, sir."
There was one vacant chair in the dining-salon. M. Ferraud was indisposed. He could climb the highest peak, he could cross ice-ridges, with a sheer mile on either side of him, with never an attack of vertigo; but this heaving mystery under his feet always got the better of him the first day out. He considered it the one flaw in an otherwise perfect system. Thus, he misled the comedy and the tragedy of the eyes at dinner, nor saw a woman throw her all and lose it.
CHAPTER XVI
CROSS-PURPOSES
"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked Fitzgerald, venturing his head into M. Ferraud's cabin.
"Nothing; to-morrow it will all be gone. I am always so. The miserable water!" M. Ferraud drew the blanket under his chin.
"When you are better I should like to ask you some questions."