“How the wind does blow,” said Hephzy. “What are the people doin' with those black tarpaulins?”
Sailors in uniform were passing among the seated passengers distributing large squares of black waterproof canvas. I watched the use to which the tarpaulins were put and I understood. I beckoned to the nearest sailor and rented two of the canvases for use during the voyage.
“How much?” I asked.
“One franc each,” said the man, curtly.
I had visited the money-changers near the Charing Cross station and was prepared. Hephzy's eyes opened.
“A franc,” she repeated. “That's French money, isn't it. Is he a Frenchman?”
“Yes,” said I. “This is a French boat, I think.”
She watched the sailor for a moment. Then she sighed.
“And he's a Frenchman,” she said. “I thought Frenchmen wore mustaches and goatees and were awful polite. He was about as polite as a pig. And all he needs is a hand-organ and a monkey to be an Italian. A body couldn't tell the difference without specs. What did you get those tarpaulins for, Hosy?”
I covered our traveling bags with one of the tarpaulins, as I saw our fellow-passengers doing, and the other I tucked about Hephzy, enveloping her from her waist down.