“Who knows?”
“It will be all the same wherever she is. If the ship goes, we go.”
“Who can tell? These English are stupid. They always try to save women first. Once, when I was on the—”
A few words in Spanish reached them from Mr. Boyle, and they went on with their work. But such muttered confidences are eloquent of mischief when the pinch comes.
At the forward end of the promenade deck, just beneath the bridge, Elsie received another reminder of the force of the wind, which was rendered almost intolerable by the lashing of the spray.
“I—can’t—go on,” she gasped. Courtenay felt, rather than heard, that she was speaking to him. Without further ado, he picked her up in his arms, and deposited her, all flushed and breathless, in the shelter of the fore saloon hatch. If she were so anxious to see her friend the doctor, he was determined she should not be disappointed.
“No time for explanations,” he said, while she tremblingly clutched at a rail which gave support down the companion-way. “Dr. Christobal is below. But—I fear you will find a shocking scene. Perhaps you had better let me take you back.”
“No, no, not on my account. I think I am past feeling any sentiment. I would far rather do something, be of some use, however slight.”
A pungent smell of iodoform came to them up the hatchway. Joey, who had followed bravely in their wake, and was now a few steps down the stairs, crept back, awed.
“At least, let me ask Dr. Christobal if you may come. You will be quite safe here if you grip the rail. Even if a sea breaks over the hatch it cannot touch you. May I leave you? And do you mind holding Joey?”