"Oh!" exclaimed my sister, "we must have one, how cool and refreshing they look."
"What shall we do with it?" I asked.
"Send it down to the steamer," was her reply, "it will be so nice on board."
We accordingly went in, bought the melon with the help of our best Swedish, for here, being opposite Sweden, that language was still in vogue; we explained it was to go to the ångbåtshytt (cabin) number ten, and left cheerfully.
We returned to our steamer home; while leaving the harbour we remained on deck, and it was not until late in the evening, when the ship began to roll considerably, that we went below. At the head of the cabin stairs a most extraordinary odour greeted our senses; as we neared our cabin the smell increased; when we opened the door we were nearly knocked down by the terrible scent of the melon which had looked so charming in the shop window. Though very hot all day, as the weather had been decidedly rough for some hours, the port-hole was closed, therefore the melon had thoroughly scented the queer little cabin.
"This is impossible," I exclaimed. "I never smelt anything so overpowering in my life, except a cod-liver oil factory in Iceland. We cannot sleep in such an atmosphere."
My sister looked crestfallen.
"It is rather strong," said she pensively; "shall we put it outside?"
"No," I replied, "if we, who bought it, cannot endure the smell, how are the wretched occupants on the other side to put up with such an inconvenience?"
"Then we must eat it," she remarked with conviction, and, undoing the paper and cutting a slice, she proceeded solemnly to devour that melon. Strangely enough, in spite of its overpowering odour, the fruit tasted delicious, for, be it owned, I ate some too, and when we had enjoyed our feast we opened the port-hole and threw its rind into a watery grave. We had not been long in bed before we heard a great commotion outside—an appeal to the stewardess, then angry words, and at last a regular row. Dare we own the cause? It was our melon!