"Don't be silly, Mr. Jones. His name's on the other side. It doesn't show on the bag. On the right you see Antony's shaft, and then little Peter's—there was always a Peter in the family—and on the left comes Gertrude, and then Mary—Aunt Mary 'Zekel's little girl. The beginning of that next one is for Adoniah. She didn't have time to work that in."
"Oh, I see! She chose the time to depict the plot when a burial was in progress. There are the horses' tails."
"How can you joke on such a solemn subject, Mr. Jones?" I dropped the glass at her evident displeasure, and it rolled down the slight declivity. "Those are not horse tails, as you know very well. Besides, they are green. Any one can see that they are weeping willows. She didn't have time to work the trunks. She's going to do that when I come back. Please do not add stupidity to your other failings, Mr. Jones."
She moved the bag to a safe distance from me with a reverential and disappointed air.
"Where is that glass?" she said.
Every man on the beach ran for the spyglass. The Cook got it first.
"Thank you, Cook," she said, with a radiant smile.
"You never looked at me as you did at that Cook just now," I whispered under my breath.
"The Cook never presumes," she answered in a low tone. "Lend me your shoulder, Cook."
The Cook knelt on the beach with Spartan firmness. I did not envy him his cushion of sharp and jagged rocks. I gloated with joy over the wince into which his features were twisted. The Skipper turned and waved his arm at me.