Once she penned him. He had ensconced himself in a corner behind one of the lifeboats, where, with uncanny instinct, she spied him. Before he could escape, she had shut off egress.
"How do you do?" she said demurely.
He took off his cap, but with a sidelong eye seemed to be measuring the jump to the deck below.
"You've forgotten me, I'm afraid. I'm Little Miss Grouch. Would this help you to remember?"
She extended a five-dollar bill. He took it with the expression of one to whom a nice, shiny blade has just been handed for purposes of hara-kiri.
"I have missed you," she pursued with diabolical plaintiveness. "Our child—our adopted child," she corrected, the pink running up under her skin, "has been crying for you."
"Go away!" said the Tyro hoarsely.
"Are these the manners of a Perfect Pig?" she reproached him. And with adorable sauciness she warbled a nursery ditty:—
| "Lady once loved a pig. |
| 'Honey,' said she, |
| 'Pig, will you marry me?' |
| 'Wrrumph!' said he. |
"I can't grunt very nicely," she admitted. "You do it."