IN THE CORNER.
[A TROPICAL HURRICANE.]
BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.
High noon in the little Anglo-Spanish town of Queenston, island of St. Vincent: everything and everybody seem to be dozing quietly in the hot, drowsy atmosphere.
"Why, all the people must be asleep or dead," mutters Ned Brandon, discontentedly, as he stands on the corner of the one principal street of Queenston, under the shade of a neat silk umbrella, and stares about him. Truth to tell, Ned, who is something of a dandy, had before going ashore dressed himself with exceeding care in his little state-room on board the brig Calypso, owned by his father, and in which, under the care of good Captain Hardy, he is making a vacation trip to the West Indies.
He has on a dazzling suit of pure white linen, a handsome Panama hat, a white neck-tie, low patent-leather shoes, and striped silk stockings.
"Well, I certainly took a great deal of trouble for nothing in this matter of dressing," grumbles Ned, looking listlessly up and down the almost deserted street.