Sam turned and confronted him, with a steady gaze of ineffable contempt.
“Now, who said it wasn’t dead ahead?—tell me that. Shows how much you know about earthquakes. ’Course, I didn’t mean just this continent, nor just this earth: I tell you, the whole thing’s turned!”
ETCHINGS: JEANNETTE
(French of George Le Faure: I. S: For Short Stories.)
Every day there came down to the long stone wharf a smiling fair-haired girl of seven, followed by an old, old man.
The child carried a spy-glass, hugging it in her arms as if it were a doll, and she skipped along gaily till she reached the end of the pier. Then she handed the long glass to her companion, and resting her chubby little hands on the cold stone coping, looked wistfully out to sea.
With the soft breeze blowing her hair about her shoulders, and her eyes fixed searchingly on the horizon she stood perfectly silent until a tiny white speck appeared in the far distance where sea and sky seemed to mingle.
“A sail, a sail!” she cried, and the old man sat down and laid the spy-glass upon his arm.
Breathless and eager, the child grasped the brass tube with both hands and peered through it without speaking. After a few minutes, however, she said with a sigh of disappointment: “Not yet, grandpa,” and returning patiently to her post resumed the watch until another sail appeared.