“Is there a gentleman named Robinson in there?” she asked, timidly.
“Gentleman named who?” came the thunderclap again.
“Robinson,” said the lady, faintly.
“No! No!” said the thunder-clap. Then—“Go away,” it rumbled. “Go away.”
The reverberation of that mighty voice rolled and shook through the cabin. It even affected the mate, for the visitor, glancing towards him, saw that he had nervously concealed himself beneath the bedclothes, and was shaking with fright.
“I daresay his bark is worse than his bite,” said the visitor, trembling; “anyway, I’m going to stay here. I saw Mr. Robinson come here, and I believe he’s got him in there. Killing him, perhaps. Oh! Oh!”
To the mate’s consternation she began to laugh, and then changed to a piercing scream, and, unused to the sex as he was, he realised that this was the much-dreaded hysteria of which he had often heard, and he faced her with a face as pallid as her own.
“Chuck some water over yourself,” he said, hastily, nodding at a jug which stood on the table. “I can’t very well get up to do it myself.”
The lady ignored this advice, and by dint of much strength of mind regained her self-control. She sat down on the locker again, and folding her arms showed clearly her intention to remain.
Half an hour passed; the visitor still sat grimly upright. Twice she sniffed slightly, and, with a delicate handkerchief, pushed up her veil and wiped away the faint beginnings of a tear.