“I always felt you’d turn up some day,” said Mrs. Gimpson. “I felt certain of it in my own mind. Mary made sure you was dead, but I said ‘no, I knew better.’”
There was something in Mrs. Gimpson’s manner of saying this that impressed her listeners unfavourably. The impression was deepened when, after a short, dry laugh à propos of nothing, she sniffed again—three times.
“Well, you turned out to be right,” said Mr. Boxer, shortly.
“I gin’rally am,” was the reply; “there’s very few people can take me in.”
She sniffed again.
“Were the natives kind to you?” inquired Mrs. Boxer, hastily, as she turned to her husband.
“Very kind,” said the latter. “Ah! you ought to have seen that island. Beautiful yellow sands and palm-trees; cocoa-nuts to be ’ad for the picking, and nothing to do all day but lay about in the sun and swim in the sea.”
“Any public-’ouses there?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.
“Cert’nly not,” said her son-in-law. “This was an island—one o’ the little islands in the South Pacific Ocean.”
“What did you say the name o’ the schooner was?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.