Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting, cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned.
“The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones. “Ah! what is this? a piece of wreckage with a monkey clinging to it? No, no-o. The ill-shaped man again. Dear me!”
His listeners sat spellbound. Only the laboured and intense breathing of Mr. Boxer broke the silence.
“He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls. Day breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden approaches the castaway. She assists him into the canoe and his head sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels the canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.”
“Here, look ’ere—” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer.
“H’sh, h’sh!” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson. “W’y don’t you keep quiet?”
“The picture fades,” continued the old man. “I see another: a native wedding. It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued. Ah! the wedding is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group. He has a long knife in his hand. He springs upon the ill-shaped man and wounds him in the head.”
Involuntarily Mr. Boxer’s hand went up to his honourable scar, and the heads of the others swung round to gaze at it. Mrs. Boxer’s face was terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson’s bore the look of sad and patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at anything they do.