"Huh, it's odd how things take some people. I once knew a chap,
skipper of the Flower of the Ocean, who could drink a hogshead of
beer an' be as sober as a judge except in one leg, an' that was a
wooden one."
She laughed. It was impossible to be vexed with him.
"You have met some very remarkable shipmasters, if all you say be
true," she cried.
"Sailors are queer folk, believe me. That same brig, Flower of the
Ocean, an' a pretty flower she was, too--all tar an' coal-dust, with a
perfume that would poison a rat--put into Grimsby one day, an' the
crowd went ashore. They kicked up a shindy with some bar-loungers, an'
the fur flew. When the police came, old Peg-leg, the skipper, you
know, was the only man left in the place, havin' unshipped his crutch
for the fight. 'What have you bin a-doin' of here--throwin' grapes
about?' asked the peeler, gazin' at the floor, suspicious-like.
'Grapes,' said Dot-an'-carry-one, 'them ain't grapes. Them's
eyeballs!' Another time--"
"Mr. Boyle!" shrieked Elsie, and fled.
"Huh!" he grunted. "Off before the wind when she hears a Sunday-school
yarn like that. Wonder what she 'd say if I told her about the
plum-duff with beetles for Sultanas. Girls are brought up nowadays
like orchids. They shouldn't be let loose in this wicked world."
As Elsie passed along the promenade deck she saw Courtenay, Tollemache,
and Walker deep in consultation. They were arranging a percussion fuse
of fulminating mercury. While she was watching them, Walker dropped a
broken furnace bar on top of a small package placed on an iron block.
Instantly there was a sharp report, and Joey, who was an interested
observer, jumped several feet. The men laughed, and she heard
Courtenay say: "That is the right proportion of fulminate. Now, Tollemache, I'll help
you to fix them. We do not know the moment those reptiles may choose
to attack."
So the captain did not leave the Alaculof menace altogether out of
count. Something rose in her throat, some wave of emotion which
threatened her splendid serenity. She ran rather than walked to her
cabin, flung herself on the bed, and sobbed piteously. It had to come,
this tempest of tears. When desperate odds demanded unflinching
courage, she faced them dry-eyed, with steadfast heart. But to-day, in
the bright sunshine and apparent security of the ship, sinister
death-shadows tortured her into rebellion. She did not stop to ask
herself why she wept; being a woman, she yielded to the gust, and when
it had ended, with the suddenness of a summer shower, she smiled
through the vanishing tears. Her first concern was that none should be
aware of her weakness.
"How stupid of me," she murmured. "What would the men think if they
knew I broke down in this fashion."