Any ship, to be sure, with a hundredth part as many
holes in it as our barrack, must long ago have gone to her last
port. Up to that time I had always imagined Mrs. Hanson's
loquacity to be mere incontinence, that she said what was uppermost
for the pleasure of speaking, and laughed and laughed again as a
kind of musical accompaniment. But I now found there was an art in
it, I found it less communicative than silence itself. I wished to
know why Ronalds had come; how he had found his way without Rufe;
and why, being on the spot, he had not refreshed his title. She
talked interminably on, but her replies were never answers. She
fled under a cloud of words; and when I had made sure that she was
purposely eluding me, I dropped the subject in my turn, and let her
rattle where she would.
She had come to tell us that, instead of waiting for Tuesday, the
claim was to be jumped on the morrow. How? If the time were not
out, it was impossible. Why? If Ronalds had come and gone, and
done nothing, there was the less cause for hurry. But again I
could reach no satisfaction. The claim was to be jumped next
morning, that was all that she would condescend upon.
And yet it was not jumped the next morning, nor yet the next, and a
whole week had come and gone before we heard more of this exploit.
That day week, however, a day of great heat, Hanson, with a little
roll of paper in his hand, and the eternal pipe alight; Breedlove,
his large, dull friend, to act, I suppose, as witness; Mrs.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114