When I
first saw him, on reaching the shelving deck, he was staggering up
the stairs with a dining-room chair and a large framed engraving of
Raphael's Dante--an ugly picture, but full of true feeling; at
least so Euphemia always declared, though I am not quite sure that
I know what she meant.
"Where is Pomona?" I said, endeavoring to stand on the hill-side of
the deck.
"I don't know," said he, "but we must get the things out. The
tide's rising and the wind's getting up. The boat will go over
before we know it."
"But we must find the girl," I said. "She can't be left to drown."
"I don't think it would matter much," said he, getting over the
side of the boat with his awkward load. "She would be of about as
much use drowned as any other way. If it hadn't been for that hole
she cut in the side of the boat, this would never have happened."
"You don't think it was that!" I said, holding the picture and the
chair while he let himself down to the gang-plank.
"Yes, it was," he replied. "The tide's very high, and the water
got over that hole and rushed in. The water and the wind will
finish this old craft before very long."
And then he took his load from me and dashed down the gang-plank.
I went below to look for Pomona. The lantern still hung on the
nail, and I took it down and went into the kitchen. There was
Pomona, dressed, and with her hat on, quietly packing some things
in a basket.
"Come, hurry out of this," I cried.
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