venturesome rider into the hold.


CHAPTER II.

On the following morning we were all sitting in the palatial saloon of
the _Marlinspike_. We were all there, all the characters, that is to
say, necessary for the completion of a first class three-volume ocean
novel. On my right sat the cayenne-peppery Indian Colonel, a small
man with a fierce face and a tight collar, who roars like a bull and
says, "Zounds, Sir," on the slightest provocation. Opposite to him
was his wife, a Roman-nosed lady, with an imperious manner, and a
Colonel-subduing way of curling her lip. On my left was the funny man.
As usual he was of a sea-green colour, and might be expected at any
moment to stagger to a porthole and call faintly for the steward.
Further down the table sat two young nincompoops, brought on board
specially in order that they might fulfil their destiny, and fill
out my story, by falling in love with the fluffy-haired English girl
who was sitting between them, and pouting equally and simultaneously
at both. There was also the stout German who talks about "de sturm
und der vafes." And beside him was the statuesque English beauty,
whose eyes are of the rich blackness of the tropic sky, whose voice
has a large assortment of sudden notes of haughtiness, while the
studied insolence of her manner first freezes her victims and then
incontinently and inconsistently scorches them. Eventually her proud
spirit will be tamed, probably by a storm, or a ship-wreck, or by
ten days in an open boat. I shall then secure your love, my peerless
ARAMINTA, and you will marry me and turn out as soft and gentle as
the moss-rose which now nestles in your raven tresses. The Colonel was
speaking.