THE VULTURES

A NOVEL

By Henry Seton Merriman




I

ALL AT SEA

Mr. Joseph P. Mangles, at his ease in a deck-chair on the broad
Atlantic, was smoking a most excellent cigar. Mr. Mangles was a tall,
thin man, who carried his head in the manner curtly known at a girls'
school as "poking." He was a clean-shaven man, with bony forehead,
sunken cheeks, and an underhung mouth. His attitude towards the world
was one of patient disgust. He had the air of pushing his way, chin
first, doggedly through life. The weather had been bad, and was now
moderating. But Mr. Mangles had not suffered from sea-sickness. He was
a dry, hard person, who had suffered from nothing but chronic
dyspepsia--had suffered from it for fifty years or so.

"Fine weather," he said. "Women will be coming on deck--hang the fine
weather."

And his voice was deep and low like a growl.

"Joseph," said Miss Mangles, "growls over his meals like a dog."