“C. Q.” or, In the Wireless House
girl, traveling with her brother, who looked consumptive, yet ate almost nothing. “I ’d hate to be in a storm. Is n’t it dreadful, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But we don’t get ’em this season—that is, head storms. You don't mind the others.”
“I ’d mind anything!” she sighed.
“Pardon, mees,” put in eagerly a sallow, lean-faced Algerian with grayish-black hair cut in a brush-like pompadour. “I haf been crossin’ twenty years on thees ships, and dere ees nuthin’ to fear. Alors, why should you care? It ees la mal de mer that ees bad. It ees the worst thin’ for ’uman bein’s dere ees! It ees awful. But, think, mees, you do not ’ave it—no?”
He smiled at her with a gentle smile, like the soft desert wind among his own orange groves.
“No, fortunately!” she answered.
“Then, eef you ’ave it, come to me and I will geef you a lemon!” he continued parentally. “These ship lemons! Mon Dieu! They are like nuts. You should see my lemons at Sadi-bel-Abbas! Dere ees nuthin’ like that26
