CHAPTER VII
THE TERRORIST
Sailing away through the boundless day
On a tub of the bluingest blue;
(It stretches from here to the Far-and-Near,
Over the rim of the Wonder-Where,
And back again from the Yonder-There.)
Gulls dip their duds in the trailing suds
We leave on the laundry blue.
THE Olga plowed a straight and purposeful furrow from the Greek port of Piræus towards Alexandria in Egypt. Behind her lay the purple haze of Hellas. Far ahead, across the Mediterranean, stretched a violet field whose tawny edge was Africa. Ripples of peacock blue broke across her bow, and burst into a shimmer of broken opals. Whirling white bubbles settled down in her wake. All around and about, above, below—there was naught but a vast and vacant globe, a fretted ball of water, with this smoking speck—the Olga—in its very middle.
Old Reliable warn't pestered in his mind about the peacock blue, and the violet field troubled him none whatever. It wasn't the vacant globe that
