CHAPTER VIII
THREE-FINGERED CHOLERA
COLONEL Spottiswoode had composed himself in a steamer chair for another blissful day of gazing upon the sea. Zack invented all sorts of diverting novelties in conversation, but the Colonel wouldn't nibble. Then the negro straggled off and went foraging for companionship amongst the third-class passengers. On the forward deck he lingered beside a low platform carpeted with canvas and sheltered by an awning; four or five bumpy-legged men sprawled beneath this canopy. Maybe they belonged to a side show; anyhow they talked a-plenty,—some kind o' bird-store chatter. Zack couldn't argufy with them so he moved aft. On the open deck amidships he found other men, in accordian-pleated skirts, and wrapped-up women with curtains drawn across their faces—playing with crazy-looking cards—which didn't satisfy Zack.
It was then that a voice from heaven came unto him, saying, "Hello, old man! Where'd you come from?"
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