And I can hear her too. "Don't bring any of
your elephant-hunting manners here, Mr. Allan" (with an emphasis on
the Allan) "Quatermain, they are not fit for polite society. You
should go and brush your hair, Mr. Quatermain." (I may explain that my
hair sticks up naturally.)
Then would come her little husband's horrified "Hush! hush! you are
quite insulting, my dear."
Oh! why do I remember it all after so many years when I have even
forgotten the people's names? One of those little things that stick in
the mind, I suppose. The Island of Ascension, where we called, sticks
also with its long swinging rollers breaking in white foam, its bare
mountain peak capped with green, and the turtles in the ponds. Those
poor turtles. We brought two of them home, and I used to look at them
lying on their backs in the forecastle flapping their fins feebly. One
of them died, and I got the butcher to save me the shell. Afterwards I
gave it as a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. Scroope, nicely polished
and lined. I meant it for a work-basket, and was overwhelmed with
confusion when some silly lady said at the marriage, and in the
hearing of the bride and bridegroom, that it was the most beautiful
cradle she had ever seen.
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