Of course, like a fool, I tried to explain,
whereon everybody tittered.
But why do I write of such trifles that have nothing to do with my
story?
I mentioned that I had ventured to send a letter to Miss Margaret
Manners about Mr. Charles Scroope, in which I said incidentally that
if the hero should happen to live I should probably bring him home by
the next mail. Well, we got into Plymouth about eight o'clock in the
morning, on a mild, November day, and shortly afterwards a tug arrived
to take off the passengers and mails; also some cargo. I, being an
early riser, watched it come and saw upon the deck a stout lady
wrapped in furs, and by her side a very pretty, fair-haired young
woman clad in a neat serge dress and a pork-pie hat. Presently a
steward told me that someone wished to speak to me in the saloon. I
went and found these two standing side by side.
"I believe you are Mr. Allan Quatermain," said the stout lady. "Where
is Mr. Scroope whom I understand you have brought home? Tell me at
once."
Something about her appearance and fierce manner of address alarmed me
so much that I could only answer feebly:
"Below, madam, below.
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