Mr. Frothingham, in
his steamer chair, looked like a soft collapsible tube of something;
Bennietod, at ease upon the uncovered boards of the deck, was
circumspectly having cheese sandwiches and wastefully shooting the
ship's rockets into the red sunset, in general celebration; and
Rollo, having taken occasion respectfully to submit to whomsoever it
concerned that fact is ever stranger than fiction, had gone below.
Mr. Otho Holland and Little Cawthorne--but their smiles were like
different names for the same thing--were toasting each other in
something light and dry and having a bouquet which Mr. Holland, who
ought to know, compared favourably with certain vintages of 1000
B.C. In a hammock near them reclined Mrs. Medora Hastings, holding
two kinds of smelling salts which invariably revived her simply by
inducing the mental effort of deciding which was the better. Her
hair, which was exceedingly pretty, now rippled becomingly about her
flushed face and was guiltless of side-combs--she had lost them both
down a chasm in that headlong flight from the cliff's summit, and
they irrecoverably reposed in the bed of some brook of the Miocene
period.
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