Anyway, she wasn't fannin' herself, or sniffin' smellin' salts. I'd
noticed her hail a deck steward, and the next I knew she was spoonin'
away at half a grapefruit, as calm as you please. Mr. Ellins is
indulgin' in a dry smoke. Only Mrs. Mumford, when she finally appears,
does justice to the situation. She rolls her eyes, breathes hard, and
clutches her crochet bag desperate.
The _Petrel_ people were takin' their time about things. After they
got the boat in they had to let down some side stairs, and then the
sailors waited with their oars ready until an officer in a fresh
laundered white uniform gets in and gives the signal to shove off. Our
Captain has the companionway stairs rigged, too, and there ain't a word
passed until the naval gent comes aboard. He's rather a youngish
party, with a round, good-natured face, and he seems kind of amused as
he sizes up our bunch in their early mornin' costumes.
"Pardon me," says he, touchin' his cap, "but who is in charge of this
yacht?"
"I suppose I am," says Old Hickory.
"Not a bit more than I," puts in Auntie. "And I want to tell you right
now, young man, that I consider your action in shooting off those guns
at us was--"
"I presume you recognize the United States Navy, madam?" breaks in the
officer.
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