The Argosy — page 157: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

By the Sad Sea Waves. 145 { have noticed the best of men think themselves at liberty to speak out to a girl the admiration they only dare look to a lady. Ottalie glances over her shoulder (with a crimson fave) at me again, and once more I hold my tongue. Well, perhaps in the position it was best to be silent. We had brought it upon ourselves. “T would take the oars myself,” he adds, “only I gave my wrist an ugly wrench yesterday ; so there can be no more rowing for me yet awhile. Tell your father to send. you as long as I am helpless—that is, if you want to come. Do you?” There is a little pause, and then Ottalie answers, in her old, care- for-nothing tone, “ Yes.” I hold my breath ; but nothing more is said. He only laughs. So he takes us for “Michael’s” daughters, whomsoever he and they may be. T feel dowdy ; I feel that we both look just as Michael's daughters might look. I am not much to boast of on orthodox occasions ; but now my hat is over one ear, my cotton gown is rumpled, and I can tell that my nose is red, and my face a mass of freckles. Ottalie is also rumpled. Her lilac sleeves are rolled up, and her hat is lying at my feet. Yes, we might surely sit as models for these mythical daughters of Michael. Next I look at our “fare.” He is tall and broad-shouldered, and clean-limbed ; his face is rather square, his features are irregular, and his mouth is covered by a black moustache; he is either very dark or much sunburnt. But there is something in his countenance that I like, something also in his voice, and he has the unmistakable bearing of a well-bred man. Finding he cannot make Michael's daughters talk with him, he sub- sides into silence, enjoying his cigar. Then we reach shore. I scramble out first, before he rises; he follows; then comes Ottalie. Once more on land, my courage revives. “Tell Michael,” he begins——but I interrupt him. In my opinion it is high time the farce should cease, “You are mistaken, sir,” I say, tartly, trying to speak de haut en bas. “We are not Michael's daughters.” “Not Michael’s daughters !" he repeats. “Then who the dev—I beg your pardon. Then who are you?” But he speaks with a ring of mockery in his tone. What with that, and what with Ottalie’s black looks at me, I turn back to speak again. “We did not go after you—to fetch yex—we knew nothing about you. Ott—this lady got into the boat for pastime, believing it to be at liberty ; and she was foolish enough to row over to the oppo- site side of the inlet. We are ladies.” “Thanks,” he answers, staring at both of us, and raising his straw hat. My tones may not have impressed him—perhaps “puzzled chim ; for there is a slighting lightness still in him, and anything but reverence VOL, XXII. mi comicbhooks.com