Part 34 (2/2)
”Anything to declare?” he asked.
”Mainly corn aboard, an' tinned fruits for Port o' London.
Reas'nable deal o' tea an' 'baccy, though, for you to seal--s.h.i.+pped for same place. By the way, chest o' tea for party living hereabouts--Goodwyn-Sandys, friend of owner--guess that's the reason for putting in at this one-hoss place,” wound up Uriah T. Potter, with a depreciatory glance at the beauties of Troy.
”This is Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys,” said the Collector.
”Proud to make your 'cquaintance, marm.” The Captain held out his hand to the lady, who shook it affably.
”Let's see the cargo,” said Mr. Moggridge.
The Captain led the way and they descended; Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys full of pretty wonder at the arrangements of the s.h.i.+p, and slipping her fingers timidly into the Collector's hand on the dark companion stairs. He seized and raised them to his lips.
”Oh, you poets!” expostulated she.
”Where the tyrant's only fee,” murmured Mr. Moggridge.
”Is the kissing of a hand.”
”What, more verses? You shall repeat them to me.”
I am afraid that in the obscurity below, Mr. Moggridge inspected the weighing of s.h.i.+p's stores and sealing of excisable goods in a very perfunctory manner. There were so many dim corners and pa.s.sages where Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys needed guidance; and, after all, the minions were sufficient for the work. They rummaged here and there among casks and chests, weighing, counting, and sealing, whilst the red-faced Uriah stood over them and occasionally looked from the Collector to the lady with a slow grin of growing intelligence.
They were seated together on a cask, and Mr. Moggridge had possessed himself, for the twentieth time, of his companion's hand.
”You think the verses obscure?” he was whispering. ”Ah! Geraldine, if I could only speak out from the heart! As it is, 'Euphelia serves to grace my measure!'”
”Who's she?” asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, whose slight acquaintance with other poets was, perhaps, the reason why she rated her companion's verse so highly.
”'The merchant, to conceal his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name,'”
Mr. Moggridge began to quote.--”Why, Geraldine, what is the matter?
Are you faint?”
”No; it is nothing.”
”I thought you seemed pale. As I was saying--”
'The merchant, to conceal his treasure--'
”Yes, yes, I know,” said she, rising abruptly. ”It is very hot and close down here.”
”Then you _were_ faint?”
”Here's your chest, marm,” called the voice of Uriah T. Potter.
She turned and walked towards it. It was a large, square packing-case, and bore the legends--
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