Here, before his eyes, lay the coast of France; the actual
forts and guns with which his imagination had so often played.
What a tale he would have to tell on his return! And, by the way,
how his poor Trojans must be suffering in his absence, without news
of him! He pictured that return. . . . Yes, indeed, it was at the
expense of Troy that Fortune had conceived this practical joke.
He could even smile, as yet, at the thought of the Baskets' dismay as
they searched the house for him. He wondered if Mr. Basket had
forwarded his letter to Miss Marty, at the same time announcing his
disappearance. Well, well, he would dry her tears. . . .
But upon this came the recollection of those cruel words:
"_What a dam funny-looking little man!_"
He might--he assuredly would--keep them a secret in his own breast.
But they echoed there.
His vanity was robust. Again and again it asserted its health in his
day-dreams, expelling, or all but expelling, that poisonous memory.
Only at night, in his hammock, it awoke again--sinister, premonitory.
But as yet the man continued cheerfully incredulous. Fate was
playing, less on him than through him, a rare practical joke--no
more.
On the eighth of June, at about nine o'clock in the evening, it
occurred to Admiral Lord Keith that the wind and weather afforded an
excellent opportunity of testing the _Vesuvius's_ far-famed catamaran
against the shipping moored off Boulogne pier.
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