| Author: | Earl Derr Biggers | ISBN: | 1230000141153 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing | Publication: | June 12, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Earl Derr Biggers |
| ISBN: | 1230000141153 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication: | June 12, 2013 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
“I HAD two trunks—two, où est l’autre?”
The grinning customs guard lifted his shoulders to his ears and spread out his palms. “Mais, mamselle—”
“Don’t you ‘mais’ me, sir! I had two trunks—deux troncs—when I got aboard that wabbly old boat at Dover this morning, and I’m not going to budge from this wharf until I find the other one. Where did you learn your French, anyway? Can’t you understand when I speak your language?”
The girl plumped herself down on top of the unhasped trunk and folded her arms truculently. With a quizzical smile, the customs guard looked down into her brown eyes, smoldering dangerously now, and began all over again his speech of explanation.
“Wagon-lit?” She caught a familiar word. “Mais oui; that’s where I want to go—aboard your wagon-lit, for Paris. Voilà!”—the girl carefully gave the word three syllables—“mon ticket pour Paree!” She opened her patent- leather reticule, rummaged furiously therein, brought out a handkerchief, a tiny mirror, a packet of rice papers, and at last a folded and punched ticket. This she displayed with a triumphant flourish.
“Voilà! II dit ‘Miss Jane Gerson’; that’s me—moi-même, I mean. And il dit ‘deux troncs’; now you can’t go behind that, can you? Where is that other trunk?”
A whistle shrilled back beyond the swinging doors of the station. Folk in the customs shed began a hasty gathering together of parcels and shawl straps, and a general exodus toward the train sheds commenced. The girl on the trunk looked appealingly about her; nothing but bustle and confusion; no Samaritan to turn aside and rescue a fair traveler fallen among customs guards. Her eyes filled with trouble, and for an instant her reliant mouth broke its line of determination; the lower lip quivered suspiciously. Even the guard started to walk away.
“Oh, oh, please don’t go!” Jane Gerson was on her feet, and her hands shot out in an impulsive appeal. “Oh, dear; maybe I forgot to tip you. Here, attende au secours, if you’ll only find that other trunk before the train—”
“Pardon; but if I may be of any assistance—”
Miss Gerson turned. A tallish, old-young-looking man, in a gray lounge suit, stood heels together and bent stiffly in a bow. Nothing of the beau or the boulevardier about his face or manner. Miss Gerson accepted his intervention as heaven-sent.
“I HAD two trunks—two, où est l’autre?”
The grinning customs guard lifted his shoulders to his ears and spread out his palms. “Mais, mamselle—”
“Don’t you ‘mais’ me, sir! I had two trunks—deux troncs—when I got aboard that wabbly old boat at Dover this morning, and I’m not going to budge from this wharf until I find the other one. Where did you learn your French, anyway? Can’t you understand when I speak your language?”
The girl plumped herself down on top of the unhasped trunk and folded her arms truculently. With a quizzical smile, the customs guard looked down into her brown eyes, smoldering dangerously now, and began all over again his speech of explanation.
“Wagon-lit?” She caught a familiar word. “Mais oui; that’s where I want to go—aboard your wagon-lit, for Paris. Voilà!”—the girl carefully gave the word three syllables—“mon ticket pour Paree!” She opened her patent- leather reticule, rummaged furiously therein, brought out a handkerchief, a tiny mirror, a packet of rice papers, and at last a folded and punched ticket. This she displayed with a triumphant flourish.
“Voilà! II dit ‘Miss Jane Gerson’; that’s me—moi-même, I mean. And il dit ‘deux troncs’; now you can’t go behind that, can you? Where is that other trunk?”
A whistle shrilled back beyond the swinging doors of the station. Folk in the customs shed began a hasty gathering together of parcels and shawl straps, and a general exodus toward the train sheds commenced. The girl on the trunk looked appealingly about her; nothing but bustle and confusion; no Samaritan to turn aside and rescue a fair traveler fallen among customs guards. Her eyes filled with trouble, and for an instant her reliant mouth broke its line of determination; the lower lip quivered suspiciously. Even the guard started to walk away.
“Oh, oh, please don’t go!” Jane Gerson was on her feet, and her hands shot out in an impulsive appeal. “Oh, dear; maybe I forgot to tip you. Here, attende au secours, if you’ll only find that other trunk before the train—”
“Pardon; but if I may be of any assistance—”
Miss Gerson turned. A tallish, old-young-looking man, in a gray lounge suit, stood heels together and bent stiffly in a bow. Nothing of the beau or the boulevardier about his face or manner. Miss Gerson accepted his intervention as heaven-sent.
