I bent over him. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. He halted,—looked fearfully around,—stopped again, and exclaimed aloud, "I don't like the job; and yet it must be done, or Mr. That's the way it goes.
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