There
was a momentary excitement as one chair broke from its fastenings and
slid down with a crash against the bulwarks. The occupant was picked up
in a hysterical condition and taken below. The deck steward tied the
chair more firmly, so that the accident would not happen again. The young
English girl was opposite John Kenyon when this disaster took place, and
her attention being diverted by fear for the safety of the occupant of
the sliding chair, her care for herself was withdrawn at the very moment
when it was most needed. The succeeding lurch which the ship gave to the
other side was the most tremendous of the day. The deck rose until the
girl leaning outward could almost touch it with her hand, then, in spite
of herself, she slipped with the rapidity of lightning against the chair
John Kenyon occupied, and that tripping her up, flung her upon him with
an unexpectedness that would have taken his breath away if the sudden
landing of a plump young woman upon him had not accomplished the same
thing. The fragile deck-chair gave way with a crash, and it would be hard
to say which was the more discomfited by the sudden catastrophe, John
Kenyon or the girl.
'I hope you are not hurt,' he managed to stammer.
'Don't think about me!' she cried. 'I have broken your chair, and--and----'
'The chair doesn't matter,' cried Kenyon. 'It was a flimsy structure at
best. I am not hurt, if that is what you mean--and you mustn't mind it.
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