But she fetched Mistah Petahs
who came with voluble and pleased sympathy.
He stood at the door of the cabin smiling fatuously. Mrs. Hetherington
gave a little horrified shriek as she saw the tip of his toe over the
threshold.
"No, no, naughty boy! You mustn't come in here! I'm shocked."
"Are you ill?" he asked in a deeply pained voice.
"My poor, poor head, Mistah Petahs! That champagne last night brought
everything back--dear George and all our happiness."
"Oh, I say," murmured Mr. Peters.
"I feel so ill, so terribly ill. What could I have? If this head doesn't
get better I shall jump overboard, really I shall. And then the fishes
will eat me!"
Mr. Peters contemplated the prospect hopefully.
"And--I keep thinking of my darlings," she whispered, reduced to tears.
"What you want, little lady, is a hair of the dog that bit you," said
Mr. Peters judicially. She gave a gentle little scream.
"Oh you sound so fierce, Mistah Petahs! Which dog? When?" she asked
guilelessly.
"I'll get it--you lie back, little lady, and rest your pretty head."
She lay back, with swimming eyes.
He went half a step along the alley-way.
"Mistah Petahs," she called faintly.
He came back, assiduous.
"On ice," she murmured. He nodded and went.
"So kind--so sympathetic," murmured Mrs. Hetherington with closed eyes.
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