They had made no preparations for the trip, there
was neither bedding nor food; but Elim and Haxall agreed that it was
best for Rosemary Roselle to leave the city at the price of any slight
momentary discomfort.
Elim looked about for a place where he might purchase food. A near-by
eating house had been completely wrecked, its floor a debris of broken
crockery. Beyond, a baker's shop had been deserted, its window
shattered but the interior intact. The shelves, however, had been swept
bare of loaves. Elim searched behind the counters--nothing remained.
But in walking out his foot struck against a round object, wrapped in
paper, which on investigation proved to be a fruit cake of satisfactory
solidity and size. With this beneath his arm he returned to Rosemary
Roselle, and they followed Haxall to the wharf where the sloop lay.
The tiller was in charge of an old man with peering pale-blue eyes and
tremulous siccated hands. Yet he had an astonishingly potent voice, and
issued orders, in tones like the grating of metal edges, to a loutish
youth in a ragged shirt and bare legs. The cabin, partly covered, was
filled with bagged bales; a small space had been left for the
steersman, and forward the deck was littered with untidy ropes and
swab, windlass bar and other odds.
Elim Meikeljohn moved forward to assist Rosemary on to the sloop, but
she evaded his hand and jumped lightly down upon the deck, Indy,
grumbling and certain of catastrophe, was safely got aboard, and Elim
helped the youth to push the craft's bow out into the stream.
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