"_Pourquoi s'est-il coupé, maman?_" he demanded in a piercing treble.
The question was appropriate, but unanswerable.
His mother lugged him incontinently away.
Berry was confronting one of the largest ladies I have ever seen. As he began to speak, she interrupted him.
"_Vous êtes Meestair Baxtair, n'est-ce pas? Ah, c'est bien ça. J'avais si peur de ne pas vous trouver. Mais maintenant je suis tranquille. Mon mari me suit. Ah, le voilà!_" She turned about, the better to beckon to a huge man with two bags and a hold-all. "_Pierre! Pierre_!"
Beneath the avalanche of good-will Berry stood paralysed.
Recognizing that something must be done, I sought to interfere.
"Leave me alone," said Berry weakly. "I've--I've got off."
It took all my energy and most of my French to convince his _vis-à-vis_ that she was mistaken.
During the interlude about fifteen "possibles" escaped us.
I threw a despairing glance in Jill's direction, wiped the sweat from my brow, and returned to the attack.
After four more failures my nerve began to go. Miserably I turned to my brother-in-law.
He was in the act of addressing a smart-looking girl in black, bearing a brand-new valise and some wilting roses.
Before she had had time to appreciate his inquiry there was a choking yell from the gangway, and a very dark gentleman, with an Italian cast of countenance, thrust his explosive way on to the pier.
My knowledge of his native tongue was limited to _carissimo, spaghetti_, and one or two musical directions, but from the vehemence of his tone and the violence of his dramatic gestures it was plain that the torrent which foamed from his lips was both menacing and abusive. From the shape of the case which he was clutching beneath his left arm, I judged him to be an exponent of the guitar.
Advancing his nose to within an inch and a half of Berry's chin he blared and raved like a maniac, alternately pointing to his shrinking _protegée_ and indicating the blue vault of heaven with frightful emphasis.
Berry regarded him unperturbed. As he paused for breath--
"In answer to your observations," he said, "I can only say that I am not a Mormon and have absolutely no connection with Salt Lake City. I may add that, if you are partial to garlic, it is a taste which I have never acquired. In conclusion, I hope that, before you reach the platform for which you are apparently making, you will stumble over one of the ridiculously large rings with which the quay is so generously provided, and will not only suffer the most hideous agony, but remain permanently lame as a result of your carelessness."