CHAPTER XX
THE GIRL LINDA
Philip did not appear for breakfast, and MacAllister found him tossing in his bunk. After a hasty examination the gambler left him, and climbed the companionway to the deck.
"It's more than a morning-after fever," he said to Carlotta, who lolled on a steamer chair under a gay bit of awning, clad in a very negligent negligee of apricot silk, which allowed a maximum of comfort in that climate, as well as freedom for those fleshly assets of hers which made her a favourite at Standishs'.
Across the water came the creak of a windlass from the red-waterlined tramp, weighing anchor. A half-mile away ranged the red roofs of the town and its walls, the more modern glistening white, the ancient, like the Café of Many Tongues, worn by Time to a softer grey. Southward, an obsolete fort with a puffy little cannon and a pyramid of rusting cannon-balls, sentinelled the place. From the twin towers of the venerable Spanish Cathedrals came the sound of pealing bells.
"Wonder if we can rustle a doctor in that God-forsaken hole," continued MacAllister and then,—"Hey, Pete, take the launch, and bring the best pill-mixer they've got in the place. If he bucks, use him gently, Pete, very gently."
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