Читать книгу The Painted Cliff - Alex Philip - Страница 4

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HEN Peter’s senses again renewed contact with their environment the pain and nausea had passed and he felt much stronger.

In a corner of the room a shaft of brilliant sunlight shone on a pleasing scene. A girl stood before the mirror fluffing out her glorious brown hair with swift, deft fingers. Her hands were unbelievably white and fragile. She was small and tender, pale as a tea rose, and her fly-away hair curled in soft tendrils about her white forehead. She sensed his eyes upon her and turned quickly, smiling. And when she smiled there was a lift and gentle curve about her lips that he had not noticed about any other lips before.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Ripping,” he answered happily. For he now realized that his brain was clear and that this was not a dream.

His eyes roved about the room; then came back questioningly to the girl. The hot colour swept to her cheeks.

“This room,” she explained hastily, “belongs to the two prospectors who brought you here.”

“Brought me?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember? You fell on the sidewalk.”

Peter smiled rather sheepishly. “Ah! I do remember. You’re the girl in the restaurant.”

For a moment the girl seemed puzzled, then a roguish look danced momentarily in her eyes, and she made no reply to Peter’s statement.

“Pardon me,” Peter went on, “I may as well introduce myself. I am what is left of Peter Welton, late of London, now with the ‘down-and-outs’.”

For the fraction of a second the girl hesitated; then said thoughtfully: “My name is Dorothy Sinclair.”

To Peter it seemed incredible that this girl worked in a lunch-room on the water front. The thing was preposterous! Why, she was the embodiment of all that goes to make culture and refinement. Her manner, her speech—everything! What sort of a country was this where a lovely high-bred creature held such a menial position?

He felt a quick wave of humiliation as he realized his predicament; lying helpless in room donated by some charitable strangers and being waited on by this kind-hearted girl.

“Sorry to have been so much trouble to you,” he began lamely. “I must get up.” He struggled to his feet, took a step, then wavered and would have fallen had she not flown to his side and caught his arm. He sank back to the bed, silently cursing the weakness that set his limbs a-tremble.

“You must lie down and rest,” she admonished him softly. “You’ll be stronger soon.”

“But,” he protested wearily, “you don’t understand. I am flat broke.”

“You don’t have to worry,” she assured him, her lips curving in a smile, “you have been adopted by the prospectors.”

Peter looked at her blankly.

“Yes,” she went on, “they said you were to bring them good luck, that you are to be their mascot.”

“Me?” cried Peter, forgetting his grammar. “Me? A mascot?”

He lost himself in hysterical laughter. The paroxysm brought on a violent attack of coughing.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized weakly when he had regained his breath.

Dorothy raised her hand and stood in an attitude of listening. “They are coming.”

From the hall came a voice of heavy timbre raised in song: