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Updated: June 5, 2025
Then coffee, rolls, and honey, and back again to work, with little Scatchett at the piano in the salon beyond the partition, wearing a sweater and fingerless gloves and holding a hot-water bottle on her knees.
Boyd had barely seen them comfortably established on board, when up the ship's gangway came "Fingerless" Fraser radiantly attired, three heavily laden hotel porters groaning at his back, the customary thick-waisted cigar between his teeth. "Are you going with us?" Boyd inquired. "Sure." "See here. Is life one long succession of surprise parties with you?" "Why, I've figgered on this right along."
They would ruin me if they could, but they can't do it, they can't do it. We have beaten them all, my lady. We have won!" He was sealing his letter, when, without warning, "Fingerless" Fraser appeared at his side, his fishlike eyes agleam, his colorless face drawn with anxiety.
"Get out!" Boyd ordered, in such a tone that the speaker obeyed with ludicrous haste. "Fingerless" Fraser broke the silence that fell upon the young man's exit. "He's a nice little feller! I never knew one of those narrow-chested, five-o'clock-tea-drinkers that was on the level. He's got eighteen fancy vests, and wears a handkerchief up his sleeve.
I'm one of the Virginia Frenches, you know; perhaps you have heard of them. No? Well, they're the real thing." The girl bowed, but Emerson forestalled her acknowledgment by breaking in roughly, with a threatening scowl at the adventurer: "His name isn't French at all, Madam; it's Fraser 'Fingerless' Fraser. He's an utterly worthless rogue, and absolutely unreliable so far as I can learn.
Here flourishes that monstrous cactus-like growth called prickly-pear, with flat flap-like leaves resembling fingerless green hands; warped and brutal-looking stems looking like palsied arms. The cactus is abloom in red-hot poker ends. Orange trees and lemon trees and olive trees abound. Burlesquely-shaped palms, swathed in their overcoats, stand on the green lawns like waxwork figures.
"You will have a good time in Chicago." Boyd smiled. "Fingerless" Fraser came to them from the lighted regions amidship, greeting them cheerfully. "Well, we're pretty near there, ain't we? I'm glad of it; I've about cleaned up this ship."
In it he had two pairs of extra socks, worn and ragged, a tattered and dirty undershirt, a photograph of his wife, rags for cleaning his gun, a part of a loaf of dry bread, the remnant of what had been a pair of gloves, now fingerless and stiff with rain and mud, a rosary, a pair of shoes that the woman of the photograph would have wept and prayed over, some extra cartridges and a piece of leather.
At length he became unable to guide them farther, and Balt, who had once made the trip, took his place, while the others dragged the poor creature along at the cost of their precious strength. At one time he begged them to leave him, and both Balt and "Fingerless" Fraser agreed, but Emerson would have none of it. "He'll die, anyhow," argued the fisherman.
They were in the dressing-room, no one else present but Grace and Max. "I'm pretty thankful myself," observed the latter jocosely, but with a telltale moisture about the eyes; "I shouldn't like to have a sister with a fingerless hand." "Oh don't, Max! don't talk so!" sobbed Grace, "I just can't bear to think of such dreadful things!" Her father turned toward her and held out his hand.
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