Penelopes Irish Experiences | Page 8

I wended our way among the heaps of luggage, followed by crowds
of ragamuffins, who offered to run for a car, run for a cab, run for a
porter, carry our luggage up the street to the cab-stand, carry our wraps,
carry us, 'do any mortial thing for a penny, melady, an' there is no cars
here, melady, God bless me sowl, and that He be good to us all if I'm
tellin' you a word of a lie!'
Entirely unused to this flow of conversation, we were obliged to stop
every few seconds to recount our luggage and try to remember what we
were looking for. We all met finally, and I rescued Salemina from the
voluble thanks of an old woman to whom she had thoughtlessly given a
three-penny bit. This mother of a 'long wake family' was wishing that
Salemina might live to 'ate the hin' that scratched over her grave, and
invoking many other uncommon and picturesque blessings, but we
were obliged to ask her to desist and let us attend to our own business.
"Will I clane the whole of thim off for you for a penny, your ladyship's
honour, ma'am?" asked the oldest of the ragamuffins, and I gladly
assented to the novel proposition. He did it, too, and there seemed to be
no hurt feelings in the company.
Just then there was a rattle of cabs and side-cars, and our self-
constituted major-domo engaged two of them to await our pleasure. At

the same moment our eyes lighted upon Salemina's huge Vuitton,
which had been dragged behind the pile of wool sacks. It was no
wonder it had escaped our notice, for it was mostly covered by the
person of the sea-sick maiden whom I had seen on the arm of the
stewardess. She was seated on it, exhaustion in every line of her figure,
her head upon my travelling bag, her feet dangling over the edge until
they just touched the 'S. P., Salem, Mass., U.S.A.' painted in large red
letters on the end. She was too ill to respond to our questions, but there
was no mistaking her nationality. Her dress, hat, shoes, gloves, face,
figure were American. We sent for the stewardess, who told us that she
had arrived in Glasgow on the day previous, and had been very ill all
the way coming from Boston.
"Boston!" exclaimed Salemina. "Do you say she is from Boston, poor
thing?"
("I didn't know that a person living in Boston could ever, under any
circumstances, be a 'poor thing,'" whispered Francesca to me.)
"She was not fit to be crossing last night, and the doctor on the
American ship told her so, and advised her to stay in bed for three days
before coming to Ireland; but it seems as if she were determined to get
to her journey's end."
"We must have our trunk," I interposed. "Can't we move her carefully
over to the wool sacks, and won't you stay with her until her friends
come?"
"She has no friends in this country, ma'am. She's just travelling for
pleasure like."
"Good gracious! what a position for her to be in," said Salemina. "Can't
you take her back to the steamer and put her to bed?"
"I could ask the captain, certainly, miss, though of course it's something
we never do, and besides we have to set the ship to rights and go across
again this evening."

"Ask her what hotel she is going to, Salemina," we suggested, "and let
us drop her there, and put her in charge of the housekeeper; of course if
it is only sea-sickness she will be all right in the morning."
The girl's eyes were closed, but she opened them languidly as Salemina
chafed her cold hands, and asked gently if we could not drive her to an
hotel.
"Is--this--your--baggage?" she whispered.
"It is," Salemina answered, somewhat puzzled.
"Then don't--leave me here, I am from Salem--myself," whereupon
without any more warning she promptly fainted away on the trunk.
The situation was becoming embarrassing. The assemblage grew larger,
and a more interesting and sympathetic audience I never saw. To an
Irish crowd, always warm-hearted and kindly, willing to take any
trouble for friend or stranger, and with a positive terror of loneliness, or
separation from kith and kin, the helpless creature appealed in every
way. One and another joined the group with a "Holy Biddy! what's this
at all?"
"The saints presarve us, is it dyin' she is?"
"Look at the iligant duds she do be wearin'."
"Call the docthor, is it? God give you sinse! Sure the docthors is only a
flock of omadhauns."
"Is it your daughter she is, ma'am?" (This to Salemina.)
"She's from Ameriky, the poor mischancy crathur."
"Give her a toothful of whisky, your ladyship.