His Love Story by Marie Van Vorst

Sabron's departure had been delayed on account of a strike at the / dockyards of Marseilles. He left Tarascon one lovely day toward the / end of January and the old town with its sweetness and its sorrow, / fell behind, as he rolled away to brighter suns. A friend from Paris / took him to the port in his motor and there Sabron waited some / forty-eight hours before he set sail. His boat lay out on the azure / water, the brown rocks of the coast behind it. There was not a / ripple on the sea. There was not a breeze to stir as he took the tug / which was to convey him. He was inclined to dip his fingers in the / indigo ocean, sure that he would find them blue. He climbed up the / ladder alongside of the vessel, was welcomed by the captain, who knew / him, and turned to go below, for he had been suffering from an attack / of fever which now and then laid hold of him, ever since his campaign / in Morocco.

Therefore, as he went into his cabin, which he did not leave until / the steamer touched Algiers, he failed to see the baggage tender pull / up and failed to see a sailor climb to the deck with a wet bedraggled / thing in his hand that looked like an old fur cap except that it / wriggled and was alive.