A World of InTemperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 2) by Ichabod Temperance Read Free Book Online

thought you were dead!”
    “At the risk of plagiarism, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
    “I am so glad to hear it. We must relate this news to Mademoiselle.”
    “Is she here?”
    “Of course. Vhere I am, so too is the Mademoiselle, for I go vhere Mademoiselle goes. I am her manservant und body-guard.”
    “I say, Wolfgang, this hotel you have led us back to is the very establishment where we are registered. How serendipitous!”
    “Ah, here we are, she is in the dining room. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, but a couple of acquaintances from our ocean voyages have turned up.”
    A fair haired woman, slim and very attractive, stands and turns; her fine fashion sense is matched by an easy sophistication.
    “Howdy, Mademoiselle Gauzot!”
    “Monsieur Ichabod Temperance, this is truly an unexpected surprise, oui? Bonjour, Mademoiselle Plumtartt, I see you have found your wayward beau, too!”
    “Indeed, Mademoiselle Gauzot, he does have a tenacious streak in him, I must say.”
    “And please to allow me to introduce my friend Madame Pâte à Glacer.”
    “Bonjour, Monsieur Temperance and Mademoiselle Plumtartt, how very nice to meet you.”
    Madame is a beautiful and dark woman with a French accent, but she is not of France.
    “Madame Pâte à Glacer, am I correct in that I hear a Louisiana lilt to your accent?”
    “Oh! Oui, Monsieur Temperance, just as I detect an Alabama accent in yourself, no?”
    “Yes, Ma’am, I reckon you do.”
    “This is our friend Miss Abigail GoldenBear and this is our friend Bolt.”
    Bolt steps forward. He wags his tail and tenderly approaches Madame Pâte à Glacer.
    “Here is the back of my hand for your perusal and approval,” says our Creole Duchess.
    Bolt takes a sniff and wags his tail.
    Bolt looks at Mademoiselle Gauzot.
    A small whine and a questioning look.
    “It is all right, Monsieur Bolt,” smiles the lovely French-Canadian, “I do not bite. Not good little doggies, in any case. Oui!”
    Bolt wags his tail and approaches Mademoiselle Gauzot. She passes his hand sniffing test.
    “What a small world. What brings y’all to the Alaskan territories?”
    “Zee climate, no?” Mademoiselle DeeDee Gauzot laughs with infectious humour. “No, it is this wretched allergy to sunlight from which I suffer. I spend my time traveling from one polar extreme to another, in an effort to avoid the sun’s deadly and damaging rays.”
    “I say, as our party intends a continued northern trek, may I suggest we travel together for a time?”
    “Oh, merci beaucoup, Persephone! Wolfgang and I would be delighted!”
    “Me too!” from Madame Pâte à Glacer. “I am taking quite a liking to this merry band.”
    *~~~*
    The next day, if you can call it such, for the sun is but a dim and distant southern hint behind thick cloud cover, we meet at the train station. Mademoiselle Gauzot is heavily protected from even these weak rays of Sol’s radiations. A  wide brimmed hat with heavy veils, parasol, and colored lensed glasses, help to guard her fragile complexion.
    We board the Grand Alaskan Central’s “ Yukon Komet ” and head into the blanche tundra.
    The swaying train rattles northward.
    A steward, Spike Rogers, shares a smoke on the observation car with me and Bolt. He rolls a cigarette. I fill my clay pipe. Spike offers a treat of sardines to Bolt.
    “Enjoy the the fish treat, Bolt; that’s the last of it.”
    “Last of the fish? I figured there’d be plenty of fish in these parts.”
    “Normally that would be the case, but there is a shortage of fish right now for some reason.”
    “Any reason given?”
    “Well,” says Spike, relaxing into an affixed seat, “they say with the salmon, that the fish are somehow able to migrate around the normal fishing routes. The fish just never seem to be where they oughta be.”
    “What about in the ocean?”
    “The commercial fishing industry has slowed down. The rumour is that the the nets are being cut. No