The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK ®. George Barr McCutcheon

already has his orders,” said DeMille, smiling mysteriously.

      “I’ll see about that.” Brewster sprang to the door. It was locked and the key was in “Subway” Smith’s pocket. With an impatient exclamation he turned and pressed an electric button.

      “It won’t ring, Monty,” explained “Subway.” “The wire has been cut. Now, be cool for a minute or two and we’ll talk it over.”

      Brewster stormed for five minutes, the “delegation” sitting calmly by, smiling with exasperating confidence. At last he calmed down and in terms of reason demanded an explanation. He was given to understand that the yacht would sail for Boston and that he would be kept a prisoner for the entire voyage unless he submitted to the will of the majority.

      Brewster listened darkly to the proclamation. He saw that they had gained the upper hand by a clever ruse, and that only strategy on his part could outwit them. It was out of the question for him to submit to them now that the controversy had assumed the dignity of a struggle.

      “But you will be reasonable, won’t you?” asked DeMille, anxiously.

      “I intend to fight it out to the bitter end,” said Brewster, his eyes flashing. “At present I am your prisoner, but it is a long way to Boston.”

      For three days and two nights the “Flitter” steamed westward into the Atlantic, with her temporary owner locked into his stateroom. The confinement was irksome, but he rather liked the sensation of being interested in something besides money. He frequently laughed to himself over the absurdity of the situation. His enemies were friends, true and devoted; his gaolers were relentless but they were considerate. The original order that he should be guarded by one man was violated on the first day. There were times when his guard numbered at least ten persons and some of them served tea and begged him to listen to reason.

      “It is difficult not to listen,” he said fiercely. “It’s like holding a man down and then asking him to be quiet. But my time is coming.”

      “Revenge will be his!” exclaimed Mrs. Dan, tragically.

      “You might have your term shortened on account of good conduct if you would only behave,” suggested Peggy, whose reserve was beginning to soften. “Please be good and give in.”

      “I haven’t been happier during the whole cruise,” said Monty. “On deck I wouldn’t be noticed, but here I am quite the whole thing. Besides I can get out whenever I feel like it.”

      “I have a thousand dollars which says you can’t,” said DeMille, and Monty snapped him up so eagerly that he added, “that you can’t get out of your own accord.”

      Monty acceded to the condition and offered odds on the proposition to the others, but there were no takers.

      “That settles it,” he smiled grimly to himself. “I can make a thousand dollars by staying here and I can’t afford to escape.”

      On the third day of Monty’s imprisonment the “Flitter” began to roll heavily. At first he gloated over the discomfort of his guards, who obviously did not like to stay below. “Subway” Smith and Bragdon were on duty and neither was famous as a good sailor. When Monty lighted his pipe there was consternation and “Subway” rushed on deck.

      “You are a brave man, Joe,” Monty said to the other and blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. “I knew you would stick to your post. You wouldn’t leave it even if the ship should go down.”

      Bragdon had reached the stage where he dared not speak and was busying himself trying to “breathe with the motion of the boat,” as he had called it.

      “By Gad,” continued Monty, relentlessly, “this smoke is getting thick. Some of this toilet water might help if I sprinkled it about.”

      One whiff of the sweet-smelling cologne was enough for Bragdon and he bolted up the companionway, leaving the stateroom door wide open and the prisoner free to go where he pleased. Monty’s first impulse was to follow, but he checked himself on the threshold.

      “Damn that bet with DeMille,” he said to himself, and added aloud to the fleeting guard, “The key, Joe, I dare you to come back and get it!”

      But Bragdon was beyond recall and Monty locked the door on the inside and passed the key through the ventilator.

      On deck a small part of the company braved the spray in the lee of the deck house, but the others had long since gone below. The boat was pitching furiously in the ugliest sea it had encountered, and there was anxiety underneath Captain Perry’s mask of unconcern. DeMille and Dr. Lotless talked in the senseless way men have when they try to conceal their nervousness. But the women did not respond; they were in no mood for conversation.

      Only one of them was quite oblivious to personal discomfort and danger. Peggy Gray was thinking of the prisoner below. In a reflection of her own terror, she pictured him crouching in the little state-room, like a doomed criminal awaiting execution, alone, neglected, forgotten, unpitied. At first she pleaded for the men for his release, but they insisted upon waiting in the hope that a scare might bring him to his senses. Peggy saw that no help was to be secured from the other women, much as they might care for Brewster’s peace of mind and safety. Her heart was bitter toward every one responsible for the situation, and there was dark rebellion in her soul. It culminated finally in a resolve to release Monty Brewster at any cost.

      With difficulty she made her way to the stateroom door, clinging to supports at times and then plunging violently away from them. For some minutes she listened, frantically clutching Brewster’s door and the wall-rail. There was no guard, and the tumult of the sea drowned every sound within. Her imagination ran riot when her repeated calls were not answered.

      “Monty, Monty,” she cried, pounding wildly on the door.

      “Who is it? What is the trouble?” came in muffled tones from within, and Peggy breathed a prayer of thanks. Just then she discovered the key which Monty had dropped and quickly opened the door, expecting to find him cowering with fear. But the picture was different. The prisoner was seated on the divan, propped up with many pillows and reading with the aid of an electric light “The Intrusions of Peggy.”

      CHAPTER XXVIII

      A CATASTROPHE

      “Oh!” was Peggy’s only exclamation, and there was a shadow of disappointment in her eyes.

      “Come in, Peggy, and I’ll read aloud,” was Monty’s cheerful greeting as he stood before her.

      “No, I must go,” said Peggy, confusedly. “I thought you might be nervous about the storm—and—”

      “And you came to let me out?” Monty had never been so happy.

      “Yes, and I don’t care what the others say. I thought you were suffering—” But at that moment the boat gave a lurch which threw her across the threshold into Monty’s arms. They crashed against the wall, and he held her a moment and forgot the storm. When she drew away from him she showed him the open door and freedom. She could not speak.

      “Where are the others?” he asked, bracing himself in the doorway.

      “Oh, Monty,” she cried, “we must not go to them. They will think me a traitor.”

      “Why were you a traitor, Peggy?” he demanded, turning toward her suddenly.

      “Oh—oh, because it seemed so cruel to keep you locked up through the storm,” she answered, blushing.

      “And there was no other reason?” he persisted.

      “Don’t, please don’t!” she cried piteously, and he misunderstood her emotion. It was clear that she was merely sorry for him.

      “Never mind, Peggy, it’s all right. You stood by me and I’ll stand by you. Come on; we’ll face the mob and I’ll do the fighting.”

      Together they made their way into the presence of the mutineers, who were crowded into the main cabin.