West Wind Drift. George Barr McCutcheon

the summer time and not being able to keep out of them in the vinter time, she vas nearly distracted. No, I vas selfish. My vife she vas selfish too,—and him her own brother. Vy shouldn't he haf a vacation vonce in awhile?”

      He turned abruptly to the sailor who lounged near the perspiring Percival.

      “How far is it to land, my frient?” he inquired.

      The sailor touched his cap. “Which way, sir?” he asked solemnly. “Fore or aft?”

      (Percival said to himself: “By golly, I'll bet that man is an American.”)

      “Vat? Land,—you know vat I mean,—the end of the ocean. How far avay is it?”

      The sailor calculated. “Well, the nearest land, sir, I should say, is about three hundred miles away, to port.”

      “How deep is it here?” asked Mr. Nicklestick, moving away from the rail suddenly.

      The sailor glanced down at the water, squinted an eye, and then spoke reassuringly.

      “It ain't half as deep here as it is a little furder on,” he said. “It's only a shade over three miles where we are now, sir. We're comin' to the deepest part of the ocean,—ought to be there inside of a couple of hours. Here, you! On the job, on the job!”

      “You ought to search that man carefully,” advised Mr. Nicklestick.

      “I have,” growled the sailor. “He says he never uses it in that form. I guess he's tellin' the truth.”

      “Never uses what?”

      “Tobacco, sir.”

      “Oh!” said Mr. Nicklestick, and, catching a glimpse of Madame Obosky emerging upon the deck, unceremoniously deserted his companions and hurried off to join her, his speed being suddenly accelerated by the spectacle of Mr. Shine, the motion picture magnate, who approached the lady from an equidistant station and with similar haste. Mr. Block, being a trifle near-sighted and in some doubt as to the whereabouts of his wife, peered here and there intently, and then bore down upon the celebrated Russian dancer, who, it would seem, was in dire need of consolation.

      Mr. Fitts followed them with a glance over his glasses and then turned to the sailor man.

      “I suppose it's against orders for me to speak to this man,” he said.

      “Yes, sir.”

      The architect sighed, and walked away.

      The parade became more interesting as the lack of news from the investigators restored a sort of hopeful optimism to the breasts of the anxious company. Those who had maintained a stubborn air of bravado, now became almost offensively jaunty. Others, frankly terrified at the outset, sauntered timidly away from the life-boats to which they were assigned. Every one was glad that the Captain had ordered a life-boat drill on the first afternoon out, and every one was glad that he had ignored the demand of Mr. Landover that the boats be lowered the instant he discovered that his passengers were in peril. No news was good news, argued the majority, and jesting was in order.

      Peter Snipe, the novelist, got out a pad of paper and began jotting down impressions. Madam Careni-Amori and Signor Joseppi exchanged the first friendly words they had spoken to each other in weeks, and in full view of an entranced audience linked arms and strode bravely to and fro, the former clasping a huge jewel case to her ample bosom, the latter chafing perceptibly under the weight of an invisible belt stuffed to its capacity with banknotes and gold. Chilean ladies and Chilean gentlemen, dazzling Brazilian ladies and pompous Brazilian gentlemen, smug Argentinians, lordly Castilians, garrulous Portuguese, lofty English gentlemen and supercilious English ladies, friendly and irrepressible Americans,—all of them swinging their sea-legs with new-found abandon—clattered solidly around the wind-swept circuit. New faces appeared in the procession, new voices were raised with energy, new figures sprang into existence with marvellous rapidity. It seemed to Percival that the population doubled and tripled and quadrupled with every throb of the powerful engines. He saw his “bunkie” of the night before,—the man who was trying so hard to die and couldn't,—he saw him plunging along with the throng, pale but valiant, ferociously glaring at every one who smoked.

      A small group of American nurses, some young and pretty, others young and homely, but all of them sprightly and clear-eyed,—nine of them, in fact—tramped by in “columns of three.”

      Percival's guardian jerked his head in their direction after they had passed, and volunteered this bit of information:

      “Hornswoggled, them girls was. Come all the way down from New York six months ago. Promised double pay and plenty of work in the American colony. Sore as crabs, all of 'em. They got double pay all right, all right, but there was some misunderstandin' as to what single pay was to be to start off with. Single pay turned out to be just whatever suited the people that employed 'em, seein's they were nearly seven thousand miles away from God and up against it, so they're beatin' it back home to volunteer for service in France. I heard one of 'em say she could save more money workin' for nothin' in France than she could earn in a year down here at double pay. What'd you say your name was, young feller?”

      “Percival.”

      “I mean your last name.”

      “That's it.”

      “Come off! Nobody ever had a last name like that.”

      “You ought to hear what my first name is,—and my middle one, too. You said a little while ago you'd never seen any one of my size with bigger and harder muscles. Well, if you knew what my full name is, old man, you'd understand why I began developing them,—I've got a lot more too that you can't see,—when I first began going to school.”

      “What is your other names?” inquired the sailor curiously.

      “Algernon Adonis,” said Percival.

      The sailor was silent for a moment, thinking of the proper thing to say. Then he said:

      “You're dead right. It takes a heap of muscle to pertect a name like that.”

      Three women stopped in front of the two men. Percival kept his eyes lowered.

      “Why,—why, Auntie,—I know him,” fell from the lips of one of the trio. There was not only surprise in her voice but a trace of awe as well.

      The swabber looked up quickly. He found himself gazing straight into the eyes of the speaker. Her lips were parted, her head was bent slightly forward, her eyes expressed utter incredulity and bewilderment. Her companion, an elderly lady, and a bespectacled young woman who carried an arm-load of steamer-rugs, stared not at him but at the girl who had delivered this startling announcement.

      “I mean I,—that is, I may be mistaken,” stammered the latter, suddenly averting her eyes. A wave of crimson swept over her face.

      “Undoubtedly,” exclaimed the elderly lady with great positiveness. Turning to inspect the object under discussion, she sustained a shock that caused her to stiffen and draw in her breath quickly.

      Percival was smiling in a most friendly and encouraging manner. He went farther, and lifted his disreputable white canvas hat.

      “Oh, goodness!” exclaimed the young lady in a sort of panic. “Are you—is it really you, Mr. Percival?”

      Mr. Percival glanced inquiringly at his guard.

      “That's his name, Miss,” said that worthy. “And that's one of the three reasons why he's got them muscular arms you're lookin' at. Sorry, though, but my orders are not to allow any one to speak to him.”

      “Are you crazy, Ruth?” cried the older lady, aghast. “It's the stowaway every one is talking about. The one who tried to blow up the ship.”

      The young lady returned Percival's smile,—rather a diffident, uncertain effort, to be sure, but still a smile,—and murmured something about night before last at the Alcazar Grand.

      “What