"Strike me blind," observed Bo's'n Joe gloomily, "if they ain't gone an' got poor Frenchy!"
No one else spoke for a bit. Mr. Leman spat over the rail and stared at the fog in the direction of the unseen Japanese ship. The Missus had gone to her cabin when the body was hauled aboard. Captain Pontifex stood looking down at the form, still incased in its diving-suit; and his pallid cavernous features were venomous with rage.
"I'd sooner have lost anyone aboard rather than Dumont—except the Missus," he said softly. "And to think they must have got him just after he got Dennis."
"Aye," said Bo's'n Joe.
It was very evident how Frenchy had come by his fate. Transfixing his body, fastened so firmly within him that no easy pull would remove it, was a long-bladed knife with shark-skin handle—palpably a Japanese knife.
"Well," the Skipper turned away, "see that he's sewed up proper, Mr. Leman, and we'll bury him shipshape. Attend to repairing that dress, too."
When the skipper had disappeared aft, Bo's'n Joe looked at Mr. Leman.
"What's the Skipper got on his mind? He ain't goin' to stand by and see Frenchy killed without doin' anything?"
Mr. Leman reflectively tugged his whiskers, and squinted down his broken nose.
"Not him, Bo's'n—not him! 'Ready to work to-morrow', says he. Just wait till to-night, Bo's'n! If something don't happen to them Japs, I miss my guess. Leave it to him and the Missus! If this blasted fog don't break, he'll show 'em a thing or two."
ThePelicanswung idly to her anchors all that afternoon.
It was easy for those aboard her to deduce exactly how Dumont had come to his end. The knife told the whole story. The flurry at the end of the lines, Dumont's frantic signal to be hoisted, all explained perfectly that he had encountered a diver from the enemy ship. The Japs had diving apparatus, of course.
Sullen resentment and fury filled thePelican, from skipper to meekest Kanaka. All aboard had been wildly excited over salvage and treasure; because of this fact, Pontifex had a solidly united crew behind him in whatever he might attempt. Frenchy had not been particularly loved, but his murder showed that the enemy meant business—and in defence of their treasure-trove the crew of thePelicanwere only too anxious to fight.
As the afternoon wore on, the fog thickened rather than lessened. At the end of the first dog-watch all hands were called and Frenchy was committed to the deep, with the usual bucket of slush.
Someone observed that there was no chance of laying the ghost of Dennis in this customary fashion; within five minutes the remark had gone through the brig. No one cared particularly how Dennis had perished, but everyone was superstitious in the extreme. Mr. Leman allowed an anxious frown to disturb his flat countenance, and even the skipper, upon hearing the rumour, appeared disturbed.
"Not that I give two hoots for any ghost," he confided to the Missus, "but it makes a bad spirit aboard ship. Nonsense! A ghost doesn't come back, anyway."
"I've heard 'baout that happening," said the Missus gloomily but firmly. "And what folks believe in is apt to come true. You mark my words!"
"Then" and the skipper brightened—"they say that a death aboard ship always brings wind—so we'd better get busy with those Japs before the fog lifts!"
This latter superstition was equally well known aboard, and predictions were that before morning the fog would be gone. Within another hour, however, everybody aboard was too busy to bother further with superstitions.
When darkness began to fall, with no sign of activity from Captain Pontifex, open grumbling began to spread along the deck, It was silenced by the Skipper in person, who appeared and ordered two of the whaleboats lowered.
"Mr. Leman," he commanded quietly, the entire crew listening tensely, "you'll take command of one boat. Lay aboard her six of those oil-bags from the store-room. Muffle the oars. Take a compass and mind your bearings. Two of you men lay aft, here."
Two of the white hands hastened aft and followed the Skipper down the companion way. In five minutes they reappeared, struggling beneath the weight of the pride of the whaling fleet—-the green-striped tea-jar. It was minus the big scarlet geranium plant, and should have been light; but it seemed most unaccountably heavy.
"Easy, there!" snapped the Skipper.
"Corny, reeve a rope through that block at the mains'l yard and sling the jar into the boat—not Mr. Leman's boat, but mine. Bo's'n, lay down there and place her in the bow."
Ericksen seemed not to relish his task in the least, but he obeyed. In ten minutes the jar was safely stowed in the other whaleboat; from this boat all whaling gear was now removed, six oars alone being left.
"In with you, Corny," commanded the Skipper. "You and Ericksen with four Kanakas will row me out. Mr. Leman, precede us very slowly; when you sight that Jap, lay that oil on the water and then stand back to pick us up."
He turned to salute the Missus with a chaste kiss upon the cheek.
"Good-bye, my dear! You insist upon taking the third boat?"
"I reckon I can do as well as yeou," returned the Missus impassively. "Good luck!"
"Same to you," answered the Skipper.
Six men were at the oars in Mr. Leman's boat, four more in that of the skipper. Mrs. Pontifex ordered the forward boat down, and the five remaining men into her. To them she handed rifles, then turned to the trembling steward.
"I'm leavin' yeou to tend ship," she stated firmly. "There's a shot-gun beside the helm; if anybody else boards, yeou let fly! No telling but some o' those Japs might ha' worked araound by the shore—but we'll give 'em something else to think abaout."
With that, she descended into her boat, compass in hand, ordered her rowers to give way, and vanished into the darkness of the fog—not following the Skipper, but departing at a tangent from his course.
The steward hastened to the quarter-deck, secured the shot-gun, and perched upon the rail.
The Cockney was by no means lacking in acuteness. He had been cleaning up a muss in the stern cabin for the last half-hour; he knew that this muss was the debris from several ammunition packets, broken from the packing-case of ammunition that had been hauled in upon the morning previous. He knew that the scarlet geranium had been transplanted into a keg. He knew that this keg had previously been full of gunpowder; he knew likewise that the skipper had laboriously fashioned a fuse—and that the tide was now going out.
So as he perched upon the starboard taffrail and scrutinized the blank fog, the steward had a fairly certain idea of what to expect.
"Gawd 'elp them yeller swine!" he observed reflectively. "Skipper's going to lye out that oil; it'll drift around 'em wi' the tide. That's what 'e was w'iting for, the hold fox! When the oil 'as got hall haround that ship, skipper sends 'is boat at 'er. Ho! Then 'e gets off in Mr. Leman's boat, first lightin' the fuse. Then 'e lights the oil. Oil an' fuse—and then the jar o' powder—blime, but 'e's a fox, a ruddy fox! Ho! And then the Missus she takes a 'and—only I bet skipper 'e don't know as 'ow that fusee is dry! Thinks it's wet as when 'e made it, 'e does! Well, wait an' see——"
His reflections ended in a chuckle. The steward, having no personal anticipation of danger, cared not a snap what went on out in the mist; in fact, he looked forward to a very enjoyable time.
The tide had turned, right enough, and was strongly on the ebb. Rolling himself a cigarette, the steward stretched along the rail and waited comfortably; he could feel the ship lift and tug and vibrate as the pull of the tide-current swung her on the taunt hawsers from stem and stern. The steward watched the dim banks of fog with lazy anticipation. He was in the position of a front-seat spectator, and was determined to have a good time.
Thus, being intent upon the fog, waiting for the first flare of yellow flame and the first wild yell of alarm, the steward relaxed all vigilance as regarded his own surroundings. He was no seaman, and when thePelicangave a queer little sideways lurch, he merely shifted his position slightly and reflected that a wave must have struck her. Still there came no sound from the fog, no token of flaring oil or fighting men. The steward lighted his cigarette and reflected that emptying the oil bags seemed to take considerable time.
It was perhaps five minutes later that a queer sound came from forward—a sound not unlike the breaking of a lax violin string, but deeper. The steward did not hear it at all; but a seaman would have known that somewhere a taut cable had parted. When the brigantine began to rock gently and evenly, the steward took for granted that there must be a ground-swell or something of that sort.
Behind the steward moved a queer grotesque figure—a figure that might have been some strange nightmare shape moving silently in the darkness; a figure with enormous and bulbous head which rocked upon its shoulders in monstrous and uncanny fashion. The figure came to a pause just behind the steward whose position was rendered quite certain by the cigarette spark.
"Put up your hands!" snapped a voice suddenly.
The steward tumbled backward off the rail and plumped down on the deck. A faint howl of terror escaped him as he stared up at the grotesque, horribly-shaped figure whose bulk was intensified by the fog. The figure stood over him, and a rifle poked him in the ribs.
"'Ave mercy!" howled the terrified steward. "I'm a poor, innercent man——"
"Oh, it'syou! Didn't know you, steward," said the voice of Dennis. "Where's everybody? Get up, old boy—I'll not hurt you!"
But, recognizing the voice of Dennis, the steward could only emit a horrified gasp.
"Don't 'a'nt me, sir!" he pleaded, folding his hands and getting to his knees in desperate fear. "I didn't 'ave nothink to do wif it, sir——"
"Good heavens, I'm no ghost!" Dennis laughed. "Where's the skipper?"
"Gone, sir," quavered the steward. "Heverybody's gone."
"Where?"
"To fight that 'ere Jap ship, sir."
"You're all alone on board?"
"Yes, sir."
Dennis broke into laughter, dropped his rifle and seized the hand of the steward, pulling him erect.
"Here, man, don't be afraid!" he exclaimed. "I'm solid flesh and blood. But you'll have to unscrew this helmet—the thing's killing me, and I can't get rid of it. I've cut off the rest of the suit—take hold, now!"
Dennis sat down on the deck. Trembling still, the steward unfastened the catches of the helmet and unscrewed the big tinned-copper globe.
"Oh, but that feels good!" sighed Dennis, "I could open the front sight, but I couldn't get the thing off. Now the corselet——"
A moment later Dennis stood erect, gingerly feeling his neck and shoulders. Suddenly he laughed again and seized the steward's hand.
"Shake, old man!" he exclaimed heartily. "So they're all off fighting the Japs, eh? Mrs. Pontifex too?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you didn't know that I'd cut the old ship adrift—and that we're outward bound with the tide?"
The poor steward gave a violent start, and stared around; but the shroud of fog was too dense.
"Drifting, sir?" he uttered fearfully. "And what'll the skipper do?"
"I should worry!" Dennis chuckled. "See here, steward—I know you weren't in on the plan to murder me; your giving me the knife proved that. So we'll stick together, old man, and if we get out of this, I'll see thatyoucome out on top.
"Well, after Dumont cut my lines, I got out on the stern of the wreck, above the water; with your knife I got rid of most of the diving suit, and managed to get ashore. Two boats filled with Japs came ashore about dark, not knowing I was there. They landed, probably meaning to attack thePelicanlater. But I shoved out their boats, and came aboard ship in one of them—got their rifles too."
He laughed heartily. "See here, steward—the Japs are marooned on the island! The Skipper is out attacking their schooner. Meantime, we're drifting out to sea, and—what's the answer?"
"Blime, sir!" The steward gaped at him. "It's mortal queer!"
"It will be—for somebody," said Dennis grimly. "Now get me something to eat."
"Yes, sir. This way, sir." The steward, still but half-conscious of what had taken place, turned toward the galley.
At that instant a fearful yell arose from somewhere in the mist; a yell that quavered up and died quickly.
The steward halted, gazing over the starboard counter; but the ship had swung and was going out with the tide. It was over the port bow that a wild flare of light glimmered. Dennis saw it and cried:
"The fools! They've set her afire!"
"No, sir, it's the oil!" Breathlessly the steward explained the Skipper's plan of attack. Before he had finished, the flare of light widened into a broad stream, lighting all the fog redly. With it sounded renewed yells—shrill piercing yells.
Then, off to one side, broke forth a crackle of rifles. That was the boat of the Missus, cleverly pumping bullets at the Jap ship from a wide angle. Through this burst a volume of hoarse shouts, followed almost at once by a single terrific detonation—the thunderous shock of which sent thePelicanreeling and shuddering. The green-striped jar had exploded.
After that one bursting, rending, shattering crash, a swift darkness ensued. Through this blackness pierced fragmentary glimmers as the scattered and far-flung oil blazed up here and there, only fitfully to perish again.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Dennis, awed and astounded. "Old Pontifex got more than he bargained for in that bomb, or I miss my guess!"
ThePelicanwas already past the scene of the explosion. What had happened there in the fog, could not be told. Whether the enemy ship had been shattered, or whether the whaleboats had themselves caught the force of the explosion, could not be discovered. All was silence and darkness from that quarter. But from far astern, lifted a chorus of faintly quavering yells as the marooned Japs on the island discovered the loss of their boats. Save for this, all was hushed and still.
"Well, steward," said Dennis in the silence. "Let's get that grub. I need it."
"Yes, sir," responded the steward meekly.
And thePelicandrifted out upon the tide, swinging and heaving gently to the slow swells that rocked up through the fog. It was an hour later that the first breath of air came—the wind which, as sailors say, always comes after death.
A glorious sunrise broke across the ocean, lifting the island peaks to the north into a sheen of purple-rose and gold. Dennis wakened to it—he had gone to sleep stretched out upon a blanket on the quarter-deck—with a thrill of sheer delight in the golden splendour overhead; then he realized that the steward was calling him, and he leaped up.
ThePelicanwith her canvas all housed, had been but little influenced by the breeze from the north-west. She had made leeway, drifting a couple of miles from her late anchorage; having no glasses at hand, Dennis could not tell whether the Jap ship still lay by the island or not.
"There's a boat tacking down to us, sir!" rang out the steward's voice from forward.
Dennis glimpsed her at once, and saw that she must be a fishing-boat—a sturdy, bluff little craft which seemed to carry but two people, As he looked, he saw her brown canvas flutter down; she was coming from the north-east, and when her canvas was stowed she headed directly for thePelican.
"Got a motor, eh?" reflected Dennis.
He swung down the companion way and located the binoculars of the skipper. With these he returned to the deck. Caring less about the fishing-boat than about conditions at the island, he picked up the latter point first; the steward had joined him and stood waiting for disclosures.
There was no ship in sight, much to the surprise of Dennis. Nor could he make out any sign of life upon the rocky crags of the island itself. About a mile distant from the brigantine he located a boat floating bottom-side up. It was a whaleboat, and as it swung around with the seas Dennis made out the figure two painted at its bows.
"That's the boat Mr. Leman took last night, blime if it ain't!" ejaculated the steward, upon learning its number from Dennis. "Nothin' else in sight sir?"
"No—hold on!" Dennis caught something adrift toward the north end of the island. "By thunder, there's another boat—she seems to be standing out this way. There's someone aboard her; they're getting up a sail. Seems to be only two or three of them——"
"That fishin boat is 'eading this w'y, sir," broke in the steward. "Shall I pass 'er?"
"By all means," responded Dennis, and turned his glasses toward the craft.
Amazement thrilled within him—amazement, and startled unbelief. One figure aboard her was huddled over the engine amidships and could not be discerned; but in the stern, wonder of wonders, sat Florence!
There could be no mistake about it. She was heavily wrapped in fur robes, but Dennis saw her face sharply and distinctly—her pale eager features, her brown eyes fastened upon the whaler, her fur-gloved hand upon the tiller of the boat. With a wild yell of delight Tom Dennis leaped up, waving his arms, and he saw Florence wave back response.
"It's my wife, steward—hurrah!" Dennis ran forward to aid the Cockney. "She must have come all the way from Unalaska in that boat! Here, get your line ready by the diver's ladder in the waist; it'll be an easy climb there. Great glory, what a surprise!"
"Yes, sir," returned the steward, adding: "And werry lucky hit is, sir, as she didn't get 'ere larst night!"
"You bet," said Dennis devoutly. "Thank Heaven for the fog—it must have prevented their trying to make the island!"
As the fishing craft drew in toward the whaler, Dennis recognized the man at her engine—it was the same grizzled fisherman whom he had hired to pick up Jerry. The fisherman shut off his engine and came in to the bow to receive the line which the steward flung; the boat drew in beside the driftingPelican. Florence, rising stiffly, was aided to the ladder by her bronzed helper, and a moment later Dennis held her in his arms.
"What on earth!" he exclaimed, as she broke into mingled tears and laughter. "What brought you here, dearest?"
"You, Tom!" she exclaimed. "Jerry told us that they meant to send you down in a diving-suit and—and—oh, I'm glad we're not too late! Captain Nickers has been a darling, Tom——"
Dennis shook hands with the fisherman, who grinned and eyed the ship.
"Looks kind o' fussed up, don't she?" said Nickers. "Where's everybody?"
Florence glanced around quickly. "Oh! Where are they, Tom? Quick, you must get away——"
"Take it easy," said Dennis, and pointed to the whaleboat standing down the wind toward them. "Where they are,Idon't know! Lots of things have happened. So you came all this way to give me warning?"
"You bet," said Nickers. "Say, Dennis, if I had a wife like you have—by gum, I'd give a million dollars! That run over here ain't no cinch for a lady, let me tell you; but she stood watch an' watch with me like an old hand—well, she's a wonder!"
"We had to," Florence laughed, flushing under the ardent words of grizzled old Nickers. "I was terribly afraid for you, Tom, and there was no one else we could get—but tell us, what's happened?"
Dennis glanced at the approaching boat and saw that she would not reach them for ten minutes. So, dispatching the steward to make ready some coffee, he gave Florence and Nickers a brief outline of the situation, making light of his own peril.
"Where the Japs are," he concluded, "I've not the faintest idea. And I can't figure out what happened last night—where Pontifex and the others went. I don't believe he blew up the Jap ship, for I can't see any signs of wreckings except Mr. Leman's boat. Well, here's this boat coming in. What's that in her stern, Nickers?"
Having dropped his glasses in the excitement of getting Florence aboard Dennis could make out only that the approaching whaleboat was manned by three Kanakas of thePelican'screw, but in her stern was a queer shapeless mass that looked strangely terrible. Across the thwarts forward lay two silent brown figures, inanimate and evidently dead. It was manifest that from this boat there was nothing to fear.
"Why, Tom!" Florence caught Dennis' arm, a wild thrill in her voice. "In the stern—it's Mrs. Pontifex."
One of the Kanakas stepped forward across the dead bodies of his two comrades and bawled for a line as the boat's sail whipped down. Nickers flung another rope, and the whaleboat came in beside the fishing craft. Then, for the first time, Mrs. Pontifex stirred—and Dennis saw that her head was swathed in bandages.
The Kanakas, frightened and trembling at the appearance of Dennis whom they had thought dead, came aboard aiding the Missus. Their story was a ghastly one. At the first flame of blazing oil, they had opened fire upon the Jap vessel, obeying orders previously given them by the Missus. But their firing had ceased with the explosion; it had stunned them. They had wakened to find two of their number dead—and the Missus blind.
All that night they had lain rocking to the swells after vainly trying to find thePelican. The Jap ship had gone. They had heard men swimming out to her from shore, and had caught the sound of oars; then her motor had started. It was very plain that the Japs had been thoroughly frightened, and after picking up their men ashore had turned and run for it.
Florence, meantime, had aided the groaning Mrs. Pontifex to get below.
To his queries, Dennis could elicit no response from the Kanakas regarding Mr. Leman or Pontifex. They had landed at dawn, but had found the island deserted. Seeing thePelicanto leeward; they had set out to join her, passing on the way the floating whaleboat. They identified it beyond question as Mr. Leman's boat.
The steward came up with pannikins of coffee during the talk, and now broke into the discussion.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said to Dennis, "but I think as I know what 'appened, sir."
"You do? Then out with it!"
"Like this, sir. The skipper, e' myde 'is own fusee for that 'ere bomb, and I seen 'im a-myking of it. 'E rolled it wet, sir, but 'e myde it in the hafternoon, sir, and before 'e come to use it larst night, the bloody fussee 'ad dried out, sir. So when 'e lighted it, why, it wasn't no fusee at all, but a regular train o' powder, sir——"
Dennis turned away, sickened by the thought of what must have happened. The explosion must have taken place almost instantly—no wonder Mr. Leman's boat was floating bottom upward! Pontifex and Ericksen and Corny and the others—all gone!
"Well," said Nickers phlegmatically, sipping his hot coffee, "all I got to say, looks like old Pontifex got what he was fixing to give other folks. Hey?"
Dennis nodded and left the spot. Getting coffee and biscuits from the steward, he went to the after companion way; but at the top of the ladder he encountered Florence coming up alone.
"I'll take this to Mrs. Pontifex——"
"No use, Tom," Florence stopped him, her face very pale. "Poor thing, she can't eat yet; Tom, she broke down in my arms—oh, I can't talk of it! The poor woman——"
Dennis forced a draught of coffee upon her, and Florence swallowed the hot liquid. It sent a glow of colour into her pale cheeks.
"So she's broken, eh?" mused Dennis. "Poor thing—one can't help but feel sorry for her, Florence, and yet in a way she deserved all that has happened. Look here, what are we going to do? About ourselves, I mean, and this ship, and the salvage."
He briefly explained what must have happened to Pontifex and Mr. Leman, glossing over the event as much as possible. But Florence seemed not to hear. She stood at the rail, gazing out at the purple peaks to the north for a long while. Suddenly she turned back to him, a faint smile upon her lips.
"Tom, the first thing will be to straighten everything out at Unalaska! Before I left, I told the authorities everything. They're trying to get the revenue cutter, but we shan't need her now, of course.
"We can charter this ship from Mrs. Pontifex—it'll give the poor woman some money to go on—for a share in the proceeds of the salvage. Then we can come back and clear up everything in father's old ship——"
"Agreed." Dennis turned. "Oh, Cap'n Nickers! Think we can take this craft into Unalaska with what hands we have?"
"Reckon we can," floated back the voice of the grizzled fisherman. "I got a Master's ticket, and if I can't lay a course there's something wrong with the Gov'ment!"
Dennis looked eagerly to Florence. "We'll make him skipper—eh? And we'll give him a share in the profits, too——"
Her arms crept about his shoulders. "Oh, Tom—we'll doeverything, won't we? But you'll never leave me behind again."
"Not much!" Dennis pressed his lips to hers, and laughed softly.
Four months after Tom Dennis had vanished from Marshville, the dingy and shut-up office ofThe Clarionwas reopened. Dennis had returned—and he had not returned alone. The mortgage held by banker Dribble was cancelled. A new linotype machine was installed inThe Clarion'sdingy back room. The first issue of the paper announced that it was back again to stay. And it stayed!
Also, some very good farms along the river were purchased by a gentleman named Nickers. Mr. Nickers announced that he was a retired sea-captain and was now about to take up the profession of farming Mother Earth—the dream of every sea-faring man alive.
Each afternoon at five minutes of two, Mr. Nickers would stride down the street and enter the office ofThe Clarion. The wide front office was now divided into two rooms. Mr. Nickers invariably passed to the second room and entered, closing the door behind him.
One afternoon, however, he came slightly earlier than usual. Tom Dennis, who was in the second room, shook hands heartily. In the corner by the window that overlooked Main Street sat a man of huge physique and massive features; this man was able to move only with difficulty and by aid of a stick. Miles Hathaway would never be the man he had been, but at least he could get about. Modern surgeons can do much that appears miraculous to the layman.
Hathaway held up his big fist and exchanged a hearty grip with Nickers; then he lifted a rugged booming voice in a shout that rattled the plate-glass window.
"Jerry! Where's that— Oh, here you are!"
"Yes, sir," meekly responded a moon-faced lad, popping in at the door. He was clad in printer's apron and had a very dirty face, as is the rightful heritage of every printer's devil who is yet passing through the "type lice" jest of hoary memory. But he was manifestly a very happy boy.
"Strike four bells!" roared Miles Hathaway. "And fetch my pipe and tobacco."
Dennis beckoned to Jerry and whispered something. The boy struck a brass ship's bell of the regulation eight-inch size which hung near the door—struck it one-two, one-two, as a ship's bell should be struck, then vanished hastily. He had barely gone when Florence came into the room, with a smile and a kiss for everybody concerned—which seemed to mightily embarrass Captain Nickers but not to displease him particularly!
Florence started to speak, then halted as Jerry re-entered the room bearing a tray with glasses and a long green bottle.
"Why, Tom!" she exclaimed quickly. "You're not drinking?"
"We're all drinking to-day—and you'll have to take a sip at least!" said Dennis, laughing. He produced a corkscrew and opened the bottle. "News for you, Florence! Now, Jerry, fill 'em all around—and a specially big one for Cap'n Nickers!"
Wondering, Florence watched Jerry obey the order. Then Tom Dennis, lifting his glass, met her puzzled eyes with a gay laugh.
"Good news, Florence! Two things have happened this morning. First, the other paper has offered to sell out to us—and I'm going to accept their offer, running it as a weekly from now on. That means no opposition here. And second, I've signed a whopping advertising contract with one of the biggest agencies—it came in the mail this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, that means that from this time forwardThe Clarionis not only established firmly here in town, but she begins to haul in the coin!
"I've made mistakes," pursued Dennis more soberly. "I made 'em when I was here before, and I've profited by them. Beginning with next Monday's issueThe Clariondies for ever! Beginning with next Monday its place will be taken byThe Marshville Pelican—and here's to the new ship!"
"Hurray!" said Cap'n Nickers. But Florence turned to her husband.
"And Tom," she said softly, "you'll have to find a new society editor. I—I'm going to stay at home after this and—and make a real home for you!"
Of all those who heard her words Tom Dennis alone understood—and perhaps Miles Hathaway understood also.
THE END
PRINTED BYFISHER, KNIGHT & CO.; LTD.LONDON AND HARPENDEN