for
the passengers. This benevolent gentleman proved to be a famous Saratoga
gambler. In this way he made many acquaintances and friends, and each day
he increased his winnings at cards and in bets on the vessel's run, till
finally, not he, but the guileless passengers paid for the oysters.

Gambling was the business of the man who advertised by his oysters; with
the actor, who romped with the pretty child, gambling was a passion. So
intense was this passion with the actor that he would attempt to match
silver dollars or gold sovereigns with everybody he met when ashore;
between acts on the stage he would telegraph his bet to distant cities.
Crossing parks or walking down Broadway his palm concealed a coin, ready
for the first possible chance. He would match his coat or his home or
even his bank account. On ship he matched sovereigns only.

Occasionally the "Majestic" passed in sight of some other ship, or
"tramp-steamer," and by signal exchanged names and location. Rarely do
the great passenger steamers meet on the Atlantic, as the course outward
is quite to the north to avoid collisions. Half-awake, half-asleep, the
days on shipboard go by as in a dream, and you gladly welcome back
restored health. Perhaps a sweet or strong face wins your interest
or heart, as the case may be, and life-long friendships are formed.
Confidence thus bestowed often begets the same in others, and you are
thankful for the ocean voyage.

CHAPTER VII

LIFE AT SEA A KALEIDOSCOPE

In a shady retreat on the ship after lunch sat the Harrises, Leo, the
judge, and Dr. Argyle, the latter reading a French novel. Leo had just
finished a new novel entitled "A Broken Promise," Alfonso had read
three hundred pages in one of Dickens's novels that tells so vividly how
the poor of London exist.

Dr. Argyle said, "Judge, what do you think of novels anyway?"

The matter-of-fact judge gruffly replied, "I never read the modern novel
because I don't care to waste my time."

Whereupon Alfonso said, "Give me the novel of an idealist that has a
purpose. Colonel Ingersol spoke the truth in a recent lecture when he
said that a realist can be no more than an imitator or a copyist. His
philosophy makes the wax that receives and retains an image of an artist.
Realism degrades and impoverishes. The real sustains the same relation to
ideal that a stone does to a statue, or that paint does to a painting."

"No," replied Leo, "a novel proper should be a lo