eeply lined, and I noticed a little gray in his hair. He was
smiling straight down into the eyes of his companion, a much younger
man, thin and poorly dressed, whose face looked drawn and tired.

"When I was your age," I heard Dillon remark, "I got into just the same
kind of a snarl." And he began telling about it. A frightfully technical
story it was, full of engineer slang that was Greek to me, but I saw the
younger man listen absorbed, his thin lips parting in a smile. I saw him
come out from under his worries, I saw his chief watching him, pulling
him out.

"All right, Jim," he ended. "See what you can do."

"Say, Chief, just you forget this, will you?" the other said intensely.
"Don't give it a thought. It's go'n' to be done!"

"It's forgotten."

Another easy smile at his man, and then Eleanore's father turned to us.
I could feel him casually take me in.

"The thing I liked most in that sketch of yours," he was saying a few
minutes later, when our boat was on her course, "was the way you listed
that Dutchman's cargo. 'One baby carriage--to Lahore.' A very large
picture in five little words. I can see that Hindu baby now--being
wheeled in its carriage to Crocodile Park and wondering where the devil
this queer new wagon came from. I've been nosing around these docks for
years, but I missed that part of 'em right along--that human part--till
you came along with your neat writer's trick. 'One baby carriage--to
Lahore.' You ought to be proud, young man, at your age to have written
one sentence so long that it goes half way around the world."

As he talked in that half bantering tone I tried to feel cross, but it
wouldn't do. That low voice and those gray eyes were not making fun of
me, they were making friends with me, they were so kindly, curious, so
open and sincere. Soon he had lighted a cigar and was telling Eleanore
gravely just how she ought to run her boat.

"Why be so busy about it?" he asked.

"Oh, you be quiet!" she replied, as she sharply spun her wheel. Like an
automobile in a crowded street our craft was lurching its way in short
dashes in and out of the rush hour traffic. The narrow East River was
black with boats. Ferries, tugs and steamers seemed to be coming at us
from every side. Now with a leap we would be off, then abruptly churning
the water behind us we would hold back drifting, watching our chance for
another rush. Eleanore's face was glowing now, her hat was off, her neck
was tense--and