in'!" And Captain
Flanagan stumped off toward the village.

Breitmann shrugged contemptuously.

"He may not be in European yachting form," admitted Fitzgerald, "but
he's the kind of man who makes a navy a good fighting machine."

"But we usually pick out gentlemen to captain our private yachts."

"Oh, this Flanagan is an exception. There is probably a fighting bond
between him and the admiral; that makes some difference. You observed,
he called the owner by the title of commodore, as he did thirty-five
years ago. Ten o'clock; we should be going up."

The carriage was at the hotel when they returned. They bundled in
their traps, and drove away.

The little man now dropped into the railway station, and stuck his head
into the ticket aperture. The agent, who was seated before the
telegraph keys, looked up.

"No tickets before half-past ten, sir."

"I am not wanting a ticket. I wish to know if I can send a cable from
here."

"A cable? Sure. Where to?"

"Paris."

"Yes, sir. I telegraph it to the cable office in New York, and they do
the rest. Here are some blanks."

The other wrote some hieroglyphics, which made the address impossible
to decipher, save that it was directed mainly to Paris. The body of
the cablegram contained a single word. The writer paid the toll, and
went away.

"Now, what would you think of that?" murmured the operator, scratching
his head in perplexity. "Well, the company gets the money, so it's all
the same to me. Butterflies; and all the rest in French. Next time
it'll be bugs. All right; here goes!"

CHAPTER VII

A BIT OF ROMANTIC HISTORY

The house at the top of the hill had two names. It had once been
called The Watch Tower, for reasons but vaguely known by the present
generation of villagers. To-day it was generally styled The Pines.
Yet even this had fallen into disuse, save on the occupant's letter
paper. When any one asked where Rear Admiral Killigrew lived, he was
directed to "the big white house at the top o' the hill."

The Killigrews had not been born and bred there. Its builder had been
a friend of King George; that is, his sympathies had been with taxation
without representation. One day he sold the manor cheap. His reasons
were sufficient. It then became the property of a wealthy trader, who
died in it. This was in 1809. His heirs, living, and preferring to
live, in Philadelphia, put up a sign; and being of careful disposition,
kept