"You're _my_ legal adviser, too. Isn't my five dollars as good as his?
Particularly when it really is his five dollars?"

"Allowed."

"Well, then, my age is a confidential communication and--what do you
call it?--privileged."

"Oh, wise young judge! But, fair Portia, don't let me perish of
curiosity. Why?"

"My revenge isn't complete yet."

"Look out for the inner edge of that tool," he warned.

With the timepiece in his hand, Judge Enderby bearded the autocrat of
the Clan Macgregor on his own deck to such good purpose that Miss Cecily
Wayne presently learned of the end of her troubles so far as prospective
incarceration went. The knowledge, preserved intact for her own uses,
put in her hand a dire weapon for the discomfiture of the Tyro.

Thereafter the ship's company was treated to the shameful spectacle of a
young man hunted, harried, and beset by a Diana of the decks; chevied
out of comfortable chairs, flushed from odd nooks and corners, baited
openly in saloon and reading-room, trailed as with the wile of the
serpent along devious passageways and through crowded assemblages, hare
to her hound, up and down, high and low, until he became a byword among
his companions for the stricken eye of eternal watchfulness. Sometimes
the persecutress stalked him, unarmed; anon she threatened with a
five-dollar bill. Now she trailed in a deadly silence; again, when there
were few to hear, she bayed softly upon the spoor, and ever in her eyes
gleamed the wild light and wild laughter of the chase.

Once she penned him. He had ensconced himself in a corner behind one of
the lifeboats, where, with uncanny instinct, she spied him. Before he
could escape, she had shut off egress.

"How do you do?" she said demurely.

He took off his cap, but with a sidelong eye seemed to be measuring the
jump to the deck below.

"You've forgotten me, I'm afraid. I'm Little Miss Grouch. Would this
help you to remember?"

She extended a five-dollar bill. He took it with the expression of one
to whom a nice, shiny blade has just been handed for purposes of
hara-kiri.

"I have missed you," she pursued with diabolical plaintiveness. "Our
child--our adopted child," she corrected, the pink running up under her
skin, "has been crying for you."

"Go away!" said the Tyro hoarsely.

"Are these the manners of a Perfect Pig?" she reproached him. And with
adorable sauciness she warbled a nursery ditty:--

"Lady once loved a pig.
'Hon