akes the sea so yellow?"

"All the big Chinese rivers are mud-banked and mud-bottomed. They pour
millions of tons of yellow mud into these waters. By this afternoon,
however, I imagine we'll be nosing into the blue. Ah!"

"Breakfast iss served," announced Togo the Jap.

The trio entered the dining salon in single file, and once more Jane found
herself seated between the two men. One moment she was carrying on a
conversation with the father, the next moment with the son. The two
ignored each other perfectly. Under ordinary circumstances it would have
been strange enough; but in this hour, when no one knew where or how this
voyage would end! A real tragedy or some absurd trifle? Probably a trifle;
trifles dug more pits than tragedies. Perhaps tragedy was mis-named. What
humans called tragedy was epic, and trifles were real tragedies. And then
there were certain natures to whom the trifle was epical; to whom the
inconsequent was invariably magnified nine diameters; and having made a
mistake, would die rather than admit it.

To bring these two together, to lure them from behind their ramparts of
stubbornness, to see them eventually shake hands and grin as men will who
recognize that they have been playing the fool! She became fired with the
idea. Only she must not move prematurely; there must arrive some
psychological moment.

During the meal, toward the end of it, one of the crew entered. He was
young--in the early twenties. The manner in which he saluted convinced
Dennison that the fellow had recently been in the United States Navy.

"Mr. Cunningham's compliments, sir. Canvas has been rigged on the port
promenade and chairs and rugs set out."

Another salute and he was off.

"Well, that's decent enough," was Dennison's comment. "That chap has been
in the Navy. It's all miles over my head, I'll confess. Cunningham spoke
of a joke when I accosted him in the chart house last night."

"You went up there?" cried Jane.

"Yes. And among other things he said that every man is entitled to at
least one good joke. What the devil can he mean by that?"

Had he been looking at his father Dennison would have caught a fleeting,
grim, shadowy smile on the strong mouth.

"You will find a dozen new novels on the shelves, Miss Norman," said
Cleigh as he rose. "I'll be on deck. I generally walk two or three miles
in the morning. Let us hang together this day to test the scalawag's
promise."

"Mr. Cleigh, when you spoke of repar