Charlie.

"Yes, sir," responded eagerly the elder of two attendants in jackets
striped blue and white.

"Have a wash, guv'nor? Thanks, skipper, that'll do for the present."

Mr. Prohack washed in amplitudinous marble, and wiped his paternal face
upon diaper into which was woven the name "Northwind." He then, with his
son, ate an enormous and intricate lunch and drank champagne out of
crystal engraved with the name "Northwind," served to him by a
ceremonious person in white gloves. Charlie was somewhat taciturn, but
over the coffee he seemed to brighten up.

"Well, what do you think of the old hulk?"

"She must need an awful lot of men," said Mr. Prohack.

"Pretty fair. The wages bill is seven hundred a month."

"She's enormous," continued Mr. Prohack lamely.

"Oh, no! Seven hundred tons Thames measurement. You see those funnels
over there," and Charlie pointed through the port windows to a row of
four funnels rising over great sheds. "That's the _Mauretania_. She's a
hundred times as big as this thing. She could almost sling this affair
in her davits."

"Indeed! Still, I maintain that this antique wreck is enormous," Mr.
Prohack insisted.

They walked out on deck.

"Hello! Here's the chit. You can always count on _her_!" said Charles.

The launch was again approaching the yacht, and a tiny figure with a
despatch case on her lap sat smiling in the stern-sheets.

"She's come down by train," Charles explained.

Miss Winstock in her feminineness made a delicious spectacle on the
spotless deck. She nearly laughed with delight as she acknowledged Mr.
Prohack's grave salute and shook hands with him, but when Charlie said:
"Anything urgent?" she grew grave and tense, becoming the faithful,
urgent, confidential employe in an instant.

"Only this," she said, opening the despatch case and producing a
telegram.

"Confound it!" remarked Charles, having read the telegram. "Here, you,
Snow. Please see that Miss Winstock has something to eat at once.
That'll do, Miss Winstock."

"Yes, Mr. Prohack," she said dutifully.

"And his mother thought he would be marrying her!" Mr. Prohack senior
reflected. "He'll no more marry her than he'll marry Machin. Goodness
knows whom he will marry. It might be a princess."

"You remember that paper concern--newsprint stuff--I've mentioned to you
once or twice," said Charlie to his father, dropping into a
basket-chair. "Sit down, will you, dad? I've had no luck with it yet."
He