ould make no
friends, and could scarcely regard his ship as his own, provided he
brought her safely from port to port. He cast a disgusted glance along
the stained and littered decks.

"This is her last voyage as a trooper, and I'm not sorry," he said.
"After this she'll lie up for three months to be refitted; and then I'll
command a ship again and not a barracks. You wouldn't think now, to see
her on this voyage, that the time was when I had to know the reason why
if there was so much as a stain the size of a sixpence on the deck. Oh
yes, it's been all part of the job, and I'm proud of all the old ship
has done, and the thousands of men she's carried; and we've had enough
narrow squeaks, from mines and submarines, to fill a book. But I'm
beginning to hanker mightily to see her clean!"

The Lintons laughed unfeelingly. A little mild grumbling might well be
permitted to a man with his record; few merchant captains had done finer
service in the war, and the decoration on his breast testified to his
cool handling of his ship in the "narrow squeaks" he spoke of lightly.

"Oh yes. I never get any sympathy," said the captain, laughing himself.
"And yet I'll wager Miss Linton was 'house-proud' in that 'Home for
Tired People' of hers, and she ought to sympathize with a tidy man. You
should have seen my wife's face when she came aboard once at Liverpool,
and saw the ship; and she's never had the same respect for me since!
There--the last man is off the ship, and the gangways are clear; nothing
to keep all you homesick people now." He said good-bye, and ran up the
steps to his cabin under the bridge.

It was a queer home-coming at first, to a vast pier, empty save for a
few officials and policemen--for no outsiders were allowed within the
barriers. But once clear of customs officials and other formalities
they packed themselves into cabs, and in a few moments were outside
the railed-off space, turning into a road lined on either side with
people--all peering into the long procession of cabs, in the hope of
finding their own returning dear ones. It was but a few moments before a
posse of uncles, aunts and cousins swooped down upon the Lintons, whose
cab prudently turned down a side street to let the wave of welcome
expend itself. In the side street, too, were motors belonging to the
aunts and uncles; and presently the new arrivals were distributed among
them, and were being rushed up to Melbourne, along roads still crowded
by