known
something," insisted the victim of the plot.

"It was only what Burkett let drop when he came after some money. I
suppose he thought it was safe to talk to me. But what's the good of my
giving you guesswork? I don't know anything definite. I don't understand
sailor matters."

"Bradish, what Burkett said--was it something about the compass--about
putting a job over on me by monkeying with the compass?"

"It was something like that." His tone exhibited indifference; it
was evident that he was more occupied with his terror than with his
confession.

"Didn't Burkett say something about a magnet?"

"He got off some kind of a joke about Fogg in the pilot-house and
fog outside--but that the Fogg inside did the business. And he said
something about Fogg's iron wishbone."

"So that was the way it was done--and done by the general manager of the
line!" cried Mayo. "The general manager himself! It's no wonder I have
smashed that suspicion between the eyes every time it bobbed up! I
suspected--but I didn't dare to suspect! Is that some of your high
finance, Bradish?"

"No, it isn't," declared the New-Yorker, with heat. "It's an
understrapper like Fogg going ahead and producing results, so he calls
it. The big men never bother with the details."

"The details! Taking away from me all I have worked for--my reputation
as a master, my papers, my standing--my liberty. By the gods, I'm going
to live! I'm going through those breakers! I'll face that gang like a
man who has fought his way back from hell," raged the victim.

"This--this was none of my father's business! It could not have been,"
expostulated Miss Marston.

"Your father never knows anything about the details of Fogg's
operations," declared Bradish.

"He ought to know," insisted the maddened scapegoat. "He gives off his
orders, doesn't he? He sits in the middle of the web. What if he did
know how Fogg was operating?"

"Probably wouldn't stand for it! But he doesn't know. And the Angel
Gabriel himself wouldn't get a chance to tell him!" declared the clerk.

"A put-up job, then, is it--and all called high finance!" jeered Mayo.

"High finance isn't to blame for tricks the field-workers put out
so that they can earn their money quick and easy. What's the good of
pestering me with questions at this awful time? I'm going to die! I'm
going to die!" he wailed.

Miss Marston slid from the seat to her knees, in order that she might
be able to reach her hand to