ed him to read, and presenting the whole in his
native lower East-side dialect. Bennietod was Bowery-born and
office-bred, and this sad metropolitanism almost made of him a good
philosopher.

"I'd like immensely to say something," observed St. George abruptly,
when his pipe was lighted.

"Oh, yes. All right," shrilled Little Cawthorne with resignation, "I
suppose you all feel I'm the Jonah and you thirst to scatter me to
the whales."

"I want to know," St. George went on slowly, "what you think. On my
life, I doubt if I thought at all when we set out. This all promised
good sport, and I took it at that. Lately, I've been wondering, now
and then, whether any of you wish yourselves well out of it."

For a moment no one spoke. To shrink from expression is a
characteristic in which the extremes of cultivation and mediocrity
meet; the reserve of delicacy in St. George and Amory would have
been a reserve of false shame in Bennietod, and of an exaggerated
sense of humour in Little Cawthorne. It was not remarkable that from
the moment the enterprise had been entered upon, its perils and its
doubtful outcome had not once been discussed. St. George vaguely
reckoned with this as he waited, while Amory smoked on and blew
meditative clouds and regarded the bowl of his pipe, and Little
Cawthorne ceased the motion of his hammock, and Bennietod hugged his
knees and looked shrewdly at the moon, as if he knew more about the
moon than he would care to tell. St. George felt his heart sink a
little. Then Little Cawthorne rose and squared valiantly up to him.

"What," inquired the little man indignantly, "are you trying to do?
Pick a fight?"

St. George looked at him in surprise.

"Because if you are," continued little Cawthorne without preamble,
"we're three to one. And three of us are going to Yaque. We'll put
you ashore if you say so."

St. George smiled at him gratefully.

"No--Bennietod?" inquired Little Cawthorne.

Bennietod, pale and manifestly weak, grinned cheerfully and fumbled
in sudden abashment at an amazing checked Ascot which he had derived
from unknown sources.

"Bes' t'ing t'ever I met up wid," he assented, "ef de deck'd lay
down levil. I'm de sonny of a sea-horse if it ain't."

"Amory?" demanded the little man.

Amory looked along his pipe and took it briefly from his lips and
shook his head.

"Don't say these things," he pleaded in his pleasant drawl, "or I'll
swear something horrid."

St. George mere