the Serbs forgive her.

"If they can take that without squirmin'," says I, "I guess they can
stand for Rupert. Go on, Mr. Robert. Shoot."

Course, he's no spellbinder, but he can say what he wants to in a few
words and make himself heard. And then, bein' in naval uniform helped.

"I think we have with us to-night," says he, "Captain Rupert Killam, the
sailor poet. I should like, if it pleases the company, to ask Captain
Killam to read for us some of his popular verses. Does anyone second the
motion?"

"Killam! Killam!" roars out the sporty wine-opener.

Others took up the chorus, and in the midst of it I dashes over to drag
Rupert from his chair if necessary.

But I wasn't needed. As a matter of fact, he beat me to it. Before I
could get half way to him, he is standin' at the end of the long table,
his eyes dropped modest, and a brand-new volume of "Sea Songs" held
conspicuous over his chest.

"This is indeed an unexpected honor," says Rupert, lyin' fluent. "I am a
plain sailor-man, as you know, but if you insist----"

And, before they could hedge, he has squared his shoulders, thrown his
head well back, and has cut loose with that boomin' voice of his. Does
he put it over? Say, honest, I finds myself listenin' with my mouth
open, just as though I understood every word. And the first thing I know
he's carryin' the house with him. Even some of the Hungarian waiters
stopped to see what it's all about.

Tides!
Little, rushing, hurrying tides
Along the sloping deck.
And the bobstay smashing the big blue deep,
While under my hand
The kicking tiller groans
Its oaken soul out in a gray despair.

That's part of it I copied down afterward. Yet that crowd just lapped it
up.

"Wow!" "Brava! Brava!" "What's the matter with Killam?" they yells.
"More!"

Rupert was flushin' clear up the back of his neck now. Also he was
fumblin' with the book, hesitatin' what to give 'em next, when I pushes
in and begins pumpin' his hand.

"Shall--shall I----" he starts to ask.

"No, you boob," I whispers. "Quit while the quittin's good. You got 'em
buffaloed, all right. Let it ride."

And I fairly shoves him over to his table, where Sister Mumford has
already split out a new pair of gloves and is beamin' joyous, while
Vinton is sittin' there with his chin on his necktie, lookin' like
someon