oyages, or had otherwise
disappeared, they decided to give the story told by Rowland to the press
in the hope that publicity would avail to bring to light corroboratory
evidence.

And this story, improved upon in the repeating by Mr. Meyer to
reporters, and embellished still further by the reporters as they wrote
it up, particularly in the part pertaining to the polar bear,--blazoned
out in the great dailies of England and the Continent, and was cabled to
New York, with the name of the steamer in which John Rowland had sailed
(for his movements had been traced in the search for evidence), where it
arrived, too late for publication, the morning of the day on which, with
Myra on his shoulder, he stepped down the gang-plank at a North River
dock. As a consequence, he was surrounded on the dock by enthusiastic
reporters, who spoke of the story and asked for details. He refused to
talk, escaped them, and gaining the side streets, soon found himself in
crowded Broadway, where he entered the office of the steamship company
in whose employ he had been wrecked, and secured from the _Titan's_
passenger-list the address of Mrs. Selfridge--the only woman saved. Then
he took a car up Broadway and alighted abreast of a large department
store.

"We're going to see mamma, soon, Myra," he whispered in the pink ear;
"and you must go dressed up. It don't matter about me; but you're a
Fifth Avenue baby--a little aristocrat. These old clothes won't do,
now." But she had forgotten the word "mamma," and was more interested
in the exciting noise and life of the street than in the clothing she
wore. In the store, Rowland asked for, and was directed to the
children's department, where a young woman waited on him.

"This child has been shipwrecked," he said. "I have sixteen dollars and
a half to spend on it. Give it a bath, dress its hair, and use up the
money on a dress, shoes, and stockings, underclothing, and a hat." The
young woman stooped and kissed the little girl from sheer sympathy, but
protested that not much could be done.

"Do your best," said Rowland; "it is all I have. I will wait here."

An hour later, penniless again, he emerged from the store with Myra,
bravely dressed in her new finery, and was stopped at the corner by a
policeman who had seen him come out, and who marveled, doubtless, at
such juxtaposition of rags and ribbons.

"Whose kid ye got?" he demanded.

"I believe it is the daughter of Mrs. Colonel Selfridge," an