r a time,
Denman only reaching up inside the long sleeve of her big coat to where
her small hand nestled, soft and warm, in its shelter. He squeezed it
gently, but there was no answering pressure, and he contented himself
with holding it.

He was a good sailor, but a poor lover, and--a reeling, water-washed
deck in a gale of wind is an embarrassing obstacle to love-making. Yet
he squeezed again, after ten minutes of silence had gone by and several
seas had bombarded their feet. Still no response in kind, and he spoke.

"Florrie," he said, as gently as he could when he was compelled to
shout, "do you remember the letter you sent me the other day?"

"The other day," she answered. "Why, it seems years since then."

"Last week, Florrie. It made me feel like--like thirty cents."

"Why, Billie?"

"Oh, the unwritten roast between the lines, little girl. I knew what you
thought of me. I knew that I'd never made good."

"How--what do you mean?"

"About the fight--years ago. I was to come back and lick him, you know,
and didn't--that's all."

"Are you still thinking of that, Billie? Why, you've won. You are an
officer, while he is a sailor."

"Yes, but he licked me at school, and I know you expected me to come
back."

"And you did not come back. You never let me hear from you. You might
have been dead for years before I could know it."

"Is that it, Florrie?" he exclaimed, in amazement. "Was it me you
thought of? I supposed you had grown to despise me."

She did not answer this; but when he again pressed her hand she
responded. Then, over the sounds of the storm, he heard a little sob;
and, reaching over, drew her face close to his, and kissed her.

"I'm sorry, Florrie, but I didn't know. I've loved you all these years,
but I did not know it until a few days ago. And I'll never forget it,
Florrie, and I promise you--and myself, too--that I'll still make good,
as I promised before."

Poor lover though he was, he had won. She did not answer, but her own
small hand reached for his.

And so they passed the night, until, just as a lighter gray shone in the
east, he noticed that one of the red lamps at the signal yard had gone
out. As the lights were still necessary, he went forward to lower them;
but, just as he was about to mount the bridge stairs, a crashing blow
from two heavy fists sent him headlong and senseless to the deck.

When he came to, he was bound hand and foot as he had bound the
men--with neckerchi