The
story is all moonshine on the face of it."

"I think otherwise, Mr. Verity, and Mr. Bulmer, I take it, agrees with
me," said the reporter.

"Wot," blazed David, into whose mind had darted a notion that dazzled
him by its daring, "d'ye mean to insiniwate that I lent my ship to this
'ere Dom Wot's-'is-name? D'ye sit there an' tell me that Jimmie Coke,
a skipper who's bin in my employ for sixteen year, would carry on that
sort of fool's business behind 'is owner's back? Go into my clerk's
office, young man, an' ax Andrews to show up a copy of the ship's
manifest. See w'en an 'ow she was insured. Jot down the names of the
freighters for this run, and skip round to their offices to verify.
An' if that don't fill the bill, well, just interview yourself, an' say
if you'd allow your niece, a bonnie lass like my Iris, to take a trip
that might end in 'er bein' blown to bits. It's crool, that's wot it
is, reel crool."

David was not simulating this contemptuous wrath. He actually felt it.
His harsh voice cracked when he spoke of Iris, and the excited words
gushed out in a torrent.

The reporter glanced at Bulmer, who was watching Verity with a tense
expectancy that was not to be easily accounted for, since his manner
and speech on entering the room had been so distinctly hostile.

"The lady referred to was Miss Iris Yorke, then?"

"'Oo else? I've on'y one niece. My trouble is that she went without
my permission, in a way of speakin'. 'Ere, you'd better 'ave the fax.
She was engaged to my friend, Mr. Bulmer, but, bein' a slip of a girl,
an' fond o' romancin', she just put herself aboard the Andromeeda
without sayin' 'with your leave' or 'by your leave.' She wrote me a
letter, w'ich sort of explains the affair. D'you want to see it?"

"If I may."

"No," said Bulmer.

"Yes," blustered Verity, fully alive now to the immense possibilities
underlying the appearance in print of Iris's references to her
forthcoming marriage.

"An' I say 'no,' an' mean it," said the older man. "Go slow, David, go
slow. I was not comin 'ere as your enemy when I found this paper bein'
cried in the streets. It med me mad for a while. But I believe wot
you've said, an' I'm not the man to want my business, or my future
wife's I 'ope, to be chewed over by every Dick, Tom, an' 'Arry in
Liverpool."

The reincarnation of David was a wonderful spectacle, the most
impressive incident the journalist had ever witnessed, did he but kno