"What's that?" said Peterson sharply--"you didn't obey orders?"

"Well, I thought he was in the other boat," explained Willy, hanging

his head.

"You'll get your time," said the old man quietly, "soon as we get to

the railroad--and you'll go home by rail."

"What are you trying to do, Mr. Harry?" he demanded of me, a moment

later. I was looking at the long boat.

"Well, he's part of the boat's company," said I, "and we've got to

save him, Peterson."

"What's that?" asked Helena now coming up--and then, "Why, John, our

cook, isn't here, is he?" She, too, looked at the long boat and at the

sea. "How horrible!" she said. "Horrible!"

"What does he mean to do?" she demanded now of Peterson in turn. The

old man only looked at her.

"Surely, you don't mean to go out there again," she said.

I turned to them both, half cold with anger. "Do you think I'd leave

him out there to die, perhaps? It was my own fault, not to see him in

the boat."

"It wasn't," reiterated Peterson. "It was Willy's fault--or mine."

"In either case it's likely to be equally serious for him. We can't

leave the poor devil helpless, that way."

"Mr. Harry," began Peterson again, "he's only a Chinaman."

"Take shame to yourself for that, Peterson," said I. "He's a part of

the boat's company--a good cook--yes, but more than a good cook----"

"Well, why didn't he come up with the rest of us?"

"Because he was at his place of duty, below, until ordered up," said

I.

Peterson pondered for a moment. "That's right," said he at length;

"I'll go out with you."

I felt Helena's hand on my arm. "It's awful out there," said she. But

I only turned to look at her in the half-darkness and shook off her

hand.

"You can't launch the big boat," said Peterson. "You'd only swamp her,

if you tried."

"That may be," said I, "but the real thing is to try."

"We might wait till the wind lulls," he argued.

"Yes, and if the wind should change she might drag her anchor and go

out to sea. Which boat is best to take, Peterson?"

A strange feeling of calm came over me, an odd feeling not easy to

explain, that I was not a young man of leisure, but some one else, one

of my ancestors of earlier days, used to encounters with adversity or

risk. Calmly and much to my own surprise, I stood and estimated the

chances as though I had been used to such things all my life.

"Which is the best boat, Peterson?" I repeated. "Hardly the duck boat,

I think--and you say not the big boat."

"The dingey is the safest," replied Peterson. "That little tub would

ride better; but no man could handle her out there."




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