she did at last find out, but it cannot be denied that the
discovery was unusual.

Mrs. Cope died at Buenos Ayres, suddenly, as she was serving Molly's
supper, and Molly, piloted by the first mate, for she knew no Spanish,
buried her there and put up a neat headstone over her grave: the
possible lack of one had been the poor woman's one terror, and she had
sent every cent of her wages to some worthless, mysterious husband
whose whereabouts nobody knew. This took all Molly's money but so much
as was needed for her return trip, for it has to be confessed of her
that she never saved a penny in her extravagant life.

And now we see her speaking, for the first time beyond perfunctory
salutations, with the captain, a taciturn recluse of a man, furious
just now at some unexpected litigation connected with his cargo and
horribly inconvenienced by the loss of his stewardess. Two ladies
waiting, literally, on the wharf, have been promised accommodation in
the _Stella_ by the owners, and there is not a decent, respectable
woman to be found on the whole coast of South America, to look after
them.

"Suppose you give me the job?" says Molly, quietly.

He looks her up, down and across, with an eye like a gimlet; she takes
the scrutiny cheerfully, as her duty and his due, offers him her clear,
grey eyes (her only reference for character) and her capable, trim,
broad-shouldered figure as security for fitness.

"I suppose you know your own business best," he says brusquely.
"You're engaged. What name do you wish to go by?"

"My own," says she, "Molly Dickett."

So now, you see! The secret is out, and you may observe her again
piloted by the first mate, scouting through the shops of Buenos Ayres
for a blue-and-white striped cotton frock, broad enough through the
shoulders. Aprons she purchased and caps (larger caps than Mrs.
Cope's, who compromised on white lawn bow-knots) and high-laced,
rubber-soled, white canvas boots, only to be procured in English shops
for sporting-goods. Their price caused the first mate to whistle.

"What's the idea of all this?" he demanded suddenly. "Of course, you
know, you must be up to some game. Your kind doesn't ship as
stewardess."

"What game were _you_ up to?" Molly replied quickly. "Your kind
doesn't ship as first mate, does it?"

"What kind?" he said gruffly.

"The 'Dicky' kind," she answered.

He blurted out some amazed incoherence, and,

"Oh, I've seen Harvard men, before,"