e we looked at each other. Then says I, sort of thinkin' out
loud, 'I cal'late,' I says, 'that whether a man's brave or not depends
consider'ble on whether he's used to his latitude. It's all accordin'.
It lays in the bringin' up, as the duck said when the hen tried to
swim.'

"He nodded solemn. 'Pard,' says he, 'I sure reckon you've called the
turn. Let's shake hands on it.'"

FOOTNOTE:

[L] Reprinted from "The Depot Master." Copyright, 1910, by D. Appleton
and Company.

[Illustration]

XIV--The Dollar[M]

_By Morgan Robertson_

HIS name was Angus Macpherson--pronounced MacPh_ai_rson--but he was so
intensely Scotch that in every ship he had sailed in men called him
Scotty. He had a face like a harvest-moon, with a sorrowful expression
of the eyes, a frame like a gladiator's, a brogue modified from its
original consistency to an understandable dialect, and the soul of a
Scotchman--which means that he was possessed by two dominant and
conflicting passions, love of God and love of Mammon. Add to these
attributes a masterful knowledge of seamanship and an acquaintance with
navigation, and you have a rough sketch of him as he stood at the wheel
of a tow-barge just out of New York.

Her name was the _Anita_, and she was the second barge in a tow of two.
Ahead of her, at the end of a ninety-fathom steel tow-line, was the
sister barge _Champion_, and at an equal distance farther ahead was the
steamer _Proserpine_. Each barge carried stump spars and mutton-leg
canvas--which was why Scotty, weary of the endless work in the
deep-water windjammers, had gone "tow-barging"--and the three craft
belonged to one owner.

The skipper, a young man with a humorous face and democratic manner, as
became a lowly barge skipper, appeared before the Scotsman, jingling in
his hand a number of bright silver dollars. Scotty eyed them hungrily.

"Fine, aren't they, Scotty?" he said. "How many of these plunkers does
the devil need to buy your soul?"

"More than you can count, Cappen Bolt," answered Scotty, gravely. "My
soul no belongs to me, but to my Maker."

"Nonsense," laughed the captain. "A Scot loves the siller first, his
Maker next. Why, a Jew can't make a living in your country, Scotty."

"Possibly not, cappen; but it's no because Scotchmen are dishonest. The
Lord has given us wits--that's all."

"Dead broke, Scotty?" asked Captain Bolt, idly.

"I banked the most o' my pay, sir. Ay, I'm what you might call broke."