sten.
There's no telling what has happened. We may have to go on deck. We may
even be ordered to the boats. Warm clothing is an absolute necessity.
Think now, and tell me what you need."

She gave him a quick but rather sketchy list. "And your own overcoat and
sweater--or I won't let you go. Promise." Her fingers turned in his and
caught at them.

"Very well, tyrant. I'll be back in three minutes."

Had he known what was awaiting him he might have promised with less
confidence. For there was a dragon in the path in the person of young
Mr. Diedrick Sperry, breathing, if not precisely flames, at least,
fumes, for he had sat late in the smoking-room, consuming much liquor.
At sight of the Tyro, his joke which he had so highly esteemed, returned
to his mind.

"Haberdashin' 'round again, hey?" he shouted, blocking the passage
halfway down to Stateroom 129. "Where's Cissy Wayne?"

"Safe," said the Tyro briefly.

"Safe be damned! You tell me where before you move a step farther." He
stretched out a hand which would have done credit to a longshoreman.

Fight was the last thing that the Tyro wished. More important business
was pressing. But as Sperry was blocking the way to the conclusion of
that business, it was manifest that he must be disposed of. Here was no
time for diplomacy. The Tyro struck at his bigger opponent, the blow
falling short. With a shout, the other rushed him, and went right on
over his swiftly dropped shoulder, until he felt himself clutched at the
knees in an iron grip, and heaved clear of the flooded floor.

The stateroom door opposite swung unlatched. With a mighty effort, the
wrestler whirled his opponent clean through it, heard his frame crash
into the berth at the back, and slammed the door to after him, only to
be apprised, by a lamentable yell in a deep contralto voice, that he had
made an unfortunate choice of safe-deposits.

In two leaps he was in room 129 D, whence, peering forth, he beheld his
late adversary emerge and speed down the narrow hall in full and
limping flight, pursued by Mrs. Charlton Denyse clad in inconsiderable
pink, and shrieking vengeance as she splashed. Relieved, through this
unexpected alliance, of further interference, the messenger collected a
weird assortment of his liege's clothing and an article or two of his
own and returned to her. There was no mistaking the gladness of her
relief.

"You've done very well," she approved. "Though I don't know that I
actuall