, weather and otherwise.
This is a queer old Atlantic.

SMITH'S LOG.

Overnight, Mrs. Charlton Denyse (wife of an erstwhile Charley Dennis who
had made his pile in the wheat-pit) was a busy person. Scenting social
prestige, of which she was avid, in connection with Cecily Wayne, she
had sought to establish herself as the natural protectress of
unchaperoned maidenhood and had met with a well-bred, well-timed, and
well-placed snub.

Thick of skin, indeed, must they be who venture into the New York social
scramble, and Mrs. Denyse shared at least one characteristic of the
rhinoceros. Nothing daunted by her failure with the daughter, she
proceeded to invest a part of the Dennis pile in wireless messages to
Henry Clay Wayne, on the basis of her kinship with Remsen Van Dam. In
the course of time these elicited replies. Mrs. Denyse was well
satisfied. She was mingling in the affairs of the mighty.

She was also mingling in the affairs of the Tyro. To every one on board
whom she knew--and she was expert in making or claiming
acquaintance--she expanded upon the impudence of a young nobody named
Smith who was making up to Cecily Wayne, doubtless with a hope of
capturing her prospective millions. Among others, she approached Judge
Enderby, and that dry old Machiavelli congratulated her upon her
altruistic endeavors to keep the social strain of the ship pure and
undefiled, promising his help. He it was who suggested her appealing to
the captain.

As I have indicated, Judge Enderby in his unprofessional hours had an
elfish and prank-some love of mischief.

Quite innocent of plots and stratagems formulating about him, the Tyro
tried all the various devices made and provided for the killing of time
on shipboard, but found none of them sufficiently lethal. At dinner he
had caught a far glimpse of Little Miss Grouch seated at the captain's
table between Lorf Guenn and the floppy-eared scion of the house of
Sperry. Later in the evening he had passed her once and she had given
him the most casual of nods. He went to bed with a very restless wonder
as to what was going to happen in the morning, when she had promised to
walk with him again.

Nothing happened in the morning. Nothing, that is, except an uncertain
bobble of sea, overspread by a wind-driven mist which kept the wary
under cover. The Tyro tramped endless miles at the side of the
indefatigable Dr. Alderson; he patrolled the deck