hen folks start makin' wild guesses as to which is their friends.

"There's Uncle Fred, Willie!" squeals a fat woman next to me, proddin'
me vigorous in the ribs.

"Not mine, ma'am," says I.

"Oh, excuse me," says she. "Why, there's Willie, over there. Hey,
Willie! See Uncle Fred?"

It was that way all around me, and me not even doin' the wave act. After
awhile though, I spots Marjorie. There was no doubt about it being her;
for she looms up among that crowd along the rail like a prize Florida
orange in a basket of lemons. It's plain Marjorie ain't lost any weight
by her trip abroad, and she looks more like a corn fed Juliet than ever.

As she wa'n't expectin' me, but was huntin' for Brother Robert, I didn't
see the sense in shoutin'. I went on lookin' over the rest of the
passengers, sort of bracin' myself for any discovery I might make. Would
they show up arm in arm, or with their heads close together, or how?

I'd looked the boat over from bow to stern and back again about three
times before I happens to take another glance at Marjorie. And there,
almost hid by one side of her, was a young lady in a white sailor hat
with some straw colored hair showin' under the wide brim, and a pair of
gray eyes that I couldn't mistake anywhere. It was Vee, all right; just
as slim and graceful and classy as ever, with the same independent tilt
to her chin, and the same Mayflower pink showin' in her cheeks.

And, say, I want to tell you that about then I was glad I came! It
didn't make any difference if there was half a dozen Counts, and a Duke
and what not besides; just seein' her once more, even if I didn't get a
chance to put over a word, was worth while. And right there I makes up
my mind that, Count or no Count, I'm goin' to push to the front.

"Oh, you Miss Vee!" I megaphones through my hands, just as enthusiastic
as anybody on the pier.

About the third call catches her ear. She sort of starts and gazes at
the crowd kind of puzzled. There's such a mob, though, she don't pick me
out. I could see her turn to Marjorie and say something, and then I gets
wise to the fact that the four-eyed gent with the bristly hair and the
half gray set of shavin' brush mustaches, standin' next to Marjorie, was
one of their party. Miss Vee leans over and passes along some remark to
him, and he shrugs his shoulders and says something that makes 'em both
laugh.

"If that's the Count," thinks I, "he's a punk specimen."

A couple of minute