nsom
with William Ewart Gladstone. But the one thing of which he was proud,
the one picture of his life he most delighted to recall, was himself as
manager of a negro minstrel troupe, in a hired drum-major's uniform,
marching down the streets of Sacramento at the head of the brass band
in burnt cork and regimentals.

"The star of the troupe," he told them, "was the lady with the iron
jore. We busted in Stockton, and she gave me her diamonds to pawn. I
pawned 'em, and kept back something in the hand for myself and hooked
it to San Francisco. Strike me straight if she didn't follow me, that
iron-jored piece; met me one day in front of the Bush Street Theatre,
and horsewhipped me properly. Now, just think of that"--and he laughed
as though it was the best kind of a joke.

"But," hazarded Blix, "don't you find it rather dull out here--
lonesome? I should think you would want to have some one with you to
keep you company--to--to do your cooking for you?"

But Condy, ignoring her diplomacy and thinking only of possible
stories, blundered off upon another track.

"Yes," he said, "you've led such a life of action, I should think this
station would be pretty dull for you. How did you happen to choose it?"

"Well, you see," answered the Captain, leaning against the smooth white
flank of the surf-boat, his hands in his pockets, "I'm lying low just
now. I got into a scrape down at Libertad, in Mexico, that made talk,
and I'm waiting for that to die down some. You see, it was this way."

Mindful of their experience with the mate of the whaleback, Condy and
Blix were all attention in an instant. Blix sat down upon an upturned
box, her elbows on her knees, leaning forward, her little eyes fixed
and shining with interest and expectation; Condy, the story-teller all
alive and vibrant in him, stood at her elbow, smoking cigarette after
cigarette, his fingers dancing with excitement and animation as the
Captain spoke.

And then it was that Condy and Blix, in that isolated station, the bay
lapping at the shore within ear-shot, in that atmosphere redolent of
paint and oakum and of seaweed decaying upon the beach outside, first
heard the story of "In Defiance of Authority."

Captain Jack began it with his experience as a restaurant keeper during
the boom days in Seattle, Washington. He told them how he was the
cashier of a dining-saloon whose daily net profits exceeded eight
hundred dollars; how its proprietor suddenly die