on.
Yes, son. 'There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright
as mine.' Now isn't that the truth?"

He bathed, dressed, and went out on the deck.

Early though he was, one passenger at least was up before him. The
young woman he had noticed last evening with the magazine was doing a
constitutional. A slight breeze was stirring, and as she moved against
it the white skirt clung first to one knee and then the other, moulding
itself to the long lines of her limbs with exquisite grace of motion.
It was as though her walk were the expression of a gallant and buoyant
personality.

Irish he guessed her when the deep-blue eyes rested on his for an
instant as she passed, and fortified his conjecture by the coloring of
the clear-skinned face and the marks of the Celtic race delicately
stamped upon it.

The purser came out of his room and joined Elliot. He smiled at sight of
the young man's face.

"Your map's a little out of plumb this morning, sir," he ventured.

"But you ought to see the other fellow," came back Gordon boyishly.

"I've seen him--several of him. We've got the best collection of bruises
on board I ever clapped eyes on. I've got to give it to you and Mr.
Macdonald. You know how to hit."

"Oh, I'm not in his class."

Gordon Elliot meant what he said. He was himself an athlete, had played
for three years left tackle on his college eleven. More than one critic
had picked him for the All-America team. He could do his hundred in just
a little worse than ten seconds. But after all he was a product of
training and of the gymnasiums. Macdonald was what nature and a long
line of fighting Highland ancestors had made him. His sinewy, knotted
strength, his massive build, the breadth of shoulder and depth of
chest--mushing on long snow trails was the gymnasium that had
contributed to these.

The purser chuckled. "He's a good un, Mac is. They say he liked to have
drowned Northrup after he had saved him."

Elliot was again following with his eyes the lilt of the girl's
movements. Apparently he had not heard what the officer said. At least
he gave no answer.

With a grin the purser opened another attack. "Don't blame you a bit,
Mr. Elliot. She's the prettiest colleen that ever sailed from Dublin
Bay."

The young man brought his eyes home. They answered engagingly the smile
of the purser.

"Who is she?"

"The name on the books is Sheba O'Neill."

"From Dublin, you say."

"Oh, if you want to b