erous guests. His eyes fell upon a dark-haired, olive-skinned young
man in the rear of the shipwrecked group, and the cup he was carrying
clattered on the floor.

"Frank!" he cried. "_Fratello mio!_"

The brothers flung themselves into each other's arms. The Whittington
family was not the only happy one in Camp Spurling that night.

XXIV

CROSSING THE TAPE

There was little sleep on Tarpaulin, either for rescuers or rescued,
until the small hours of the morning. The cabin was crowded to its
utmost capacity, as the fish-house was too cold for the drenched,
wearied men. Filippo kept a hot fire going until long after midnight,
and served out coffee galore. During his intervals of leisure he and
Frank conversed in liquid Sicilian.

Outside, the storm roared and the surf boomed on the ledges about
Brimstone; beyond in the blackness lay the wrecked _Barona_, hammering
to pieces.

Gradually conversation ceased and the camp grew quiet. The boys and
their unexpected guests, sandwiched closely together on the floor and in
the bunks, drifted off into fitful slumber. But John P. Whittington's
eyes remained wide open.

He was outstretched in Percy's bunk. His clothes hung drying before the
stove, and he had on an old suit of Jim's, as nothing that Percy wore
was large enough to fit his father's square, bulky figure. Beside him
lay his son, sound asleep. John P. marveled at his regular breathing.
Occasionally he touched the lad with his hand.

All his thoughts centered about Percy. He could not but feel that this
brown, wiry fellow who had saved his life was a stranger to him. He
could see with half an eye that a great change had come over the boy
during the summer; he had grown quieter, stronger, far more manly.

Yes, Percy had stuck. John Whittington had only half believed that he
could or would; and he had spent a good many valuable hours worrying
over what he should do with his son if he didn't stick. The result
showed that all those hours had been thrown away; but somehow the
millionaire couldn't feel very bad about the waste.

He began to wonder if Percy might not have done better in the past if
his father had put in a little more time with him personally and spent
less in mere money-making. He had tried to shift his responsibility off
on somebody else, had hired others to do what he should have taken pains
to do himself. That was a big mistake; John P. Whittington could see it
plainly now. And it had come