. Steele's voice, and I call out:

"Do come here, the jelly fish are simply resplendent on this side."

The Peruvian moves out of range of recognition, into the darkness
beyond, while Mrs. Steele joins me on the other side.

"Where is Baron de Bach? I thought he was with you."

"So he was, but he's just gone daft--I mean aft."

"What is the matter?" says my friend; "have you disagreed about
something?"

"Yes," I say, "we've disagreed, and he has the best of it, for he can
argue his point with four tongues and I've only one."

Mrs. Steele is curious; she slips her arm through mine.

"Has he been overpolite to you, my dear?"

"Mrs. Steele," I say, thoughtfully, "I'm a little amused and still
more perplexed by this man. Will you allow me the American girl's
privilege of taking care of herself and promise not to interfere if I
tell you how matters go?"

"Yes," says Mrs. Steele quickly, "I need no convincing that you can
take care of yourself, but I rather like that big Peruvian with all
his worldly experience and boyish heart. I hope he hasn't been
translating into broken English the eloquence of his face. If you're
wise, you'll keep him on friendly ground till near the end of the
voyage at least; he will make an agreeable third in our excursions on
shore. His knowledge of Spanish and Mexican customs will be useful,
but if you allow him to make a goose of himself, there's an end to all
friendly intercourse."

She pauses a moment and then adds hopefully:

"But still we've known him only two days; I merely warn you in time
for future need."

"It's too late," I say, leaning far over the railing to watch the
phosphorescence gleam and darken. "He has just been making furious
love in four languages. Let's go in, dear."

That night I wake out of some unpleasant dream to hear Mrs. Steele
saying:

"You sleep like the dead; we shall all go to the bottom and you will
never find it out till the fish begin to nibble."

I realise sleepily there's a great commotion without; hurried feet
fly about the decks; loud orders are shouted under our window, and
with a mighty trembling and throbbing, the ship's engine seems to stop
suddenly. Mrs. Steele is scrambling into her _robe de chambre_, and
has her head out of the porthole, while I, hardly awake even yet, lean
in a bewildered way over the side of my berth to listen.

"What has happened?" Mrs. Steele calls out.

"Man overboard," answers one of the sailors; "we're lower