ell, it's no use,
Nicklestick. There's no such animal on board this Ark. I see a couple
of boats returning from shore. You've got about fifteen minutes to shed
that Stein & Bloch suit and jump into something that will never need
pressing again,--your working clothes. I'm doing you a kindness. That
gang out there won't stand for slackers. If you're wise you'll take my
word for it."

He was turning away when Nicklestick intercepted him.

"What do you think they would do, Mr. Percival?" he inquired in some
agitation. "We are gentlemen. We got a right to decide for ourselves vat
we shall do. We can pay for--"

"You will find a lot of gentlemen out there who have already decided for
themselves,--and very cheerfully, too. You will not be lonely. If you
desire any further information as to the class of labourers you will
come in contact with, Mr. Nicklestick, I would suggest a careful study
of the first cabin list, the second cabin list, and finally the third
cabin list, if you can find such a thing. You will also run up against
some excellent material from the United States Navy, to say nothing of a
fine lot of able seamen. They've adopted a common name. Do you know what
they call each other?"

"No," said Nicklestick, wiping his brow. "Vat--vat do they call each
other?"

"Men," said Percival, and walked away.

He was followed closely by Careni-Amori and Olga Obosky, and at some
distance by the whispering, gesticulating Jews. The great soprano was
profoundly agitated. Obosky, a pace or two behind her, was tense and
silent. Her head was slightly bent. There was a strange, dog-like
expression in her eyes as they regarded the back of Percival's head.

"But what will you do?" Careni-Amori was crying, as she clutched his
arm. "He is a great man. He is a millionaire. He owns part of this
steamship line,--so he have inform me. You will not throw him into the
water,--yes?"

"As sure as you are a foot high, Madame Careni-Amori," said he, grimly.

"Oh, mon Dieu! You hear him, Obosky? He means what he have say."

"Be careful, my friend," said Obosky, drawing alongside of Percival. "Do
you not see how the wind blows?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you count the cost of victory? You may lose more than you will
gain."

Percival looked at her intently for a moment; then, in a flash, the
meaning of her words was revealed to him.

"Even so, Madame Obosky," he returned, his jaw setting, "I am a good
loser."

"The spoils do no