one, she was the first boat sailing from Cape Town after he had
dispatched his momentous cablegram; number two, he had a certain
diffidence regarding the expenditure of other people's money, and his
passage on the _Fort Salisbury_ would certainly be lower than on a mail
boat; number three, a curious and altogether unaccountable impulse had
impelled him to the choice. This reason had, perhaps unconsciously,
weighed with him considerably more than the other two. He often found
instinct throwing itself into the balance for or against the motives of
mere reason. When it was against mere reason, matters occasionally
complicated themselves in his mind. It had been a comfort to find, in
this case, reason on the same side of the scale as instinct.

Antony, leaning on the rail of the upper deck, was content, blissfully
content. The sole speck that marred his entire enjoyment was the fact
that the rules of the boat had separated him, _pro tem_, from an
exceedingly perplexed and distressed puppy. It was the perplexity and
distress of the said puppy that caused the speck, rather than the
separation. Antony, with the vaster wisdom vouchsafed to humans, knew the
present separation to be of comparatively short duration, and to be
endured in the avoidance of a possibly infinitely longer one. Not so
Josephus. He suffered in silence, since his deity had commanded the
silence, but the perplexed grief in his puppy heart found an echo in
Antony's.

It was a faint echo, however. Time and a daily visit would bring
consolation to Josephus; and, for himself, the present adventure--it was
an adventure--was all-absorbing and delicious. He revelled in it like a
schoolboy on a holiday. He watched the sparkling water, the tiny rippling
waves; he felt the freshness of the sea breeze, and the throb of the
engine like a great living heart in the body of the boat. The fact that
there were other people on her decks concerned him not at all. Those who
have travelled a good deal become, generally speaking, one of two
types,--the type that is quite enormously interested in everyone, and the
type that is entirely indifferent to any one. Antony was of this last
type. He had acquired a faculty for shutting his mental, and to a great
degree, his physical eyes to his human fellows, except in so far as sheer
necessity compelled. Naturally this did not make for popularity; but,
then, Antony did not care much for popularity. The winning of it would
have been too