't come blustering in here much," he said,
apprehensively, as he unfolded the ragged papers with great caution.

The fair-haired young man drew forward his chair, and Cable, seeing the
action, looked at him sharply.

"Seafaring man?" he inquired, with a weight of doubt and distrust in his
voice.

"Not by profession, only for fun."

"Fun? Man and boy, I've used the sea forty years, and I haven't yet
found out where the fun comes in!"

"This gentleman," explained the banker, "his Ex--Mr.--" He paused, and
looked inquiringly at the white-haired gentleman.

"Mr. Martin."

"Mr. Martin will be on board the _Olaf_ when you meet Captain Petersen
in the North Sea. He will act as interpreter. You remember that Captain
Petersen speaks no English, and you do not know his language. The
two crews, I understand, will be similarly placed. Captain Peterson
undertakes to have no one on board speaking English. And your crew, my
fren'?"

"My crew comes from Sun'land. Men that only speak English, and precious
little of that," replied Captain Cable.

He had his finger on the chart, but paused and looked up, fixing his
bright glance on the face of the white-haired gentleman.

"There's one thing--I'm a plain-spoken man myself--what is there for us
two--us seafaring men?"

"There is five hundred pounds for each of you," replied the white-haired
gentleman for himself, in slow and careful English.

Captain Cable nodded his grizzled head over the chart.

"I like to deal with a gentleman," he said, gruffly.

"And so do I," replied the white-haired foreigner, with a bow.

Captain Cable grunted audibly.

III

A SPECIALTY

A muddy sea and a dirty gray sky, a cold rain and a moaning wind.
Short-capped waves breaking to leeward in a little hiss of spray. The
water itself sandy and discolored. Far away to the east, where the
green-gray and the dirty gray merge into one, a windmill spinning in the
breeze--Holland. Near at hand, standing in the sea, the picture of wet
and disconsolate solitude, a little beacon, erect on three legs, like
a bandbox affixed to a giant easel. It is alight, although it is broad
daylight; for it is always alight, always gravely revolving, night and
day, alone on this sandbank in the North Sea. It is tended once in three
weeks. The lamp is filled; the wick is trimmed; the screen, which is
ingeniously made to revolve by the heat of the lamp, is lubricated, and
the beacon is left to its solitude and it