istically.

"Of course," the captain went on, "I can hold me tongue. That's
agreed--we all hold our tongues, whatever the newspapers may be likely
to pay for a word or two. Often enough I've read things in the newspaper
that I could put a different name to. And that little ship of mine has
had a hand in some queer political pies."

"Yes," answered Martin, with his gay laugh, "and kept it clean all the
same."

"That's as may be. And now I'll say good-bye. I'll be calling on your
father for my money in three days' time--barrin' fogs. And I'll tell him
I left you well. Good-bye, Petersen; you're a handy man. Tell him he's a
handy man in his own langwidge, and I'll take it kindly."

Captain Cable shook hands, and clattered out of the cabin in his great
sea-boots.

Half an hour later the _Olaf_ was alone on that shallow sea, which
seemed lonelier and more silent than ever; for when a strong man quits a
room he often bequeaths a sudden silence to those he leaves behind.

IV

TWO OF A TRADE

"His face reminds one of a sunny graveyard," a witty Frenchwoman had
once said of a man named Paul Deulin. And it is probable that Deulin
alone could have understood what she meant. Those who think in French
have a trick of putting great thoughts into a little compass, and, as
the hollow ball of talk is tossing to and fro, it sometimes rings for a
moment in a deeper note than many ears are tuned to catch.

The careless word seized the attention of one man who happened to hear
it--Reginald Cartoner, a listener, not a talker--and made that man Paul
Deulin's friend for the rest of his life. As there is _point de culte
sans mystere_, so also there can be no lasting friendship without
reserve. And although these two men had met in many parts of the
world--although they had in common more languages than may be counted on
the fingers--they knew but little of each other.

If one thinks of it, a sunny graveyard, bright with flowers and the gay
green of spring foliage, is the shallowest fraud on earth, endeavoring
to conceal beneath a specious exterior a thousand tragedies, a whole
harvest of lost illusions, a host of grim human comedies. On the other
hand, this is a pious fraud; for half the world is young, and will
discover the roots of the flowers soon enough.

Cartoner had met Deulin in many strange places. Together they had
witnessed queer events. Accredited to a new president of a new republic,
they once had made their bow,