Our shift was off at eight p. m. with duty ahead at four o'clock in the morning. But not feeling disposed to sleep just then, I began to study our position. Twenty-four hours ago we had cleared Scotland lightship, and I figured we were something like three hundred miles south of New York, off the Virginia capes.

The ship, as on the previous night, was wrapped in complete darkness as we emerged from the boiler-room, and I could just make out the shadowy form of the officer on the bridge, who moved about nervously. I glanced across the expanse of water but no light could be seen in any direction. The only activity was the sounding lead which was thrown overboard occasionally.

We still had the southern head wind which made it too hot for sleeping below, so I decided to bunk on deck, and went below for a blanket. Young Strong slept as though dead, even though the quarters were close and stuffy. I was glad to escape to the deck with my covering. As I laid down, expecting to doze off at once, I began to hear subdued voices. I heard some one say: "You know, we passed him this afternoon at three. He couldn't be over two hours behind us." At first I wasn't sure I was awake, for the voices were almost inaudible. I was sure I had slept some time.

"Did the wireless say all were taken off?"

I could now make out two officers talking near me, but they were unaware of my proximity. Then came the answer to the question:

"Yes; the report came from the shore station where the lifeboats landed, but if the subs are operating up there, we're probably safe."

Manifestly they referred to some ship that was torpedoed two or three hours behind us.

"That's all right, but you know well enough that mines have been sown here for the Chesapeake traffic."

"We're not due there yet, and it's a thousand-to-one shot that we'll get by. We've passed that spot many times. I believe that talk about mines is all bunk. Anyway, you know the Old Man changes his course at that point to keep the supposed mine field shoreward. Go to bed: you'll be bawled out quick enough if we hit anything."

Then all became quiet, but now thoroughly awakened, I went down to the galley to cajole some food from the cook. There, to my surprise, I found young Strong on the same errand.

"You had a good sleep?" was my greeting. I needn't have asked, for he looked rested and bright, even jaunty.

"Five hours; it's past one now. Where did you sleep?—I did not see you in your bunk." His voice sounded rather chummy, as the cook relented and helped us liberally. We told him we had both gone off watch without eating.

We took the food into the firemen's messroom, lighted by a single dark blue bulb, and sat opposite each other, a long, narrow, oak plank between us, picnic style. The cook enjoined us to shut the door, to cover even the dim illumination. The closed windows of the messroom were painted black so that not the slightest trace of light could escape.

"How do you feel this morning?" I asked.

"I am surprised at how well I do feel. If it wasn't for my hands I would feel fine," he replied cordially, sort of self-congratulatory, a half smile creeping about his non-secretive mouth.

"Moisten the inside of your gloves with petroleum, and your hands will soon heal if you are careful," I advised quietly. "The oilers will give you some."

"It is the first time in my life that my system has had the nicotine and other bug juices washed out of it; a cigarette tastes different now," he exulted, though evidently looking for sympathy.

"Do you know," he continued, as he cornered a chunk of meat in the bottom of the pan and tried to sever it with the ancient cutlery, "I always thought I could work, and now I know it."

"Then this is really your maiden labor sweat?" I asked, seemingly incredulous.

"Say," he began, still laboring with the meat, "I think this ship bought a job lot of sheep, and there were some granddaddies in the lot." I smiled an assent.

"If any one had told me a few days ago that I would be sitting on board a ship before an oak plank, eating old ram with relish, and out of a laundry vessel at that, I would have believed him insane."

I laughed outright and mumbled something about "crises in every one's life."

"My crisis came, all right, the other day. It was like the sidewalk coming up and hitting me in the face, it so upset me—oh, it was terrible. I am surprised that I can talk about it so soon." There was a ruefulness and disappointment in his tone.

I smiled encouragingly as he went on.

"I knew there was trouble ahead when the Governor called me into his office—there always was—but I expected, as usual, to win him over. I found for the first time why men called him a 'Gold-Beater.' I sat across a long table from him, never before realizing how big a man he was, his chest seemingly as broad as those of two ordinary men. He wasn't mad, just cold and immovable. He gave me some money and told me that was the last. I had to get out and work or starve. What I decided to do did not interest him. He said he didn't want to see me again and that he didn't care whether I went to hell or to work." Strong spoke as one recalling a nightmare.

"I suppose you have not been able to figure out yet who is right?" I asked.

"Oh, I think there is little doubt who is right, but just how long it will take me to recognize the fact is the question. You see, the Governor was never stingy or tight with me. That's why he was called a 'Gold-Beater'; he has made money, but he owns the money instead of it owning him—at least that's what his cronies say. And there's no doubt about the fact that I should go to work, but in the two or three days I have had to think about it I can't see why he waited so long. It's downright wrong to allow a fellow to believe he's got nothing to do but spend money and get into trouble for years at a stretch, then stop everything all of a sudden. I think that's where the Governor's wrong. But, you see, I can work, and I'm going to fool the old man." Bending over toward me, he added, "But I don't know how I would have come out on my first try if it hadn't been for you."

"Oh—I have done nothing but pass on to you what was done for me when I started. Later on you will perhaps admit that men who work with their hands, if approached right, are more kindly disposed and even more generous than others. But I am glad you speak English, to say nothing of finding a good fellow," I replied, approvingly.

"Well, I am not only glad to find some one who uses English, but, like the kid I really am, I am glad you listen to me. I got such a jolt. You see, it was the first time I ever felt the lash of the paternal whip, and one or two cuts were enough. I now know why the Governor is such a power among men—he does things so thoroughly and quietly. There wasn't any row—he was ready for me and I don't realize yet how well he prepared things, or how much he apparently knows of my movements——" He hesitated with a sorrowful shake of his head and resumed eating.

"You found he was checking you up pretty close?" said I, to urge him on.

"He must have known just how many breaths I took. He said I was a poor investment: that since my mother died when I was three I had cost him about two hundred thousand, and he was closing out a poor proposition. He informed me that I was to consider myself no more a son of his; was even sorry I would have to use his name. And the two thousand, his share of fixing up a man that I, and three others, ran down in the park with an auto, was the last assessment he would stand; and before I knew what was really happening I was leaving without even a good-by. I knew I was going to work, but thought I would have a last grand night and then pull out. But do you know, that in less than an hour, wherever I went, every one knew that Hiram Strong, Jr., had been disinherited and kicked out. I then learned what New York thinks of a 'has-been.' I tried to drown the thought in liquor, but it floated in spite of my most frantic efforts. I guess there was a good deal of the last pickle in me when you saw me first?"

I laughed and Strong continued:

"Oh, I'm going to beat it—I've got to beat it," he said, closing his mouth savagely and tossing the empty pan down toward the other end of the table. "I guess it's about time for us to go to hell, isn't it?" he added, lighting a cigarette.

"Yes—all we need down in that hole is the boss with a pitch-fork tail; we've got the shovel, coal and heat."

"Say, Ben—I believe I heard them call you Ben—do you think the 'Old Boy' with the forked tail gives his furnace men four hours on and eight off, and great granddaddy sheep stew for eats and makes 'em sleep in tiers?" he asked, as we laughed our way to the boiler-room.