Definitely deciding the big Hun boat would not sink, I let the anchor go, pulled the little lifeboat aboard and plugged the bullet holes, for I knew I would need it.

The Gulf sun was pretty hot and I didn't blame the Boches much when they called for drink and food.

Their cook, a flabby tool scarcely full witted, possessed a craven fear of going into the next world. I released him with a forcible injunction that his first tricky move would send him there instantly. With knocking knees and gibbering to himself, he went about feeding the others.

I saw little Jim moving around on the Sprite, so concluded matters in her quarter were satisfactory. I had to go over there and I felt sure of what I would find. I hesitated, however, for it was a delicate situation. But it could be put off no longer, so I got into the little lifeboat and drew up alongside.

With a grimness of a lion playing with a cub little Jim had coaxed her black-bearded father back, and given him food and dry clothing. Though still very weak he was sitting in the bottom of the boat, leaning against the tiny cabin, evidently pleased with her wheedling and caresses. But when he got a good look at me I thought his eyes would jump from their sockets. At first there was the fierce, savage look of the enraged Georgia Cracker, which as quickly melted into a joyful delight as his memory served him.

Little Jim ran to the side of the Sprite, grasped me by the hand and led me to him. "Daddy, this is Mr. Wood. If he had not come to-day what might have happened!" she exclaimed, manifestly undaunted by the dreadful experience she had undergone.

Though full bearded, with black hair like a lion's mane, there remained that wonderful aquiline nose and powerful jaw and chin of Fighting Howard Byng. From where he sat he slowly reached up a broad, generous, strong hand.

Little Jim thought the emotion he showed was in recognition of the service I had rendered him. But as our eyes met we both understood—to little Jim his name should remain Canby—sponge diver, merchant and Gulf trader.

"Little Jim, your eyes are good and so is your aim. You watch what is going on over there while I have a talk with your father." Then I explained to her that the cook was commissioned to feed them food from his hand, as their own hands were serving another purpose just then.

Without hesitation she took her rifle and sat down in the stern, letting her legs hang over—the same picture as when I first saw her sitting on the wharf waiting for the tide to uncover the bull alligator.

Howard Byng sat there devouring me with his eyes, recollections rushing through his mind. I seated myself beside him. He seemed to want me close to him.

"I was sure I would see you again, but I never pictured it this way," said he, turning his face toward me. "I would have drowned if you and little Jim hadn't come; the cannon shot put me out—it is a terrible shock under water."

"An active life has many surprises," I answered slowly.

"You've been at it all the time! I would rather be able to do what you have done to-day than to have all the money in the world. I recall what you told me the last time I saw you. That mere business—mere money would not satisfy. I could not see it then."

"You have made headway. Starting with nothing, not even a name," I said, so low that little Jim couldn't hear.

"Yes—I have done a little. First I had to work to live, and now little Jim is all I work for. I—I—suppose you know—all about it—how it happened?"

"I don't know much about it, but I want to. Just now we both have something important on hand. I must get these men moving north as soon as possible."

"Little Jim tells me you landed them all. I wish I could have helped. I can tell you something about them. I have known it for a long time, but—but you know my position is a little peculiar. But I didn't think they would try to kill me."

"Howard, just now I want to get the Boches and the cutter into port. I think the boat's bulkheads will keep her up."

"Will she answer to the rudder?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then I can tow her in this boat; I can pull a train of cars," he said, brightening.

"Can you? The cutter is a wreck. If you pull her in she's your salvage."

He smiled for the first time, though he still labored for breath with which to speak.

"I've been doing a little in that line for some time," he said, moving his foot toward an ingot of copper. "That's why the Bulows wanted to get me, and I guess they would have done it this time if it hadn't been for you." He spoke grimly, taking the oxygen tube and drinking deeply from it. "I'll be ready for anything in a few minutes now," said he, and with considerable effort he stood up and looked across at the wreck like an eagle ready to swoop down upon its prey.

"Where do you want to take it—Key West?"

"No—just now I would rather hide it and get the prisoners up North quickly."

"I can take it where it can't be found in a hundred years," he said, looking over his engine.

Little Jim still watched as we raised anchor to get under way. He, or rather little Jim, towed the Hun cutter. I ran the Titian and followed. I wanted Washington to get their eyes and ears full before the Boche interest heard of it. I had started something big and needed help.

Byng hid the Boche cutter in a basin among some small islands, and ran for his own place not far away. He tied up and was waiting for me, fully recovered, the powerful, robust man of the sea. Six men were an overload for the Titian and we couldn't keep up with the Sprite.

Howard didn't pay much attention to me until they were lined up on his little wharf.

I didn't like the way he stood there, eyeing the fat man.

He would not come close, seeming to fear that he might harm the fellow if he did. He appeared to be struggling to restrain himself and succeeded pretty well. I thought it was because he saw the bandaged hand that little Jim had punctured when trying to break the lock of his warehouse.

He grew into the fierce Georgia Cracker again, whom I had seen stand up and offer to fight a whole camp of rough surveyors—but more intense if it were possible.

I started over to him and asked, "Where can I keep them until a train comes going north? One is due in about three hours."

"It don't stop here," he said, never for an instant taking his eyes off the big man with the great girth and jowl.

"It will stop for me, and before it gets here I must search each of these fellows down to the very skin."

His mind was working like a whip. Without replying he turned on his heel, went into the store and returned with a key to the warehouse.

"They were so anxious to see the warehouse, we will satisfy them now. Keep them in here," said he, unlocking and throwing open the door.

The big man was exhausted. He dropped in a greasy heap on a pile of green hides. When I cut the cords he could hardly get his arms forward. His wrists looked bad.

I began with the cook. Made him strip before me and I examined each garment critically, removing all personal effects, putting them in a package, carefully marking his name and address on it so that they would be restored. This gave me an excuse to ask a great many other questions. Each man, when searched, was carefully segregated from the unsearched.

Howard stood by eagerly looking on at the thoroughness with which I proceeded, using leather from valuable skins with apparent indifference, to tie up their effects.

The thin man proved to be the manager of all the Bulow interests in that section. He had considerable cash on his person and indignantly protested that I was high-handed in the whole procedure. It was an outrage some mighty power would avenge, he insisted vehemently. At that time the Boches actually believed that when they pulled the proper string some twenty million Germans would rise in defense of the "fatherland," but I never saw it just that way.

The fat man with the bandaged hand had revived enough to show great interest in my procedure with the manager, evidently hoping that they two, as dignitaries, were to be spared the indignity of being stripped and searched.

It took more than an hour to get to the wilted tub of tallow. His white flannel trousers and delicately marked shirt, expensive Panama, and shoes were badly mussed by the ruthless treatment accorded him while in the boat, and also later on when he came in contact with the salted hides. Brain heat or dandruff had cleared away his front hair. He did not look at all lovely, but, having rested, was full of fight. His attitude was that of a maddened bull, his murky eyes like a pool of filthy sewage. When finally he stood stripped before us I glanced at Howard. His attitude was alarming. He looked like a lion ready to tear its prey limb from limb. I couldn't understand at first. Gradually a great light dawned in my mind—but there were things I was not supposed to know about, as yet, so I turned my gaze upon the prisoner.

"I refuse to submit to such treatment!" he hissed from between lips now repulsively purple. "You have no right to treat even common prisoners in this way—dogs—damned Yankee dogs!" he let out, sitting upright now. "I represent great interests. I am an officer in a large bank. You will pay dearly for this!"

Howard stood some distance away from the frothing Boche. His eyes scintillated fire of extreme hatred. His fingers clenched and he took a step toward the man, then hesitated. The situation was tense. I was afraid he might do a rash thing. At last I made reply to the fellow.

"It is my right and duty to make a prisoner safe for transportation," said I. "If you don't remove your clothing for examination I shall do it forcibly, and I don't intend to wait long, either." I spoke quietly, now watching Howard also.

Then I went at the rebellious Boche and flipped open his belt, starting, with little delicacy, to undress him. When he saw I meant business, he relented and began working at his own collar.

The manager, who had donned his clothing, came from among those examined and asked permission to speak with him.

"If you come one step nearer I will shoot you dead in your tracks," I warned. "Tricks like that won't work. He is going to do what I tell him in exactly the manner I want him to," I said, forcibly enough, taking up a rifle leaning behind me.

Howard moved in front of the manager, like the sturdy oak he was, grand, powerful, magnificent, able to cope with all of them unaided. The last hope was gone, so the undressing began over again. Piece after piece the fat Boche tossed upon the floor in front of me, in rage and unbroken spirit, affecting an air of grandeur that intimated condign punishment for those to blame for this terrible outrage on his person, and had to be prodded again for the belt he wore next to his skin.

It seemed to me that Howard would devour him with his eyes as I scrutinized his silk underwear and returned it after a careful search.

I took everything—watch, trinkets, money and wallet, returning only his clothing, the belt being retained for more deliberate examination. I have spent most of my life studying men and women, but this man's case mystified me. Dressed again, he looked a good deal of a personage, undoubtedly forceful, and a power among men. But his shrunken legs and flabbiness of muscle I could not understand, nor could I comprehend Howard's consuming interest in him. The fact of his having tried unlawfully to "break and enter" Byng's warehouse, only to get his hand bored through by little Jim, was not enough. He was a prisoner now for his morning's work. I could not resist the impression we get of certain females, not women, who, barren themselves, hate children, and kiss dogs.

Well—perhaps I did wrap his personal belongings with more care and formality than I did the others.

"What name, please?" I asked, poising my pencil.

He looked at the manager and did not answer readily.

"Forman—Charles Forman," he finally blurted.

"That's a lie!" came from Howard Byng as clear as the sound of a church bell. "His name is Ramund—a damned Prussian!"