“I stand by Rowland,” said the captain, grimly. “I don’t remember what was said, anyhow; got a blamed bad memory. Get away from that door.”

Grievous lamentation—weepings and wailings, and the most genuine gnashing of teeth—interspersed with the feebler cries of the frightened Myra and punctuated by terse commands in regard to the door, filled that private office, to the wonder of the clerks without, and ended, at last, with the crashing of the door from its hinges.

Captain Barry, Rowland, and Myra, followed by a parting, heart-borne malediction from the agitated underwriter, left the office and reached the street. The carriage that had brought them was still waiting.

“Settle inside,” called the captain to the driver. We’ll take another, Rowland.”

Around the first corner they found a cab, which they entered, Captain Barry giving the driver the directions—“Bark Peerless, East India Dock.”

“I think I understand the game, Rowland,” he said, as they started; “you don’t want to break this child.”

“That’s it,” answered Rowland, weakly, as he leaned back on the cushion, faint from the excitement of the last few moments. “And as for the right or wrong of the position I am in—why, we must go farther back for it than the question of lookouts. The cause of the wreck was full speed in a fog. All hands on lookout could not have seen that berg. The underwriters knew the speed and took the risk. Let them pay.”

“Right—and I’m with you on it. But you must get out of the country. I don’t know the law on the matter, but they may compel you to testify. You can’t ship ‘fore the mast again—that’s settled. But you can have a berth mate with me as long as I sail a ship—if you’ll take it; and you’re to make my cabin your home as long as you like; remember that. Still, I know you want to get across with the kid, and if you stay around until I sail it may be months before you get to New York, with the chance of losing her by getting foul of English law. But just leave it to me. There are powerful interests at stake in regard to this matter.”

What Captain Barry had in mind, Rowland was too weak to inquire. On their arrival at the bark be was assisted by his friend to a couch in the cabin, where be spent the rest of the day, unable to leave it. Meanwhile, Captain Barry had gone ashore again.

Returning toward evening, he said to the man on the couch: “I’ve got your pay, Rowland, and signed a receipt for it to that attorney. He paid it out of his own pocket. You could have worked that company for fifty thousand, or more; but I knew you wouldn’t touch their money, and so, only struck him for your wages. You’re entitled to a month’s pay. Here it is—American money-about seventeen.” He gave Rowland a roll of bills.

“Now here’s something else, Rowland,” he continued, producing an envelope. “In consideration of the fact that you lost all your clothes and later, your arm, through the carelessness of the company’s officers, Mr. Thompson offers you this.” Rowland opened the envelope. In it were two first cabin tickets from Liverpool to New York. Flushing hotly, he said, bitterly:

“It seems that I’m not to escape it, after all.”

“Take ‘em, old man, take ‘em; in fact, I took ‘em for you, and you and the kid are booked. And I made Thompson agree to settle your doctor’s bill and expenses with that Sheeny. ‘Tisn’t bribery. I’d heel you myself for the run over, but, hang it, you’ll take nothing from me. You’ve got to get the young un over. You’re the only one to do it. The old gentleman was an American, alone here—hadn’t even a lawyer, that I could find. The boat sails in the morning and the night train leaves in two hours. Think of that mother, Rowland. Why, man, I’d travel round the world to stand in your shoes when you hand Myra over. I’ve got a child of my own.” The captain’s eyes were winking hard and fast, and Rowland’s were shining.

“Yes, I’ll take the passage,” he said, with a smile. I accept the bribe.”

“That’s right. You’ll be strong and healthy when you land, and when that mother’s through thanking you, and you have to think of yourself, remember—I want a mate and will be here a month before sailing. Write to me, care o’ Lloyds, if you want the berth, and I’ll send you advance money to get back with.”

“Thank you, captain,” said Rowland, as he took the other’s hand and then glanced at his empty sleeve; “but my going to sea is ended. Even a mate needs two hands.”

“Well, suit yourself, Rowland; I’ll take you mate without any hands at all while you had your brains. It’s done me good to meet a man like you; and—say, old man, you won’t take it wrong from me, will you? It’s none o’ my business, but you’re too all-fired good a man to drink. You haven’t had a nip for two months. Are you going to begin?”

“Never again,” said Rowland, rising. “I’ve a future now, as well as a past.”

IT was near noon of the next day that Rowland, seated in a steamer-chair with Myra and looking out on a sail-spangled stretch of blue from the saloon-deck of a west-bound liner, remembered that he had made no provisions to have Mrs. Selfridge notified by cable of the safety of her child; and unless Mr. Meyer or his associates gave the story to the press it would not be known.

“Well,” he mused, “joy will not kill, and I shall witness it in its fullness if I take her by surprise. But the chances are that it will get into the papers before I reach her. It is too good for Mr. Meyer to keep.”

But the story was not given out immediately. Mr. Meyer called a conference of the underwriters concerned with him in the insurance of the Titan at which it was decided to remain silent concerning the card they hoped to play, and to spend a little time and money in hunting for other witnesses among the Titan’s crew, and in interviewing Captain Barry, to the end of improving his memory. A few stormy meetings with this huge obstructionist convinced them of the futility of further effort in his direction, and, after finding at the end of a week that every surviving member of the Titan’s port watch, as well as a few of the other, had been induced to sign for Cape voyages, or had otherwise disappeared, they decided to give the story told by Rowland to the press in the hope that publicity would avail to bring to light corroboratory evidence.

And this story, improved upon in the repeating by Mr. Meyer to reporters, and embellished still further by the reporters as they wrote it up, particularly in the part pertaining to the polar bear,—blazoned out in the great dailies of England and the Continent, and was cabled to New York, with the name of the steamer in which John Rowland had sailed (for his movements had been traced in the search for evidence), where it arrived, too late for publication, the morning of the day on which, with Myra on his shoulder, he stepped down the gangplank at a North River dock. As a consequence, he was surrounded on the dock by enthusiastic reporters, who spoke of the story and asked for details. He refused to talk, escaped them, and gaining the side streets, soon found himself in crowded Broadway, where he entered the office of the steamship company in whose employ he had been wrecked, and secured from the Titan’s passenger-list the address of Mrs. Selfridge—the only woman saved. Then he took a car up Broadway and alighted abreast of a large department store.

“We’re going to see mamma, soon, Myra,” he whispered in the pink ear; “and you must go dressed up. It don’t matter about me; but you’re a Fifth Avenue baby—a little aristocrat. These old clothes won’t do, now.” But she had forgotten the word “mamma,” and was more interested in the exciting noise and life of the street than in the clothing she wore. In the store, Rowland asked for, and was directed to the children’s department, where a young woman waited on him.