"Perhaps," Peter continued. "I give it up. It's one of the things that can never be explained. The Bostonian was polite, but he still thinks me a cheat. He let me down as easy as he could, being a gentleman, but I can never forget that he saw me come in with them and order the dinner, and that then I tried to sneak out of paying for it. Oh, it's dreadful! Dreadful!"

Peter settled in his seat until only the top of his red skull cap showed above the back of his easy chair. For some minutes he did not speak, then he said slowly, and as if talking to himself:

"Mean, mean people to serve me so!"

Some days later I again knocked at Peter's door. I had determined, with or without his consent, to go myself to Foscari's, redeem the miniature and explain the circ.u.mstances, and let them know exactly who Peter was.

My hand had hardly touched the panel when his cheery voice rang out:

"Whoever you are, come in!"

He had sprung from his chair now and had advanced to greet me.

"Oh, is it you! So glad--come over here before you get your coat off.

Look!"

"The Cosway! You paid the bill and redeemed it?"

"Didn't cost me a cent."

"They sent it to you, then, and apologized?"

"Nothing of the kind. Give me your hat and coat and plump yourself down on that chair by the fire. I've got the most extraordinary story to tell you you've ever heard in your whole life."

He was himself again--the same bubbling spirit, the same warmth in his manner, foxes out frolicking, lighthouse flashing, everything let loose.

"Last night I was sitting here at my desk writing, about nine o'clock, as near as I can remember"--his voice dropped now to a tragic whisper, as if an encounter with a burglar was to follow--"WHEN-_I_-HEARD-A-HEAVY-TREAD-ON-THE-STAIRS, getting louder and louder as it reached my door. Then came a knock strong enough to crack the panels. I got up at once and turned the k.n.o.b. In the corridor stood the Large Man. He was inside before I could stop him--I couldn't have stopped him. You have no idea, my dear friend, how big and strong that man is. What he expected to see I don't know, but it evidently was not what he found.

"'I had a h.e.l.l of a time finding you,' he began, looking about him in astonishment. 'Been up and down everywhere inquiring. Only got your number from that red-headed plate-shover half an hour ago.'"

Peter's voice had now regained its customary volume:

"I had backed to the fireplace by this time and had picked up the poker, as if to punch the fire, but I really intended to strike him if he advanced too close or tried to help himself to any of my things. He never took the slightest notice of my movements, or waited for any answer to his outburst--just kept right on talking.

"'You were so dead easy there warn't no fun in it. I dropped to that the first time you opened your head, but Sam had picked you out and it had to go at that. My wife saw his mistake as soon as she got her eyes on you, but Sam, like a fool, wouldn't listen. He was to do the picking, and so I couldn't say a word. When we all got outside, clear, we took a turn around Washington Square so I could have my laugh out on Sam, and when we got back you were gone and so was the fellow from Boston who chipped in, and so was that red-headed Irish waiter. That knocked us silly--wife gave us rats, and I felt like a yellow dog. Been a-feeling so ever since. The Dago couldn't or wouldn't understand. Said we'd better come in when the boss was there. We had to take the eleven o'clock to Boston that night and had only time to catch the train. When I got back at six-ten to-night I drove to Foscari's, found the Irishman and the boss, heard how he'd pulled your leg--paid the bill--$9.60, wasn't it?--that's what he said it was, anyhow--and here's your picture!'

"I had dropped the poker now and was motioning him to a chair.

"'No, thank you, I won't sit down; ain't got time. Got to take the eleven forty-five for Chicago. Well, we had a lot of fun out of it, anyhow, only I didn't intend it should end up the way it did. Just wanted to get even with Sam and win my bet.'

"'Bet? I asked. I was still in the dark as to what he meant.

"'Yes--bet Sam I'd bunco any New York man he'd pick out, and you happened to be the one. You see, wife and I and Sam were here for a few days and we struck Thanksgiving and wanted some fun, and we HAD it.

You're white, old man all the way through--white as cotton and our kind--never flunked once, or turned a hair. Sally took an awful shine to you. Shake! Next time I'm in New York I'll look you up and if you ever come out our way we'll open a keg o' nails, and make it red-hot for you, and don't you forget it. Here's my card, so you can remember.'"

Peter picked up the card from the table, threw up his chin, and broke into one of his infectious laughs. I reached over and took it from his hand. It bore this inscription:

J. C. MURPHY General Travelling Agent C. S. & Q. R. R.

OGDEN, UTAH

MISS JENNINGS'S COMPANION

The big Liner slowed down and dropped anchor inside the Breakwater.

Sweeping toward her, pushing the white foam in long lines from her bow, her flag of black smoke trailing behind, came the company's tender--out from Cherbourg with pa.s.sengers.

Under the big Liner's upper deck, along its top rail, was strung a row of heads watching the tender's approach--old heads--young heads--middle-aged heads--Miss Jennings's among these last--their eyes taking in the grim Breakwater with its beacon light, the frowning casemates specked with sentinels, and the line of the distant city blurred with masts and spent steam. They saw, too, from their height (they could look down the tender's smokestack) the st.u.r.dy figure of her Captain, his white cap in relief against the green sea, and below him the flat ma.s.s of people, their upturned faces so many pats of color on a dark canvas.

With the hauling taut and making fast of the fore and aft hawsers, a group of sailors broke away from the flat ma.s.s and began tugging at the gangplank, lifting it into position, the boatswain's orders ringing clear. Another group stripped off the tarpaulins from the piles of luggage, and a third--the gangplank in place--swarmed about the heaps of trunks, shouldering the separate pieces as ants shoulder grains of sand, then scurrying toward the tender's rail, where other ants reached down and relieved them of their loads.

The ma.s.s of people below now took on the shape of a funnel, its spout resting on the edge of the gangplank, from out which poured a steady stream of people up and over the Liner's side.

Two decks below where Miss Jennings and her fellow-travellers were leaning over the steamer's rail craning their necks, other sights came into view. Here not only the funnel-shaped ma.s.s could be seen, but the faces of the individuals composing it, as well as their nationality and cla.s.s; whether first, second or steerage. There, too, was the line of stewards reaching out with open hands, relieving the pa.s.sengers of their small belongings; here too stood the First Officer in white gloves and gold lace bowing to those he knew and smiling at others; and here too was a smooth-shaven, closely-knit young man in dark clothes and derby hat, who had taken up his position just behind the First Officer, and whose steady steel gray eyes followed the movements of each and every one of the pa.s.sengers from the moment their feet touched the gangplank until they had disappeared in charge of the stewards.

These pa.s.sengers made a motley group: first came a stout American with two pretty daughters; then a young Frenchman and his valet; then a Sister of Charity draped in black, her close-fitting, white, starched cap and broad white collar framing her face, one hand clutching the rope rail as she stepped feebly toward the steamer, the other grasping a bandbox, her only luggage; next wriggled some college boys in twos and threes, and then the rest of the hurrying ma.s.s, followed close by a herd of emigrants crowding and stumbling like sheep, the men with pillow-case bundles over their backs, the women with babies m.u.f.fled in shawls.

When the last pa.s.senger was aboard, the closely-knit young man with the steel gray eyes leaned forward and said in a low voice to the First Officer:

"He's not in this bunch."

"Sure?"

"Yes--dead sure."

"Where will you look for him now, Hobson?" continued the officer.

"Paris, maybe. I told the Chief we wouldn't get anywhere on this lead.

Well, so long"--and the closely-knit young man swung himself down the gangplank and disappeared into the cabin of the tender.

The scenes on the gangplank were now repeated on the steamer. The old travellers, whose hand luggage had been properly numbered, gave themselves no concern--the stewards would look after their belongings.

The new travellers--the Sister of Charity among them--wandered about asking questions that for the moment no one had time to answer. She, poor soul, had spent her life in restful places, and the in-rush of pa.s.sengers and their proper bestowal seemed to have completely dazed her.

"Can I help you?" asked the First Officer--everybody is ready to help a Sister, no matter what his rank or how pressing his duties.

"Yes, please--I want to know where my room is. It is Number 49, so my ticket says."

Here the Purser came up--he, too, would help a Sister.

"Sister Teresa, is it not--from the Convent of the Sacred Heart? Yes, we knew you would get on at Cherbourg. You are on the lower deck in the same stateroom with Miss Jennings. Steward--take the Sister to--"

"With whom?" she cried, with a look of blank amazement "But I thought I was alone! They told me so at the office. Oh, I cannot share my room with anybody. Please let--"

"Yes, but we had to double up. We would willingly give you a room alone, but there isn't an empty berth on board." He was telling the truth and showed it in his voice.