“We’ve seen marvels ourselves in the last few days,” encouraged Captain Parkinson.

“Fire ahead, man,” advised Barnett impatiently.  “Just begin at the beginning and let it go at that.”

Slade sipped at his glass reflectively.

“Well,” said he at length, “the best way to begin is to show you how I happened to be mixed up in it at all.”

The officers unconsciously relaxed into attitudes of greater ease.  Overhead the lamps swayed gently to the swell.  The dull throb of the screw pulsated.  Stewards clad in white moved noiselessly, filling the glasses, deferentially striking lights for the smokers, clearing away the last dishes of the repast.

“I’m a reporter by choice, and a detective by instinct,” began Slade, with startling abruptness.  “Furthermore, I’m pretty well off.  I’m what they call a free lance, for I have no regular desk on any of the journals.  I generally turn my stuff in to the Star because they treat me well.  In return it is pretty well understood between us that I’m to use my judgment in regard to ‘stories’ and that they’ll stand back of me for expenses.  You see, I’ve been with them quite a while.”

He looked around the circle as though in appeal to the comprehension of his audience.  Some of the men nodded.  Others sipped from their glasses or drew at their cigars.

“I loaf around here and there in the world, having a good time travelling, visiting, fooling around.  Every once in a while something interests me.  The thing is a sort of instinct.  I run it down.  If it’s a good story, I send it in.  That’s all there is to it.”  He laughed slightly.  “You see, I’m a sort of magazine writer in method, but my stuff is newspaper stuff.  Also the game suits me.  That’s why I play it.  That’s why I’m here.  I have to tell you about myself this way so you will understand how I came to be mixed up in this Laughing Lass matter.”

“I remember,” commented Barnett, “that when you came aboard the South Dakota, you had a little trouble making Captain Arnold see it.”  He turned to the others with a laugh.  “He had all kinds of papers of ancient date, but nothing modern—­letter from the Star dated five years back, recommendations to everybody on earth, except Captain Arnold, certificate of bravery in Apache campaign, bank identifications, and all the rest.  ’Maybe you’re the Star’s correspondent, and maybe you’re not,’ said the Captain, ‘I don’t see anything here to prove it.’  Slade argued an hour; no go.  Remember how you caught him?” he inquired of Slade.

The reporter grinned assent.

“After the old man had turned him down for good, Slade fished down in his warbag and hauled out an old tattered document from an oilskin case.  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said he, ’you old shellback.  I’ve proved to you that I can write; and I’ve proved to you that I have fought, and now here I’ll prove to you that I can sail.  If writing, fighting, and sailing don’t fit me adequately to report any little disturbances your antiquated washboiler may blunder into, I’ll go to raising cabbages.’  With that he presented a master’s certificate!  Where did you get it, anyway?  I never found out.”