of the gale in their brains.  So a fair, fair Trade to you and Shiela—­the fair warm Trades which kiss even as they bear us on—­and do not forget the tides of youth are flooding for you.  Take them and let them bear you on to happiness and wisdom.

I felt weak and dizzy, but I rose to my feet and started down the hill.  Shiela caught me and held me.  “Look!” She was pointing out to sea.

[Illustration:  There she was, the Dancing Bess, holding a taut bowline to the eastward.  And there were the two frigates, but they might as well have been chasing a star]

There she was, the Dancing Bess, holding a taut bowline to the eastward.  And there were the two frigates, but they might as well have been chasing a star.

“Look!” She handed me the glasses.  I looked and saw her ensign dipping.  I took off my hat and waved it, hoping that with his long glass he could see.  He must have seen, for the ensign dipped three times again, and from the long-tom in her waist shot out a puff of smoke.  We waited for the sound of it.  It came.

Farewell that meant.  I watched her till her great foresail was no larger than a toy ship’s.  Then I sat down and cried, and had no care that the negro slave and servant, Ubbo, saw me.

Mr. Cunningham came and sat beside me.  “Guy,” he said, “don’t worry about him.  He’ll come through all right.  He has great qualities in him.”

“He’s good, too—­too good to me.”

“Great and good,” exclaimed Shiela.  “He could love and was lovable.  And what’s all your greatness to that?”

It may be that she who knew him least understood him best.  She was crying too.

When her great square foresails were no more than a gull’s wing on the hazy horizon we waved her a last salute.  Then we made our way to the creek and sailed up Back River, past Savannah, and on to Villard Landing.  And hand in hand Shiela and I walked up between the row of moss-hung cypress trees to the manor-house and—­Home.

Don Quixote Kieran, Pump-Man

He came into the outer office of the great oil company, and through the half-open door of his private office the new superintendent observed the stimulating style of his entrance.  Looking for work, no doubt of that, but not looking like a man who was apologizing for it; and that in itself was a joy to the new official.

No hesitating—­“Please, sir, who is the gentleman,”—­no timid waiting on any languid understrapper’s pleasure for this one.  A short pause; his dark eyes swept the room from wall to wall; his black head bent respectfully and not without appreciation toward the pretty stenographer; and then, before the leisurely office boy thought it time to rise and ask what he wanted, he was at the rail-gate.  And when the gate did not at once swing open, he stepped lightly over it; and singling out from all the furtively smiling males the head clerk, he charged straight across the floor toward that important person’s desk.