Like daughter like father.  Tom, too, had been irresistible.  All the world still called to him, and strange men came from time to time with its messages.  Never had there been such visitors to the Travers home.  Some came with the reminiscent roll of the sea in their gait.  Others were black-browed ruffians; still others were fever-burnt and sallow; and about all of them was something bizarre and outlandish.  Their talk was likewise bizarre and outlandish, of things to Frederick unguessed and undreamed, though he recognised the men for what they were—­soldiers of fortune, adventurers, free lances of the world.  But the big patent thing was the love and loyalty they bore their leader.  They named him variously?—­Black Tom, Blondine, Husky Travers, Malemute Tom, Swiftwater Tom—­but most of all he was Captain Tom.  Their projects and propositions were equally various, from the South Sea trader with the discovery of a new guano island and the Latin-American with a nascent revolution on his hands, on through Siberian gold chases and the prospecting of the placer benches of the upper Kuskokeem, to darker things that were mentioned only in whispers.  And Captain Tom regretted the temporary indisposition that prevented immediate departure with them, and continued to sit and drowse more and more in the big chair.  It was Polly, with a camaraderie distasteful to her uncle, who got these men aside and broke the news that Captain Tom would never go out on the shining ways again.  But not all of them came with projects.  Many made love-calls on their leader of old and unforgetable days, and Frederick sometimes was a witness to their meeting, and he marvelled anew at the mysterious charm in his brother that drew all men to him.

“By the turtles of Tasman!” cried one, “when I heard you was in California, Captain Tom, I just had to come and shake hands.  I reckon you ain’t forgot Tasman, eh?—­nor the scrap at Thursday Island.  Say—­old Tasman was killed by his niggers only last year up German New Guinea way.  Remember his cook-boy?—­Ngani-Ngani?  He was the ringleader.  Tasman swore by him, but Ngani-Ngani hatcheted him just the same.”

“Shake hands with Captain Carlsen, Fred,” was Tom’s introduction of his brother to another visitor.  “He pulled me out of a tight place on the West Coast once.  I’d have cashed in, Carlsen, if you hadn’t happened along.”

Captain Carlsen was a giant hulk of a man, with gimlet eyes of palest blue, a slash-scarred mouth that a blazing red beard could not quite hide, and a grip in his hand that made Frederick squirm.

A few minutes later, Tom had his brother aside.

“Say, Fred, do you think it will bother to advance me a thousand?”

“Of course,” Frederick answered splendidly.  “You know half of that I have is yours, Tom.”

And when Captain Carlsen departed, Frederick was morally certain that the thousand dollars departed with him.

Small wonder Tom had made a failure of life—­and come home to die.  Frederick sat at his own orderly desk taking stock of the difference between him and his brother.  Yes, and if it hadn’t been for him, there would have been no home for Tom to die in.