“Getting that way.  I tell you, the Leland Stanford Junior, isn’t a circumstance to the old ‘We’re Here’; but I’m coming into the business for keeps next fall.”

“Meanin’ aour packets?”

“Nothing else.  You just wait till I get my knife into you, Dan.  I’m going to make the old line lie down and cry when I take hold.”

“I’ll resk it,” said Dan, with a brotherly grin, as Harvey dismounted and asked whether he were coming in.

“That’s what I took the cable fer; but, say, is the doctor anywheres araound?  I’ll draown that crazy nigger some day, his one cussed joke an’ all.”

There was a low, triumphant chuckle, as the ex-cook of the ’We’re Here’ came out of the fog to take the horse’s bridle.  He allowed no one but himself to attend to any of Harvey’s wants.

“Thick as the Banks, ain’t it, doctor?” said Dan, propitiatingly.

But the coal-black Celt with the second-sight did not see fit to reply till he had tapped Dan on the shoulder, and for the twentieth time croaked the old, old prophecy in his ear.

“Master—­man.  Man—­master,” said he.  “You remember, Dan Troop, what I said?  On the ’We’re Here’?”

“Well, I won’t go so far as to deny that it do look like it as things stand at present,” said Dan.  “She was a noble packet, and one way an’ another I owe her a heap—­her and Dad.”

“Me too,” quoth Harvey Cheyne.