“Colonel, I wish I might,” and Brewster found that he did not hesitate.  “For your sake I very much wish the situation were as simple as it seems.  But there are some things a man can’t forget, and—­well—­Barbara has shown in a dozen ways that she has no faith in me.”

“Well, I’ve got faith in you, and a lot of it.  Take care of yourself, and when you get back you can count on me.  Good-bye.”

On Thursday morning the “Flitter” steamed off down the bay, and the flight of the prodigal grand-son was on.  No swifter, cleaner, handsomer boat ever sailed out of the harbor of New York, and it was a merry crowd that she carried out to sea.  Brewster’s guests numbered twenty-five, and they brought with them a liberal supply of maids, valets, and luggage.  It was not until many weeks later that he read the vivid descriptions of the weighing of the anchor which were printed in the New York papers, but by that time he was impervious to their ridicule.

On deck, watching the rugged silhouette of the city disappear into the mists, were Dan DeMille and Mrs. Dan, Peggy Gray, “Rip” Van Winkle, Reginald Vanderpool, Joe Bragdon, Dr. Lotless and his sister Isabel, Mr. and Mrs. Valentine—­the official chaperon—­and their daughter Mary, “Subway” Smith, Paul Pettingill, and some others hardly less distinguished.  As Monty looked over the eager crowd, he recognized with a peculiar glow that here were represented his best and truest friendships.  The loyalty of these companions had been tested, and he knew that they would stand by him through everything.

There was no little surprise when it was learned that Dan DeMille was ready to sail.  Many of the idle voyagers ventured the opinion that he would try to desert the boat in mid-ocean if he saw a chance to get back to his club on a west-bound steamer.  But DeMille, big, indolent, and indifferent, smiled carelessly, and hoped he wouldn’t bother anybody if he “stuck to the ship” until the end.

For a time the sea and the sky and the talk of the crowd were enough for the joy of living.  But after a few peaceful days there was a lull, and it was then that Monty gained the nickname of Aladdin, which clung to him.  From somewhere, from the hold or the rigging or from under the sea, he brought forth four darkies from the south who strummed guitars and sang ragtime melodies.  More than once during the voyage they were useful.

“Peggy,” said Brewster one day, when the sky was particularly clear and things were quiet on deck, “on the whole I prefer this to crossing the North River on a ferry.  I rather like it, don’t you?”

“It seems like a dream,” she cried, her eyes, bright, her hair blowing in the wind.

“And, Peggy, do you know what I tucked away in a chest down in my cabin?  A lot of books that you like—­some from the old garret.  I’ve saved them to read on rainy days.”

Peggy did not speak, but the blood began to creep into her face and she looked wistfully across the water.  Then she smiled.