When Ed reached Memphis he rushed down to the wharf in a fever to tell his great news and thank the boys over and over again for thinking to give him the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt.  It happened to be one of those idle times.  Blazing hot noonday, and no sign of life on the wharf.  But as Ed threaded his way among the freight piles, he saw a white linen figure stretched in slumber upon a pile of grain-sacks under an awning, and said to himself, “That’s one of them,” and hastened his step; next, he said, “It’s Charley—­it’s Fairchild good”; and the next moment laid an affectionate hand on the sleeper’s shoulder.  The eyes opened lazily, took one glance, the face blanched, the form whirled itself from the sack-pile, and in an instant Ed was alone and Fairchild was flying for the wharf-boat like the wind!

Ed was dazed, stupefied.  Was Fairchild crazy?  What could be the meaning of this?  He started slow and dreamily down toward the wharf-boat; turned the corner of a freight-pile and came suddenly upon two of the boys.  They were lightly laughing over some pleasant matter; they heard his step, and glanced up just as he discovered them; the laugh died abruptly; and before Ed could speak they were off, and sailing over barrels and bales like hunted deer.  Again Ed was paralyzed.  Had the boys all gone mad?  What could be the explanation of this extraordinary conduct?  And so, dreaming along, he reached the wharf-boat, and stepped aboard nothing but silence there, and vacancy.  He crossed the deck, turned the corner to go down the outer guard, heard a fervent—­

“O lord!” and saw a white linen form plunge overboard.

The youth came up coughing and strangling, and cried out—­

“Go ’way from here!  You let me alone.  I didn’t do it, I swear I didn’t!”

“Didn’t do what?”

“Give you the——­”

“Never mind what you didn’t do—­come out of that!  What makes you all act so?  What have I done?”

“You?  Why you haven’t done anything.  But——­”

“Well, then, what have you got against me?  What do you all treat me so for?”

“I—­er—­but haven’t you got anything against us?”

“Of course not.  What put such a thing into your head?”

“Honor bright—­you haven’t?

“Honor bright.”

“Swear it!”

“I don’t know what in the world you mean, but I swear it, anyway.”

“And you’ll shake hands with me?”

“Goodness knows I’ll be glad to!  Why, I’m just starving to shake hands with somebody!”

The swimmer muttered, “Hang him, he smelt a rat and never delivered the letter!—­but it’s all right, I’m not going to fetch up the subject.”  And he crawled out and came dripping and draining to shake hands.  First one and then another of the conspirators showed up cautiously—­armed to the teeth—­took in the amicable situation, then ventured warily forward and joined the love-feast.