And to Ed’s eager inquiry as to what made them act as they had been acting, they answered evasively, and pretended that they had put it up as a joke, to see what he would do.  It was the best explanation they could invent at such short notice.  And each said to himself, “He never delivered that letter, and the joke is on us, if he only knew it or we were dull enough to come out and tell.”

Then, of course, they wanted to know all about the trip; and he said—­

“Come right up on the boiler deck and order the drinks it’s my treat.  I’m going to tell you all about it.  And to-night it’s my treat again —­and we’ll have oysters and a time!”

When the drinks were brought and cigars lighted, Ed said: 

“Well, when, I delivered the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt——­”

“Great Scott!”

“Gracious, how you scared me.  What’s the matter?”

“Oh—­er—­nothing.  Nothing—­it was a tack in the chair-seat,” said one.

“But you all said it.  However, no matter.  When I delivered the letter——­”

“Did you deliver it?” And they looked at each other as people might who thought that maybe they were dreaming.

Then they settled to listening; and as the story deepened and its marvels grew, the amazement of it made them dumb, and the interest of it took their breath.  They hardly uttered a whisper during two hours, but sat like petrifactions and drank in the immortal romance.  At last the tale was ended, and Ed said—­

“And it’s all owing to you, boys, and you’ll never find me ungrateful —­bless your hearts, the best friends a fellow ever had!  You’ll all have places; I want every one of you.  I know you—­I know you ‘by the back,’ as the gamblers say.  You’re jokers, and all that, but you’re sterling, with the hallmark on.  And Charley Fairchild, you shall be my first assistant and right hand, because of your first-class ability, and because you got me the letter, and for your father’s sake who wrote it for me, and to please Mr. Vanderbilt, who said it would!  And here’s to that great man—­drink hearty!”

Yes, when the Moment comes, the Man appears—­even if he is a thousand miles away, and has to be discovered by a practical joke.

CHAPTER XXIX.

When people do not respect us we are sharply offended; yet deep down in his private heart no man much respects himself. 
                                  —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.

Necessarily, the human interest is the first interest in the log-book of any country.  The annals of Tasmania, in whose shadow we were sailing, are lurid with that feature.  Tasmania was a convict-dump, in old times; this has been indicated in the account of the Conciliator, where reference is made to vain attempts of desperate convicts to win to permanent freedom, after escaping from Macquarrie Harbor and the “Gates of Hell.”  In the early days Tasmania had a great population of convicts, of both sexes and all ages, and a bitter hard life they had.  In one spot there was a settlement of juvenile convicts—­children—­who had been sent thither from their home and their friends on the other side of the globe to expiate their “crimes.”