did "occur," to the extent of organising athletic sports, and even (with
the captain's leave) of levying prize-money from the saloon-deck.
Some four or five of us, when their delegate approached, were lounging
beneath the great awning and listening, or pretending to listen, to the
discourse of our only millionaire, Mr. Olstein. As usual, he recited
his wrongs; and, as usual, the mere recital caused him to perspire.
The hairs on the back of his expostulatory hand bristled with
indignation, the diamonds on his fingers flashed with it. We had known
him but two days and were passing weary of him, but allowed him to talk.
He apostrophised the British Flag--his final Court of Appeal, he termed
it--while we stared out over the waters.

"We love it," he insisted. "We never see it without a lump in our
throats. But we ask ourselves, How long is this affection to count for
nothing? What are we to get in return?"

No one answered, perhaps because no one knew. My thoughts had flown
forward to a small riverside church in England, and a memorial window to
one whose body had been found after Isandlwhana with the same flag
wrapped around it beneath the tunic. This was _his_ reward.

"Hey? What's this?" Mr. Olstein took the subscription list, fitted his
gold-rimmed glasses and eyed the delegate over the paper.
"Athletic sports? Not much in your line, I should say."

"No, sir;" and while the delegate bent his eyes a bright spot showed on
either cheek. He was a weedy, hollow-chested man, about six feet in
height, with tell-tale pits at the back of the neck, and a ragged beard
evidently grown on the voyage. "I'm only a collector, with the
captain's permission."