Mr. Olstein slapped his thigh. He had won something like ten pounds and
was a joyous millionaire. "That makes twice in four voyages," he
proclaimed.

I congratulated him and strode forward. A group of third-class
passengers had gathered by the starboard bow. They, too, had heard the
cry. To all appearance they might have been an ordinary Whitechapel
crowd, and even now they scarcely lifted their voices; but they
whispered and pointed.

"The Eddystone!"

I singled out my friend the baker. Before I could reach him he had
broken from the group. I hailed him. Without seeming to hear, he
disappeared down the fore-companion. But by and by he emerged again,
and with a baby in his arms. Evidently he had torn it from its cot.
His wife followed, weak and protesting.

The child, too, raised a wail of querulous protest; but he hugged it to
him, and running to the ship's side held it aloft.

"England, baby!"

It turned its head, seeking the pillow or its mother; and would not
look, but broke into fresh and louder wailing.

"England!"

He hugged it afresh. God knows of what feeling sprang the tears that
fell on its face and baptized it. But he hushed his voice, and, lifting