had the _Narcissus_ out on her trial trip."

Matt Peasley's face brightened. "By Jupiter, that puts a different
face on the situation. If Reardon is alive they might get together for
mutual protection."

"Well," Cappy piped up, greatly relieved to discover Matt was facing
the tragedy so optimistically, "we might do worse than hope. Wire the
State Department, Matt; and in the meanwhile, cheer up, sonny, and
trust in the luck of Alden P. Ricks. I remember Captain Noah
Kendall--peace to his ashes--used to say to me: 'Mr. Ricks, if you
ever fell into Channel Creek at low tide you'd come up with a pearl
necklace wrapped round your ankle, and you'd be smelling like a spray
of lemon verbena.' Cheer up, Matt! What though the cause be lost, the
_Narcissus_ is not lost--yet. The Celtic troops remain, and from now
on my war cry is going to be--"

"Ireland uber Alles," Matt Peasley suggested.

"You're blamed whistlin'!" said Cappy Ricks.

So Mr. Skinner was called into consultation, and he and Matt Peasley
and Cappy drew up a heart-rending telegram to the Secretary of State,
who consulted with the Secretary of the Navy, who wired the Blue Star
Navigation Company that he was sorry but he didn't have as much as a
rowboat in the South Atlantic to save their steamer _Narcissus,_ and
would they please keep still about it, since a noise like that, unless
absolutely based on facts--and he understood their wail to be based on
suspicion--would tend to create additional friction in an
international complication already strained to the breaking point.