the hat as it descended slantingly over the bulwarks, and was down again
before the child's clutching hands had left his head.

A mother, none other than the prominently busted lady of Stefan's table,
blew forward with admiring cries of gratitude. Other matrons, vocative,
surrounded the circle, momentarily cutting off his view. He changed his
position to the bulwarks beside the group. There, a yard or two from the
gleaming head, he perched on the rail, feet laced into its supports, and
continued his concentrated observation.

"See yon chap," remarked the Scot from the smoking-room door to which his
talent-seeking round of the deck had again brought him. "He's fair
staring the eyes oot o'his head!"

"Exceedingly annoying to the young lady, I should imagine," returned his
table neighbor, the prim minister, who had joined the group.

"Hoots, she willna' mind the likes of him," scoffed the other, with his
booming laugh.

And indeed she did not. Oblivious equally of Byrd and of her more distant
watchers, the English girl passed from "Hunt the Slipper" to "A Cold and
Frosty Morning," and from that to story-telling, as absorbed as her small
companions, or as her watcher-in-chief.

Gradually the sun broke out, the water danced, huddled shapes began to
rise in their chairs, disclosing unexpected spots of color--a bright tie
or a patterned blouse--animation increased on all sides, and the ring
about the storyteller became three deep.