The Englishman started to reach inside his coat but paused. "I am
Caradoc Smith," he replied gravely. Then, as an afterthought, he drew a
small silver-mounted flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, poured it
full of a liquor and offered it.

"To a pleasant acquaintance and a profitable journey, Mr. Madden," he
began ceremoniously.

A slight flush reddened the white skin at Madden's collar, but did not
show on his tanned face. It always embarrassed him to be forced to
reject friendly overtures.

"Sorry," he shook his head; "don't use it. But the wish goes."

The Englishman looked his surprise. "Then, if you don't object--" he
lifted pale brows.

"Certainly not; do as you like."

Smith tossed the capful down his throat. "You know, I've met several
Americans," he commented more warmly, "and half of them don't use
alcoholics. Strange thing--can't fancy why."

Madden went into no explanation. They were nearing the dock by this time
and their boatman began a hoarse calling for some one on board to toss a
line.

It was like shouting for a man in a city block. The basal pontoon rose
twelve feet above their heads; beyond this towered the thick side walls