A LIVELY MORNING IN EXCHANGE BUILDINGS
Coke and his merry men became pirates during the early morning of
Thursday, September 2d; the curious reader can ascertain the year by
looking up "Brazil" in any modern Encyclopedia, and turning to the
sub-division "Recent History." On Monday, September 6th, David Verity
entered his office in Exchange Buildings, Liverpool, hung his hat and
overcoat on their allotted pegs, swore at the office boy because some
spots of rain had come in through an open window, and ran a feverish
glance through his letters to learn if any envelopes bearing the
planetary devices of the chief cable companies had managed to hide
themselves among the mass of correspondence.
The act was perfunctory. Well he knew that telephone or special
messenger would speedily have advised him if news of the _Andromeda_
had arrived since he left the office on Saturday afternoon. But it is
said that drowning men clutch at straws, and the metaphor might be
applied to Verity with peculiar aptness. He was sinking in a sea of
troubles, sinking because the old buoyancy was gone, sinking because
many hands were stretched forth to push him under, and never one to
draw him forth.
There was no cablegram, of course. Dickey Bulmer, who had become a
waking nightmare to the unhappy shipowner, had said there wouldn't
be--said it twelve hours ago, after wringing from Verity the astounding
admission that Iris was on board the _Andromeda_. It was not because
the vessel was overdue that David confessed. Bulmer, despite his
sixty-eight years, was an acute man of business. Moreover, he was
blessed with a retentive memory, and he treasured every word of the
bogus messages from Iris concocted by her uncle. They were lucid at
first, but under the stress of time they wore thin, grew disconnected,
showed signs of the strain imposed on their author's imagination.
Bulmer, a typical Lancashire man, blended in his disposition a genial
openhandedness with a shrewd caution. He could display a princely
generosity in dealing with Verity as the near relative and guardian of
his promised wife; to the man whom he suspected of creating the
obstacles that kept her away from him he applied a pitiless logic.
The storm had burst unexpectedly. Bulmer came to dinner, ate and drank
and smoked in quiet amity until David's laboring muse conveyed his
niece's latest "kind love an' good wishes," and then----
"Tell you wot," said Dickey, "there's another five thousand due
to-morrow on the surveyor's report."
"There is," said Verity, knowing that his guest and prospective partner
alluded to the new steamer in course of construction on the Clyde.
"Well, it won't be paid."
David lifted his glass of port to hide his face. Was this the first
rumbling of the tempest? Though expected hourly, he was not prepared
for it. His hand trembled. He dared not put the wine to his lips.
"Wot's up now?" he asked.
"You're playin' some underhand game on me, David, an' I won't stand
it," was the unhesitating reply. "You're lyin' about Iris. You've bin
lyin' ever since she disappeared from Bootle. Show me 'er letters an'
their envelopes, an' I'll find the money. But, of course, you can't.
They don't exist. Now, own up as man to man, an' I'll see if this
affair can be settled without the lawyers. You know wot it means once
_they_ take hold."
Then David set down the untasted wine and told the truth. Not
all--that was not to be dreamed of. In the depths of his heart he
feared Bulmer. The old man's repute for honesty was widespread. He
would fling his dearest friend into prison for such a swindle as that
arranged between Coke and the shipowner. But it was a positive relief
to divulge everything that concerned Iris. From his pocket-book David
produced her frayed letter, and Bulmer read it slowly, aloud, through
eyeglasses held at a long focus.
Now, given certain definite circumstances, an honest man and a rogue
will always view them differently. David had interpreted the girl's
guarded phrases in the light of his villainous compact with Coke.
Dickey, unaware of this disturbing element, was inwardly amazed to
learn that Verity had lied so outrageously with the sole object of
carrying through a commercial enterprise.
"'Tell him I shall marry him when the _Andromeda_ returns to England
from South America,'" he read. And again . . . "'The vessel is due
back at the end of September, I believe, so Mr. Bulmer will not have
long to wait.'"
If, in the first instance, David had not been swept off his feet by the
magnitude of the catastrophe, if he had not commenced the series of
prevarications before the letter reached him, he might have adopted the
only sane course and taken Bulmer fully into his confidence. It was
too late now. Explanation was useless. The only plea that occurred to
him was more deadly than silence, since it was her knowledge of the
contemplated crime that made Iris a stowaway. He had never guessed how
that knowledge was attained and the added mystery intensified his
torture.
Dickey rose from the table. His movements showed his age that night.
"I'll think it over, David," he said. "There's more in this than meets
the eye. I'll just go home an' think it over. Mebbe I'll call at your
place in the mornin'."
So here was Verity, awaiting Bulmer's visit as a criminal awaits a
hangman. There was no shred of hope in his mind that his one-time
crony would raise a finger to save him from bankruptcy. Some offenses
are unforgivable, and high in the list ranks the folly of separating a
wealthy old man from his promised bride.
Now that a reprieve was seemingly impossible, he faced his misfortunes
with a dour courage. It had been a difficult and thankless task during
the past month to stave off pressing creditors. With Iris in Bootle
and Bulmer her devoted slave, Verity would have weathered the gale with
jaunty self-confidence. But that element of strength was lacking; nay,
more, he felt in his heart that it could never be replaced. He was no
longer the acute, blustering, effusive Verity, who in one summer's
afternoon had secured a rich partner and forced an impecunious sailor
to throw away a worn-out ship. The insurance held good, of course, and
there simply _must_ be some sort of tidings of the _Andromeda_ to hand
before the end of September. Yet things had gone wrong, desperately
wrong, and he was quaking with the belief that there was worse in store.
He began to read his letters. They were mostly in the same vein, duns,
more or less active. His managing clerk entered.
"There's an offer of 5s. 6d. Cardiff to Bilbao and Bilbao to the Tyne
for the _Hellespont_. It is better than nothing. Shall we take it,
sir?"
The _Hellespont_ was the firm's other ship. She, too, was old and
running at a loss.
"Yes. Wot is it, coal or patent fuel?"
"Coal, with a return freight of ore."
"Wish it was dynamite, with fuses laid on."
The clerk grinned knowingly. Men grow callous when money tilts the
scale against human lives.
"There's no news of the _Andromeda_, and _her_ rate is all right," he
said.
David scowled at him.
"D--n the rate!" he cried. "I want to 'ear of the ship. Wot the----"
But his subordinate vanished. David read a few more letters. Some
were from the families of such of the _Andromeda's_ crew as lived in
South Shields, the Hartlepools, Whitby. They asked as a great favor
that a telegram might be sent when----
"Oh, curse my luck!" groaned the man, quivering under the conviction
that the _Andromeda_ was lost "by the act of God" as the charter-party
puts it. The belief unnerved him. Those words have an ominous ring in
the ears of evil-doers. He could show a bold front to his fellowmen,
but he squirmed under the dread conception of a supernatural vengeance.
So, like every other malefactor, David railed against his "luck."
Little did he guess the extraordinary turn that his "luck" was about to
take.
The office boy announced a visitor, evidently not the terrible Bulmer,
since he said:
"Gennelman to see yer, sir."
"Oo is it?" growled the shipowner.
"Gennelman from the noospaper, sir."
"Can't be bothered."
"'E sez hit's most himportant, sir."
"Wot is?"
"I dunno, sir."
"Well, show 'im in. I'll soon settle 'im."
A quiet-mannered young man appeared. He ignored David's sharp, "Now,
wot can I do for you?" and drew up a chair, on which he seated himself,
uninvited.
"May I ask if you have received any private news of the _Andromeda_?"
he began.
"No."
"In that case, you must prepare yourself for a statement that may give
you a shock," said the journalist.
David creaked round in his chair. His face, not so red as of yore,
paled distinctly.
"Is she lost?" said he in a strangely subdued tone.
"I--I fear she is. But there is much more than an ordinary shipwreck
at issue. Several telegrams of the gravest import have reached us this
morning. Perhaps, before I ask you any questions, you ought to read
them. They are in type already, and I have brought you proofs. Here
is the first."
David took from the interviewer's outstretched hand a long strip of
white paper. For an appreciable time his seething brain refused to
comprehend the curiously black letters that grouped themselves into
words on the limp sheet. And, indeed, he was not to be blamed if he
was dull of understanding, for this is what he read:
"REVOLUTION IN BRAZIL.
"SERIOUS POSITION.
"STARTLING ESCAPADE OF A BRITISH SHIP.
"RIO DE JANEIRO, September 5th. A situation of exceptional gravity has
evidently arisen on the island of Fernando do Noronha, whence, it is
said, ex-President De Sylva recently attempted to escape. A battleship
and two cruisers have been despatched thither under forced draught. No
public telegrams have been received from the island during the past
week, and the authorities absolutely refuse any information as to
earlier events, though the local press hints at some extraordinary
developments not unconnected with the appearance off the island of a
British steamship known as the _Andromeda_.
"_Later_--De Sylva landed last night at the small port of Maceio in the
province of Alagoas, a hundred miles south of Pernambuco. It is
currently reported that Fernando Noronha was captured by a gang of
British freebooters. De Sylva's return is unquestionable. To-day he
issued a proclamation, and his partisans have seized some portion of
the railway. Excitement here is at fever heat."
Verity glared at the journalist. He laughed, almost hysterically.
"The _Andromeda_!" he gasped. "Wot rot! Wot silly rot!"
"Better withhold your opinion until you have mastered the whole story,"
was the unemotional comment. "Here is a more detailed message. It is
printed exactly as cabled. We have not added a syllable except the
interpolation of such words as 'that' and 'the.' You will find it
somewhat convincing, I imagine."
The shipowner grasped another printed slip. This time he was able to
read more lucidly:
"PERNAMBUCO, September 4th. Public interest in the abortive attempt to
reinstate Dom Corria De Sylva as President was waning rapidly when it
was fanned into fresh activity by news that reached this port to-day.
It appears that on the 31st ulto. a daring effort was made to free De
Sylva, who, with certain other ministers expelled by the successful
revolution of two years ago, is a prisoner on the island of Fernando do
Noronha. Lloyd's agent on that island reports that the British steamer
_Andromeda_, owned by David Verity & Co. of Liverpool, put into South
Bay, on the southeast side of Fernando do Noronha, early on the morning
of August 31st, and it is alleged that her mission was to take De Sylva
and his companions on board. The garrison, forewarned by the central
government, and already on the _qui vive_ owing to the disappearance of
their important prisoners from their usual quarters, opened fire on the
_Andromeda_ as soon as she revealed her purpose by lowering a boat.
"The steamer, being unarmed, made no attempt to defend herself, and was
speedily disabled. She sank, within five minutes, off the Grand-père
rock, with all on board. With reckless bravado, her commander ran up
the vessel's code signals and house flag while she was actually going
down, thus establishing her identity beyond a shadow of doubt. A note
of pathos is added to the tragedy by the undoubted presence of a lady
on board--probably De Sylva's daughter, though it was believed here
that the ex-President's family were in Paris. Telegrams from the
island are strictly censored, and the foregoing statement is
unofficial, but your correspondent does not question its general
accuracy. Indeed, he has reason to credit a widespread rumor that the
island is still in a very disturbed condition. No one knows definitely
whether or not De Sylva has been recaptured. It is quite certain that
he has not landed in Brazil, but the reticence of the authorities as to
the state of affairs on Fernando Noronha leads to the assumption that
he and a few stanch adherents are still in hiding in one of the many
natural fastnesses with which the island abounds.
"The British community on the littoral is deeply stirred by the drastic
treatment received by the _Andromeda_. It is pointed out that another
ship, the _Andros-y-Mela_, believed to have been chartered by the
insurgents, is under arrest at Bahia, and the similarity between the
two names is regarded as singular, to say the least. Were it not that
Lloyd's agent, whose veracity cannot be questioned, has stated
explicitly that the _Andromeda_ put in to South Bay--a point
significantly far removed from the regular track of trading vessels--it
might be urged that a terrible mistake had been made. In any event,
the whole matter must be strictly inquired into, and one of His
Majesty's ships stationed in the South Atlantic should visit the island
at the earliest date possible. _Delayed in transmission_."
Something buzzed inside Verity's head and stilled all sense of
actuality. He was unnaturally calm. Though the weather was chilly for
early September, great beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.
His eyes were dull; they lacked their wonted shiftiness. He gazed at
the reporter unblinkingly, as though thought itself refused to act.
"Is that the lot?" he inquired mechanically.
"Nearly all, at present. These cablegrams reached us through London,
and the agency took the earliest measures to substantiate their
accuracy. The Brazilian Embassy pooh-poohs the whole story, but
Embassies invariably do that until the news is stale. By their own
showing, Ambassadors are singularly ill-informed men, especially in
matters affecting their own countries. Here, however, is a short
telegram from Paris which is of minor interest."
And Verity read again:
"PARIS, September 6th. The members of Dom Corria De Sylva's family,
seen early this morning at the Hotel Continental, deny that any lady
connected with the cause of Brazilian freedom took part in the
attempted rescue of the ex-President. They are much annoyed by the
unfounded report, and hold strongly to the opinion that the revolution
would now have been a _fait accompli_ had not a traitor revealed the
destination of the _Andros-y-Mela_ and thus led to that vessel's
detention at Bahia."
The lady! Iris Yorke! At last David's supercharged mind was beginning
to assimilate ideas. He was conscious of a fierce pain in the region
of his heart. The buzzing in his head continued, and the journalist's
voice came to him as through a dense screen.
"You will observe that the former President's relatives tacitly admit
that there was a plot on foot," the other was saying. "It is important
to note, too, that the long message from Pernambuco, marked 'delayed in
transmission' seems to imply a prior telegram which was suppressed. It
alludes to a revolt of which nothing is known here. Now, Mr. Verity, I
want to ask you----"
The door was flung open. In rushed Dickey Bulmer with a speed
strangely disproportionate to his years. In his hands he held a
crumpled newspaper.
"You infernal blackguard, have you seen this?" he roared, and his
attitude threatened instant assault on the dazed man looking up at him.
The reporter moved out of the way. Here, indeed, was "copy" of the
right sort. Bulmer held a position of much local importance. That he
should use such language to the owner of the _Andromeda_ promised
developments "of the utmost public interest."
David stood up. His chair fell over with a crash. He held on to the
table to steady himself. Even Bulmer, white with rage, could not fail
to see that he was stunned.
But Dickey was not minded to spare him on that account.
"Answer me, you scoundrel!" he shouted, thrusting the paper almost into
David's face. "You are glib enough when it suits your purpose. Were
_you_ in this? Is this the reason you didn't tell me Iris was on board
till I forced the truth out of you last night?"
The managing clerk came in. Behind him, a couple of juniors and the
office boy supplied reënforcements. They all had the settled
conviction that their employer was a rogue, but he paid them in no
niggardly fashion, and they would not suffer anyone to attack him.
This incursion from the external world had a restorative effect on
Verity. Being what is termed a self-made man, he had a fine sense of
his own importance, and his subordinates' lack of respect forthwith
overcame every other consideration.
"Get out!" he growled, waving a hand toward the door.
"But, sir--please, gentlemen----" stuttered the senior clerk.
"Get out, I tell you! D--n yer eyes, 'oo sent for any of you?"
Undoubtedly David was recovering. The discomfited clerks retired.
Even Dickey Bulmer was quieted a little. But he still shook the
newspaper under David's nose.
"Now!" he cried. "Let's have it. No more of your flamin' made-up
tales. Wot took you to shove the _Andromeda_ into a rat-trap of this
sort?"
David staggered away from the table. He seemed to be laboring for
breath.
"'Arf a mo'. No need to yowl at me like that," he protested.
He fumbled with the lock of a corner cupboard, opened it, and drew
forth a decanter and some glasses. A tumbler crashed to the floor, and
the slight accident was another factor in clearing his wits. He swore
volubly.
"Same thing 'appened that Sunday afternoon," he said, apparently
obvious of the other men's presence. "My poor lass upset one, she did.
Wish she'd ha' flung it at my 'ed. . . . Did it say 'went down with
all 'ands,' mister?" he demanded suddenly of the reporter.
"Yes, Mr. Verity."
"Is it true?"
"I trust not, but Lloyd's agent--well, I needn't tell you that Lloyd's
is reliable. Was your niece on board? Is she the lady mentioned in
the cablegram?"
Then Bulmer woke up to the fact that there was a stranger present.
"'Ello!" he cried angrily. "Wot are you doin' ere? 'Oo are you? Be
off, instantly."
"I am not going until Mr. Verity hears what I have to ask him, and
answers, or not, as he feels disposed," was the firm reply.
"Leave 'im alone, Dickey. It's all right. Wot does it matter now 'oo
knows all there is to know? Just gimme a minnit."
Verity poured out some brandy. Man is but a creature of habit, and the
hospitable Lancastrian does not drink alone when there is company.
"'Ave a tiddly?" he inquired blandly.
Both Bulmer and the journalist believed that David was losing his
faculties. Never did shipowner behave more queerly when faced by a
disaster of like magnitude, involving, as did the _Andromeda's_ loss,
not only political issues of prime importance, but also the death of a
near relative. They refused the proffered refreshment, not without
some show of indignation. Verity swallowed a large dose of neat
spirit. He thought it would revive him, so, of course, the effect was
instantaneous. The same quantity of prussic acid could not have killed
him more rapidly than the brandy rallied his scattered forces, and, not
being a physiologist, he gave the brandy all the credit.
"Ah!" he said, smacking his lips with some of the old-time relish,
"that puts new life into one. An' now, let's get on with the knittin'.
I was a bit rattled when this young party steers in an' whacks 'is
cock-an'-bull yarn into me 'and. 'Oo ever 'eard of a respectable
British ship mixin' 'erself up with a South American revolution? The
story is all moonshine on the face of it."
"I think otherwise, Mr. Verity, and Mr. Bulmer, I take it, agrees with
me," said the reporter.
"Wot," blazed David, into whose mind had darted a notion that dazzled
him by its daring, "d'ye mean to insiniwate that I lent my ship to this
'ere Dom Wot's-'is-name? D'ye sit there an' tell me that Jimmie Coke,
a skipper who's bin in my employ for sixteen year, would carry on that
sort of fool's business behind 'is owner's back? Go into my clerk's
office, young man, an' ax Andrews to show up a copy of the ship's
manifest. See w'en an 'ow she was insured. Jot down the names of the
freighters for this run, and skip round to their offices to verify.
An' if that don't fill the bill, well, just interview yourself, an' say
if you'd allow your niece, a bonnie lass like my Iris, to take a trip
that might end in 'er bein' blown to bits. It's crool, that's wot it
is, reel crool."
David was not simulating this contemptuous wrath. He actually felt it.
His harsh voice cracked when he spoke of Iris, and the excited words
gushed out in a torrent.
The reporter glanced at Bulmer, who was watching Verity with a tense
expectancy that was not to be easily accounted for, since his manner
and speech on entering the room had been so distinctly hostile.
"The lady referred to was Miss Iris Yorke, then?"
"'Oo else? I've on'y one niece. My trouble is that she went without
my permission, in a way of speakin'. 'Ere, you'd better 'ave the fax.
She was engaged to my friend, Mr. Bulmer, but, bein' a slip of a girl,
an' fond o' romancin', she just put herself aboard the Andromeeda
without sayin' 'with your leave' or 'by your leave.' She wrote me a
letter, w'ich sort of explains the affair. D'you want to see it?"
"If I may."
"No," said Bulmer.
"Yes," blustered Verity, fully alive now to the immense possibilities
underlying the appearance in print of Iris's references to her
forthcoming marriage.
"An' I say 'no,' an' mean it," said the older man. "Go slow, David, go
slow. I was not comin 'ere as your enemy when I found this paper bein'
cried in the streets. It med me mad for a while. But I believe wot
you've said, an' I'm not the man to want my business, or my future
wife's I 'ope, to be chewed over by every Dick, Tom, an' 'Arry in
Liverpool."
The reincarnation of David was a wonderful spectacle, the most
impressive incident the journalist had ever witnessed, did he but know
its genesis. The metamorphosis was physical as well as mental. Verity
burgeoned before his very eyes.
"Of course, that makes a h-- a tremenjous difference," said the
shipowner. "You 'ave my word for it, an' that is enough for most men.
Mr. Andrews 'll give you all the information you want. I'll cable now
to Rio an' Pernambewco, an' see if I can get any straight news from the
shippin' 'ouses there. I'll let you know if I 'ear anything, an' you
might do the same by me."
The reporter gave this promise readily. He scented a possible scandal,
and meant to keep in touch with Verity. Meanwhile, he was in need of
the facts which the managing clerk could supply, so he took himself off.
Bulmer went to the window and looked out. A drizzle of sleet was
falling from a gray sky. The atmosphere was heavy. It was a day
singularly appropriate to the evil tidings that had shocked him into a
fury against the man who had so willfully deceived him. David picked
up the proof slips and reread them. He compared them with the
paragraphs in the newspaper brought by Bulmer, and thrown by him on the
table after his first outburst of helpless wrath. They were identical
in wording, of course, but, somehow, their meaning was clearer in the
printed page: and David, despite his uncouth diction, was a clever man.
He wrinkled his forehead now in analysis of each line. Soon he hit on
something that puzzled him.
"Dickey," he said.
There was no answer. The old man peering through the window seemed to
have bent and whitened even since he came into the room.
"Look 'ere, Dickey," went on David, "this dashed fairy-tale won't hold
water. _You_ know Coke. Is 'e the kind o' man to go bumpin' round
like a stage 'ero, an' hoisting Union Jacks as the ship sinks? I ax
you, is 'e? It's nonsense, stuff an' nonsense. An', if the Andromeeda
was scrapped at Fernando Noronha, 'oo were the freebooters that
collared the island, an' 'ow did this 'ere De Sylva get to Maceio? Are
you listenin'?"
"Yes," said Bulmer, turning at last, and devouring Verity with his
deep-set eyes.
"Well, wot d'ye think of it?"
"Did you send the ship to Fernando Noronha?"
It is needless to place on record the formula of David's denial. It
was forcible, and served its purpose--that should suffice.
"Under ordinary conditions she would 'ave passed the island about the
31st?" continued Bulmer.
"Yes. Confound it, 'aven't I bin cablin' there every two days for a
fortnight or more? B'lieve me or not, Dickey, it cut me to the 'eart
to keep you in the dark about Iris. But I begun it, like an ijjit, an'
kep' on with it."
"To sweeten me on account of the new ships, I s'pose?"
"Yes, that's it. No more lyin' for me. I'm sick of it."
"For the same reason you wanted that letter published?"
"Well--yes. There! You see I'm talkin' straight."
"So am I. If--if Iris is alive, the partnership goes on. If--she's
dead, it doesn't."
"D'ye mean it?"
"I always mean wot I say."
The click of an indicator on the desk showed that Verity's private
telephone had been switched on from the general office. By sheer force
of routine, David picked up a receiver and placed it to his ear. The
sub-editor of the newspaper whose representative had not been gone five
minutes asked if he was speaking to Mr. Verity.
"Yes," said David, "wot's up now?" and he motioned to Bulmer to use a
second receiver.
"A cablegram from Pernambuco states specifically that the captain and
crew of the _Andromeda_ fought their way across the island of Fernando
Noronha, rescued Dom De Sylva, seized a steam launch, attacked and
captured the German steamship _Unser Fritz_, and landed the insurgent
leader at Maceio. The message goes on to say that the captain's name
is Coke, and that he is accompanied by his daughter. . . . Eh? What
did you say? . . . Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm 'ere, or I think I am," said David with a desperate calmness.
"Is that all?"
"All for the present."
"It doesn't say that Coke is a ravin', tearin', 'owlin' lunatic, does
it?"
"No. Is that your view?"
Bulmer's hand gripped David's wrist. Their eyes met.
"I was thinkin' that the chap who writes these penny novelette wires
might 'ave rounded up his yarn in good shape," said Verity aloud.
"But there is not the slightest doubt that something of the kind has
occurred," said the voice.
"It's a put-up job!" roared David. "Them bloomin' Portygees 'ave sunk
my ship, an' they're whackin' in their flam now so as to score first
blow. A year-old baby 'ud see that if 'is father was a lawyer."
The sub-editor laughed.
"Well, I'll ring you up again when the next message comes through," he
said.
But to Bulmer, David said savagely:
"Wot's bitten Coke? 'E must 'ave gone stark, starin' mad."
"Iris is alive!" murmured Bulmer.
"Nice mess she med of things w'en she slung 'er 'ook from Linden
'Ouse," grunted her uncle.
"I don't blame 'er. She meant no 'arm. She's on'y a bit of a lass,
w'en all is said an' done. Mebbe it's my fault, or yours, or the fault
of both of us. An' now, David, I'll tell you wot I 'ad in me mind in
comin' 'ere this morning. You're hard up. You don't know where to
turn for a penny. If you're agreeable, I'll put a trustworthy man in
this office an' give 'im full powers to pull your affairs straight.
Mind you, I'm doin' this for Iris, not for you. An' now that we know
wot's 'appening in South America, you an' I will go out there and look
into things. A mail steamer will take us there in sixteen days, an'
before we sail we can work the cables a bit so as to stop Iris from
startin' for 'ome before we arrive. The trip will do us good, an'
we'll be away from the gossip of Bootle. Are you game? Well, gimme
your 'and on it."
[Illustration: "Well, gimme your 'and on it"]