“People who live in--hic--glass houses--------” he began amiably, and then suddenly was overtaken by the thought of the moment before. “Take your hand off of me, confoun' you! D' you sup-supposh I can go to bed with my bes' frien' out there--hic--in the mid-middle of Atlan'ic Oc-o-shum, sinking in four miles of wa-wa'er and calling f-far help?” “Take him to bed, Jones,” said Mr Riggs firmly. “He's drunk and-and utterly useless at a time like this. Take him along.” “Who the dev--hic--il are you, sir?” demanded Mr Dawes, regarding Mr Riggs as if he had never seen him before. “You are both drunk,” said Jones succinctly. Mr Riggs began to whimper. “My bes' frien' is drawnin' by inches, and you come in here and tell me I'm drunk. It's most heartless thing I ever heard of. Isn't it, Danbury, ol' pal? Isn't it, damn you? Speak up!” “Drawnin' by inches--hic--in four miles of wa-water,” admitted Mr Dawes miserably. “My God, Jo-Jones, do you know how many--hic--inches there are in four miles?” Moved by the same impulse, the two old men struggled to their feet and embraced each other, swayed by an emotion so honest that all sense of the ludicrous was removed. Even Jones, though he grinned, allowed a note of gentleness to creep into his voice. “Come along, gentlemen, like good fellows. Let's go to bed. I'm sure the message to Mr Frederic is not as bad as you----” Mr Riggs, who was head and shoulders taller than Mr Dawes, made a gesture of despair with both arms, forgetting that they encircled his friend's neck, with the result that both of his bony elbows came in violent contact with Mr Dawes's ears, almost upsetting him. “Don't argue, Jones,” he interrupted dismally. “I know it's bad news. So does Mr Dawes. Don't you, Danbury?” “What d' you mean by--hic--knockin' my hat off?” demanded Mr Dawes furiously, shaking his fist at Mr Riggs from rather close quarters--so close, in fact, that Mr Riggs suddenly clapped his hands to his stomach and emitted a surprised groan. Jones inserted his figure between them. “Come, come, gentlemen; don't forget yourselves. What now, Mr Riggs?” “I'm lookin' for the gentleman's hat, sir,” said Mr Riggs impressively from a stooping posture. “His hat is on the rack in the hall,” said Jones sharply. “Then I shan't ex-expect an--hic--'pology,” said Mr Dawes magnanimously. Mr Riggs opened his mouth to retort, but as he did so his eyes fell upon the blue envelope. “Poor old Jim--poor old Jim Brood!” he groaned. “We mustn't lose a minute, Danbury. He needs us, old pal. We must start relief exp'ition' fore mornin'. Not a minute to be lost, Jones--not a----” The heavy front door closed with a bang at that instant, and the sound of footsteps, came from the hall--a quick, firm tread that had decision in it. Jones cast a furtive, nervous glance over his shoulder. “I'm sorry to have Mr Frederic see you like this,” he said, biting his lip. “He hates it so.”