“By the way, Jack! Send your steward to me when you go aboard to take charge of the ‘Adams’ in the morning. Tell him to see me personally. You sailors are such queer chaps and care so little about your larder that I am going to see to it myself that you don’t eat salt pork and hard tack on your voyage out, nor drink bilge water, either.” “You are awfully kind, Burton, but you need not trouble yourself. I am sure common sea grub is good enough for any sailor-man.” As they walked together toward the front door, when Captain Jack was leaving the building, in the narrow aisle between the long rows of desks they came face to face with the superintendent. He stepped aside and gazing after them, whispered: “Strange, very strange, for Jack Dunlap to sail so soon.” “Be sure to send that steward of yours to me tomorrow, Jack,” called the manager of “J. Dunlap” as the sturdy figure of the sailor disappeared in the fog that filled the crooked street in which Boston’s oldest shipping and banking house had its office. “And no ship ever sailed from Boston provided as yours shall be, poor old chap,” muttered the manager as he hurried back to his own room in the office. “There shall be champagne enough on board the ‘Adams,’ Jack, to drink our health, if you so will, on our wedding day, even though you be off Cape Good Hope.” * * * * * In the gloaming that dark November day the Dunlap brothers were seated close together, side by side, in silence gazing into the heap of coals that burned in the large grate before them. John Dunlap’s hand rested upon the arm of his brother, as if in the mere touching of him who had first seen the light in his company there was comfort. Burton thought, as he entered the private office that no finer picture was ever painted than that made by these two fine old American gentlemen as the flame from the crackling cannel coal shot up, revealing their kind, gentle, generous faces in the surrounding gloom of the room. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” said the manager, pausing on the threshold, hesitating to break in upon a scene that seemed almost sacred, “but I was told that you had sent for me while I was out of the office.” “Come in, Burton, you were correctly informed,” said James Dunlap, still neither changing his position nor removing his gaze from the fire. “My brother John and I have determined as a mark of love for our young kinsman, Captain John Dunlap, and as an evidence of our appreciation for faithful services rendered to us as mate and master, to make him a present of our ship ‘Adams,’ now loaded for Australia,” continued James Dunlap, speaking very low and very softly.