Helen stared in complete astonishment as she listened to Mrs. Leroy. This last addition to the major’s constantly increasing wardrobe—he had a way of borrowing the clothes of any friend with whom he stayed—had for the moment taken her breath away. It was only when Jack whispered an explanation to her that she, too, entered into the spirit of the scene. Before the yacht had passed through the draw of the railroad trestle on her way to the Ledge, the several guests had settled themselves in the many nooks and corners about the deck or on the more luxurious cushions of the saloon. Mrs. Leroy, now that her guests were happily placed, sat well forward out of immediate hearing, where she could talk over the probable outcome of the day with Sanford, and lay her plans if Carleton’s opposition threatened serious trouble. Helen and Jack were as far aft as they could get, watching the gulls dive for scraps thrown from the galley, while Smearly in the saloon below was the centre of a circle of ladies,—guests from the neighboring cottages,—who were laughing at his stories, and who had, thus early in the day, voted him the most entertaining man they had ever met, although a trifle cynical. As for the major, he was as restless as a newsboy, and everywhere at once: in the galley, giving minute directions to the chef regarding the slicing of the cucumbers and the proper mixing of the salad; up in the pilot-house interviewing the sailing-master on the weather, on the tides, on the points of the wind, on the various beacons, shoals, and currents; and finally down in the pantry, where Sam, in white apron, immaculate waistcoat and tie, was polishing some pipe-stemmed glasses, intended receptacles of cooling appetizers composed of some ingredients of the major’s own selection. “You lookin’ mighty fine, major, dis mornin’,” said Sam, his mouth stretched in a broad grin. “Dat ’s de tip-nist, top-nist git-up I done seen fur a coon’s age,” detecting a certain—to him—cake-walk cut to the coat and white duck trousers. “Did dat come up on de train las’ night, sah?” he asked, walking round the major, and wiping a glass as he looked him over admiringly. “Yes, Sam, and it’s the first time I wore ’em. Little tight in the sleeves, ain’t they?” the major inquired, holding out his arm. “Does seem ter pinch leetle mite round de elbows; but you do look good, fur a fac’.” These little confidences were not unusual. Indeed, of all the people about him the major understood Sam the best and enjoyed him the most,—an understanding, by the way, which was mutual. There never was any strain upon the Pocomokian’s many resources of high spirits, willingness to please, and general utility, when he was alone with Sam. He never had to make an effort to keep his position; that Sam accorded him. But then, Sam believed in the major.