“Shut up!” and more of the same sort. She dropped the child with precipitation and walked to the ship’s side. Those two men just there by the life-boat, had they heard the dreadful words? She was hot at the thought. They seemed to be talking about the boy now, that spectacled man and his friend. The friend must have a cold or something wrong with him, for even on this glorious morning he kept his arctic cap pulled down over his neck, and his overcoat “storm collar” turned up above his ears. Instead of taking a constitutional before breakfast, there he was lounging behind the life-boat. The spectacled man got tired of so sluggish a companion. He left the muffled-up figure and began to tramp about by himself. Hildegarde passed him with “good-morning.” There was her steamer-chair in the corner. She ought to get it out and place it before the deck overflowed. The spectacled man lent a hand. “Well, we did get off,” he said. “Yes. When was it?” “About half past four, they say.” “Then this is Puget Sound?” “Yes. Those are the Cascade Mountains on that side. The Olympics on the other.” Just then the giant came swinging down the breezy deck. “Oh, do you know,” Hildegarde asked him, “if Mr. and Mrs. Blumpitty got on board all right?” “Well,” said the smiling Hercules, “they got on board.” He waited a moment. When the spectacled gentleman had taken himself off. “Got your seat?” he asked. “Won’t this be a good place?” “I mean for meals.” “Must I see about that?” “If you don’t want to eat scraps at the second table or the third.” “My ticket is first-class.” “That’s got nothing to do with it. Shall I go and see they keep you a place?” “Oh, will you?”