But even the cheerful giant had seemed to feel this was no place for Miss Mar. “Aren’t you coming up-stairs?” As she still lingered fascinated, “I’ve been getting some oranges for you.” “How?” “Out of a crate that’s bust.” “Your crate?” “Everybody’s crate.” Hildegarde laughed. He was so exactly like a great school-boy proposing a raid on an orchard. “I’ve got oranges of my own,” she said. “Yes, but these are tangerines,” and he led the way. Very few people up there in comparison with the crowds in saloon and smoking-room. Mrs. Blumpitty asleep under sodden blankets; a group of men, tarpaulin over their knees, crouched in a sheltered corner smoking pipes and talking plans; a furry apparition sitting near the edge of the deck on a bollard—Ruth Sears in a long wolfskin coat, barely out of reach of the rain, a very solitary little figure bent over a book. Hildegarde went by unsteadily, and as the ship lurched Ford O’Gorman caught and saved her from falling. He kept hold of her till he had anchored her safely aft among the crates of fruit. “I’m very glad you didn’t, but how was it,” said Hildegarde, stripping off the loose jacket of a purloined tangerine, “how was it you didn’t go by the _Congress_, after all?” To her astonishment the red of the sunburnt cheek above her shoulder deepened and spread all over O’Gorman’s face, but he spoke quite naturally, and even offhand. “Oh, I was afraid I wasn’t going to get all my freight on board the _Congress_.” But that sudden red in so stalwart a visage lit a danger signal. It was ridiculous to suppose, and yet, was this going to be the trouble Louis Cheviot had dreaded for her? She had up till then suffered no check in the comfort of the giant’s cheerful companionship; but was she being too much with him? She recalled Ruth Sears’ gentle but speculative eyes, raised a moment from “The Little Minister,” to follow the pair as they passed. “I’m going to talk with Mrs. Blumpitty’s niece awhile,” Miss Mar announced suddenly. The giant stared. With a conscious effort and a letting down of spirits, Hildegarde turned from him, encountering Mr. Matt Gedge, the sharp-faced young man who had been in the crowd on the Seattle wharf and had satirized her “bright idear” of looking after her baggage. “Is O’Gorman,” he began, and then looking past her, “—_thought_ if the lady was here you wouldn’t be far. Say!” he arrested Miss Mar. “Has he told you there’s robbers aboard this ship?” “Robbers? No! What makes you think—” “There’s a woman down in the second saloon—all she’s got in the world’s been swiped.” “But they’ve started a collection for her,” said O’Gorman. “Yep, we’ve fixed up the collection and we’ve fixed up a Vigilance Committee. Come along, it was your idear, so let’s go and give her the money.” “Oh, you can do that,” said O’Gorman. “But hold on a minute. Make it sixty-six for luck.” He fished in his pocket. “I guess she’s spent more than a dollar’s worth of worry.”