“Heared tell ’t Hapless Harbor you was here-abouts.” “Much ’bliged,” Salim responded, courteously, bowing again. “Ver’ much ’bliged.” “Heared tell you sold a watch t’ Jim Tuft’s young one?” “Ver’ good watch,” said Salim. “Maybe,” was the response. Salim blew a puff of smoke with light grace toward the white rafters. He was quite serene; he anticipated, now, a compliment, and was fashioning, of his inadequate English, a dignified sentence of acknowledgment. “Anyhow,” drawled the man from Catch-as-Catch-Can, “she won’t go no more.” Salim looked up bewildered. “Overboard,” the big man explained. “W’at!” cried Salim. “Dropped her.” Salim trembled. “He have—drop thee—watch?” he demanded. “No, no!” he cried. “The boy have not drop thee watch!” “Twelve fathoms o’ water.” “Oh, mygod! Oh, dear me!” groaned Salim Awad. He began to pace the floor, wringing his hands. They watched him in amazement. “Oh, mygod! Oh, gracious! He have drop thee watch!” he continued. “Oh, thee poor broke heart of thee boy! Oh, my! He have work three year for thee watch. He have want thee watch so ver’ much. Oh, thee great grief of thee poor boy! I am mus’ go,” said he, with resolution. “I am mus’ go to thee Hapless at thee once. I am mus’ cure thee broke heart of thee poor boy. Oh, mygod! Oh, dear!” They scorned the intention, for the recklessness of it; they bade him listen to the wind, the rain on the roof, the growl and thud of the breakers; they called him a loon for his folly. “Oh, mygod!” he replied; “you have not understand. Thee broke heart of thee child! Eh? W’at you know? Oh, thee ver’ awful pain of thee broke heart. Eh? I know. I am have thee broke heart. I am have bear thee ver’ awful bad pain.” Aunt Amelia put a hand on Salim’s arm. “I am mus’ go,” said the Syrian, defiantly. “Ye’ll not!” the woman declared. “I am mus’ go to thee child.” “Ye’ll not lose your life, will ye?” The men of Catch-as-Catch-Can were incapable of a word; they were amazed beyond speech. ’Twas a new thing in their experience. They had put out in a gale to fetch the doctor, all as a matter of course; but this risk to ease mere woe—and that of a child! They were astounded. “Oh yes!” Salim answered. “For thee child.” “Ye fool!” Salim looked helplessly about. He was nonplussed. There was no encouragement anywhere to be descried. Moreover, he was bewildered that they should not understand! “For thee child—yes,” he repeated. They did but stare. “Thee broke heart,” he cried, “of thee li’l child!” No response was elicited. “Oh, dear me!” groaned the poet. “You _mus’_ see. It is a child!” A gust was the only answer. “Oh, mygod!” cried Salim Awad, poet, who had wandered astray in the tresses of night. “Oh, dear me! Oh, gee!”