"Superfluous and risky," retorted the commander. The Tyro went out on deck because he felt that he needed air. Malign fate would have it that, as he stood at the rail, brooding over this unsurmountable complication, Little Miss Grouch should appear, radiant, glorious of hue, and attended by the galaxy of swains. She gave him the lightest of passing nods as she went by. He raised his cap gloomily. "Your queer-named friend doesn't look happy," commented Lord Guenn at her elbow. "Go and tell him I wish to speak with him," ordered the delectable tyrant. The Englishman did so. "I'm not feeling well," apologized the Tyro. "Please ask her to excuse me." "You'd best ask her yourself," suggested the other. "I'm not much of a diplomat." "No. I'm going below," said the wretched Tyro. Well for him had he gone at once. But he lingered, and when he turned again he was frozen with horror to see her bearing down upon him with all sails set and colors flying. "Why weren't you at the dance last night?" she demanded. He looked at her with a piteous eye and shook his head. "Not feeling fit?" Another mute and miserable denial. "I don't believe it! You aren't a bit pea-green. Quite red, on the contrary." Silence from the victim. "Besides, you know, you're the seaworthy child," she mocked. "'Whose feelings could never be riled. While the porpoises porped And the passengers torped, _He_ sat on the lee rail and smiled.' Here's the lee rail. Haven't you a single smile about you anywhere?" He shook his head with infinite vigor. "Can't you even speak? Is that the way a Perfect Pig should act?" she persisted, impishly determined to force him out of his extraordinary silence. "Have you made a vow? Or what?" At that moment the Tyro caught sight of a gold-laced individual advancing upon them. With a stifled groan he turned his back full upon the Wondrous Vision, and at that moment would have been willing to reward handsomely any wave that would have reached up and snatched him into the bosom of the Atlantic. Behind him he could hear a stifled little gasp, then a stamp of a foot (he shrank with involuntary memory), then retreating steps. In a conquering career Miss Cecily Wayne had never before been snubbed by any male creature. If her wishes could have been transformed into fact, the yearned-for wave might have been spared any trouble; a swifter and more withering death would have been the Tyro's immediate portion. The officer passed, leveling a baleful eye, and the Tyro staggered to the passageway, and with lowered head plunged directly into the midst of Judge Enderby. "Here!" grunted the victim. "Get out of my waistcoat. What's the matter with the boy?" In his woe the Tyro explained everything. "Tch--tch--tch," clucked the leader of the New York bar, like a troubled hen. "That's bad." "Can he do it?" besought the Tyro. "Can he lock her up?" "I'm afraid there's no doubt of it." "Then what on earth shall I do?"