"There are several kinds of captain, Miss Mayhew," interposed the lawyer, smiling. "There is the captain of a battleship, we'll say, or of a cruiser, a destroyer, or the captain of a merchant ship, a North River sloop, a mud scow, a tug, or a canal boat; then we have captains in the army, who might lead cavalry charges and we have captains of militia--tin soldiers, some call them--and captains of industry, captains in the Salvation Army, captains of police, and captains of boy soldiers in the parochial and industrial schools." "And where, and how, do you classify me?" said Bill, his eyes opened wide, and his voice tense and restrained. "You?" said the lawyer. "Why, under the rules of the New York Yacht Club, you are not a 'captain,' but a 'mister.' You are Mister Flanders, not Captain Flanders." "I am?" stuttered Bill, in a suppressed fury of rage. "Yes, you're right. Under the rules of the club I am mister, while the owner is captain, but in the minds of my crew I am called captain of this ship, and away from soundings, under the law, I _am_ captain, with power, backed by the law, to put a recalcitrant guest in irons if he gets too fresh. Get off this bridge instantly, or I'll call my men; and if you resist, I'll have you in irons." "You will?" asked the smiling Pearson. "Well, all right; put me in irons, and I will deprive you of your license." "You will not!" stormed Bill. "We're off the three-mile limit, and on the high seas. Get off this bridge, or I will confine you for mutinous insubordination. Go, and go quickly, or I'll call the boatswain." "Gentlemen, Captain Flanders, Mr. Pearson," interposed the girl, anxiety and apprehension in her face. "Please do not quarrel. Why should you?" She looked appealingly at Bill, and his rage left him. Yet it took a moment or two before he could speak sanely, then he said: "Of course not. Mr. Pearson, I apologize for my share in this." "And I apologize for mine," responded the lawyer; "but I think it best, Miss Mayhew, that we go down now. Good afternoon, Mister Flanders." He smiled sweetly as he spoke, and turned his back; the girl smiled, too, but from a different motive, as Bill could readily perceive. There was trouble in her face--embarrassment, shame, and sympathy--and something else which Bill could not analyze. "Don't mind," she whispered, then followed her escort down the steps. Bill called his first mate, gave him the course, and went to his room abaft the pilot house. Here he lit his pipe, and lay down--all standing--in his berth; but not to sleep, only to think of the bright face peeping out of the mackintosh hood, and the troubled smile, and the whispered admonition. He thought, too, of the blackness of lawyers, and dozed off profanely reviling them to be wakened by the purring and caresses of the kitten. Bill petted the small thing, and forgot Mr. Pearson, but remembered the troubled smile and the whispered words.