After that the girl came many times to the bridge, and always without escort of father or admirer. There were plenty of these, and Bill took the measure of all, as he glanced aft occasionally, and saw them dancing attendance upon her. There was a little slim fellow, named Arsdale, whom the steward described as an artist; a big, portly gentleman, named Muggins, who was a famed short-story writer--and Bill, as he looked at him, wondered why he himself could not write short stories and be famous--and a magazine editor on his vacation, a fine fellow, as men go, one who had especially commended himself to Bill by his tact, his appreciation of the big fellow's inborn qualities, and by his deprecation of his own. "I'm only an editor," he had said, "a critic of other men's work. I'd give my job if I could do something original, if I could write something, or do something, or paint something, or kill something. I have tried the last, but never succeeded; the authors I tried to kill got new life from other editors, so--what's the use?" This man's name was Elkins, and Bill liked him, until he saw Miss Mayhew smiling on him; then he classed him in with the rest. A man in love is not reasonable, and this was Big Bill's condition, as he was forced to remind himself when the gossipy steward informed him that, to the best of his understanding, Miss Mayhew was an adopted daughter, and in no way likely to inherit the vast wealth of the father--stocks and bonds, steamship lines, railroads, and such things. As a rich man's daughter, she was out of his reach, and, as an honorable man with a full supply of self-respect, he could not make an advance. But as a ward, a poor dependent, she was on his level, and the big soul of the big boy rejoiced. He loved her, and he would have her. So he told himself, joyously and courageously. Another man among the guests worried Bill, until he learned that he was the family doctor; he worried him by his assiduous attentions to the girl, even against the presence of his own wife in the party, and it was the owner himself who set the matter right. Doctor Calkins, it transpired, had been a member of the family, practically, since the girl was born. So, with his rivals all placed and classified, Big Boy Bill grew tranquil. But he still kept his eye on Pearson. And so the big yacht charged across the Atlantic, with Bill on the bridge or in his room with the kitten, the male contingent of the guests attending upon Miss Mayhew, and Miss Mayhew herself seemingly indifferent to their attentions, manifesting a strong desire for Bill's society on the bridge. She came, as often as she could, to talk with him, to scold him for imagined masculine peccadilloes, and to smile upon him. And Bill went under.