"You won't do, sir," repeated the doctor to this aspirant. "Your blood is impregnated with alcohol, and Lord knows what. I would as soon inoculate her with vitriol." Mr. Muggins left the room. Mr. Pearson drew back, very pale in the face, evidently impressed with the thought that he was expected to offer himself to the sacrifice; but no one seemed to notice, and Mr. Elkins, the editor, faced the doctor. "I have mentioned to the captain," he said, "my wish to do something, be something, make something, before I die. I am a healthy man, Doctor Calkins, and I offer myself." The doctor looked him over approvingly. "It will take a full quart of your blood. You may not survive." "Take it," said Elkins firmly. "I will run the chance." Bill looked up, dazed and shaking. He had dimly recognized the drift of the talk, but now grasped the fact in its entirety that a man--another than himself--was ready to die for this girl that he loved. It was preposterous, unthinkable, and impossible. He laid the girl's head back on the pillow, and motioned Mr. Elkins out of the room. Mr. Elkins went quickly and quietly. There was that in Bill's face that induced him to obey the gesture. Pearson and Arsdale followed as quickly, stumbling somewhat in their haste, and even the stern old father drew away from Bill. "Does she need my blood?" asked Bill grimly. "I've plenty to spare. Take it all." "You are needed to command this boat," said the doctor. "I am not. My two mates can navigate. Get ready quickly, or she may die while you're talking." Bill threw off his coat and rolled up his sleeve, showing an arm as big as an ordinary leg. The doctor rushed for his instruments, and while he was gone the owner asked brokenly of Bill how it happened. "I do not know, sir," he answered, resolved not to describe the scene to her disadvantage. "I did not see her fall. I think nobody saw her fall." "God grant that she lives!" said the old man, all the austerity gone from his face. "I can do nothing, willing as I am, for I am old and feeble; but you are young and strong. You see, there is much at stake beside by own grief and suffering. She is my daughter, and the real owner of this yacht, and every bond, and share, and mortgage that I control. Should she die, I would die myself--from poverty and want, while her relatives would obtain control. Still," and the old man stiffened up, "why should I speak of this? She is my daughter. I love her, for she is all I have left. Save her life, and while I live I am at your command." "The hell you say!" said Bill. "I thought she was your ward." "My daughter by my second wife," said the old gentleman, with dignity. "My first wife, with all her relations, is still alive and fighting me." "I think," said Bill reflectively, "that I understand. Well," and here the doctor appeared with his appurtenances, "you don't love this little girl any more than I do, and I'll do my part."