“It’s gorn, Sam,” admitted Mr. Todhunter in a deathbed voice. “Yes, Sam, it’s gorn.” “Then come and have a drink,” said Sam cordially. “A drink?” “Or two.” He led the way to a hostelry that lurked coyly among shops and office buildings. Hash followed, marvelling. The first stunned horror had passed, and his mind, such as it was, was wrestling with the insoluble problem of why Sam, with the facts of the whippet disaster plainly before him, was so astoundingly amiable. The hour being early even for a perpetually thirsty community like that of Fleet Street, the saloon bar into which they made their way was free from the crowds which would have interfered with a quiet chat between friends. Two men who looked like printers were drinking beer in a corner, while at the counter a haughty barmaid was mixing a cocktail for a solitary reveller in a velours hat. This individual had just made a remark about the weather in a rich and attractive voice, and his intonation was so unmistakably American that Sam glanced at him as he passed; and, glancing, half stopped, arrested by something strangely familiar about the man’s face. It was not a face which anyone would be likely to forget if they had seen it often; and the fact that it brought no memories back to him inclined Sam to think that he could never have met this rather striking-looking person, but must have seen him somewhere on the street or in a hotel lobby. He was a handsome, open-faced man of middle-age. “I’ve seen that fellow before somewhere,” he said, as he sat with Hash at a table by the window. “’Ave you?” said Hash, and there was such a manifest lack of interest in his tone that Sam, surprised at his curtness, awoke to the realisation that he had not yet ordered refreshment. He repaired the omission and Hash’s drawn face relaxed. “Hash,” said Sam, “I owe you a lot.” “Me?” said Hash blankly. “Yes. You remember that photograph I showed you?” “The girl--Nimrod?” “Yes. Hash, I’ve found her, and purely owing to you. If you hadn’t taken that money it would never have happened.” Mr. Todhunter, though he was far from understanding, endeavoured to assume a simper of modest altruism. He listened attentively while Sam related the events of the night. “And I’ve taken the house next door,” concluded Sam, “and I move in to-day. So, if you want a shore job, the post of cook in the Shotter household is open. How about it?” A sort of spasm passed across Hash’s wooden features. “You want me to come and cook?” “I’ve got to get a cook somewhere. Can you leave the ship?” “Can I leave the ship? Mister, you watch and see how quick I can leave that ruddy ocean-going steam kettle! I’ve been wanting a shore job ever since I was cloth-head enough to go to sea.”