"Oh yes--Bill." The stranger paused and glanced at the form shrouded with canvas. "Well, Bill was Crosby's professional crook who did all his dirty work for him. You see, Crosby has done this sort of thing before--got up companies, failed, and usually ended by collecting full insurance after his establishment had burned up. This is his first marine venture. All his others were in business ashore. But we got inside information on his past record--and Bill's--that opened our eyes." "Then Bill was workin' for him--and against me--all the time?" "Using you for the goat, to lay the burning of the fleet on to you," said Mr. Clyde. "Bill got his just reward tonight." "And how about the insurance?" Captain Bert's voice was husky. "Not a cent will be paid. We saw the _Mehitable_ set on fire from her foc'sle when the Mary sheered off from her. We saw the escape of the men who did it. Our next step will be to get the goods on Crosby himself." [Illustration] "But the Widder Barnes--all her money is tied up in the Crosby Company," protested Captain Bert. "Don't worry about her," exploded Captain Ed. "It's me who's stung--not her. I bought all her shares in the Crosby Company after I left you this afternoon." "Godfrey!" "Serves me right, too, for judgin' the strength of that Crosby Company by the show their fleet made in the harbor. That ill wind of yourn sorter shifted, Bert, and left me becalmed. "But you, Bert," he added with determination, "you pop the question to the widder as soon as your feet hit dry land. Say, she'd 'a' given me that Crosby stock free gratis if I hadn't had a two-thousand-dollar check all made out to her in my hand. With her luck and your judgment, you'll form a team that will make you a packet admiral yet!" [Illustration] HENRY HORNBONE'S ONE-MAN WAR BY HELEN TOPPING MILLER _Author of "White Collar Stuff," "Pitch," etc._ PREJUDICES OF THE OLD-TIMERS DIE HARD. BUT A RAILROAD IS A POWERFUL THING FOR ONE OLD-TIMER TO FIGHT--AND WHEN OTHERS ENTER THE FEUD, THINGS BEGIN TO LOOK DIFFERENT In his sooty kitchen with the coal oil lamp sending a plume of smoke aloft and four kittens rolling under the three-legged stove, Henry Hornbone sat and went through the motions of a man eating his supper. He fished sausages out of a skillet, he cut them carefully into small bits, he smeared oleomargarine on thick slabs of baker's bread and he stirred sugar into his tea, one spoonful after another, but he did not eat. Henry was listening. His ears were listening, straining till he could almost see them standing out batlike from his knobby old head. His whole gaunt ridiculous body was listening, and his soul, such cramped and curious sort of soul as he owned, stood stock still in a cold tremor of mingled triumph and dread. Henry was listening for the wreck of the Oriole Limited.