Meade questioned further. And Cadogan answered briefly, abstractedly, until--Meade growing more cunning and subtle--he was led into citing one experience after another from out of his own life in proof of this or that side of an argument. Cadogan had begun in short, snappy sentences, and in a tense, rather high-keyed voice; but once warmed up he swung along in rounded, almost classic periods; and his voice deepened and softened and, as he became yet more absorbed in his subject, grew rhythmical, musical almost, the while his words took on added color and glow. Once in full swing it was not difficult for Meade to get him to run on; and he ran on for an hour, and would have gone on indefinitely only, suddenly coming to himself and looking around, he discovered that half the room had gathered in a semicircle behind his chair. He flushed, cut his story short, and said no more. The crowd dispersed to their various seats. Presently Meade observed: "How did you ever find time in your young life for the half of it? And how you do suggest things--possibilities that try a man's spirit even to contemplate!" Cadogan did not respond; but from Lavis, the man on the transom, came: "And now you are suggesting the really great adventuring!" Meade turned in surprise. "What is that?" "Isn't it in the spirit we have the really great adventures?" Meade studied him curiously. "You mean that the most thrilling adventures are those we only dream about, but which never happen?" "I didn't mean exactly that, for they do happen. What I meant was that to try your body was nothing, but to try your soul--try it to the utmost--there would be something." "To risk it or try it?" asked Meade. "Oh, to try it only. To risk it, would not that be sinful?" Cadogan's instinctive liking for Lavis had led him from the beginning of the voyage to take a keen interest in whatever he might do or say; but until to-night he had found him a most unobtrusive and taciturn man. He had a feeling that this man, who before to-night had barely said more than good morning and good night to him, understood him much better than did Meade, the professional observer, who was forever questioning him. The answer to Meade's last question stirred him particularly, because he felt that it was meant, not for Meade, but for himself. Thinking of Meade, who was a famous author and journalist, Cadogan said hesitatingly and shyly: "I've often thought I'd like to be a writer." He meant that for Lavis, but it was Meade who took it to himself to ask him why. "If I were a writer, I'd have hope right now of taking part in one of the greatest adventures that could befall a man." "Where, Cadogan?" "Right aboard this ship. How? Here we are tearing through the iceberg country trying to make a record. If ever we piled up head on to one of those icebergs, where would we be?" "But it is a clear night. And the lookouts." "Never mind the clear night--or the lookouts if they are not looking out."