“And you heard what was going on in here and came to protect me?” “You bane good to me,” explained the Swede. “Hay treat me like darty dog. Ay help you, lady. You yust vait—Ay help you. Ay ban Vast Coast lots times.” “But how can you help me, Sven,” she asked, “when all these men will be against us?” “Ay tank,” said Sven Anderssen, “it blow purty soon purty hard,” and then he turned and left the cabin. Though Jane Clayton doubted the cook’s ability to be of any material service to her, she was nevertheless deeply grateful to him for what he already had done. The feeling that among these enemies she had one friend brought the first ray of comfort that had come to lighten the burden of her miserable apprehensions throughout the long voyage of the Kincaid. She saw no more of Rokoff that day, nor of any other until Sven came with her evening meal. She tried to draw him into conversation relative to his plans to aid her, but all that she could get from him was his stereotyped prophecy as to the future state of the wind. He seemed suddenly to have relapsed into his wonted state of dense stupidity. However, when he was leaving her cabin a little later with the empty dishes he whispered very low, “Leave on your clothes an’ roll up your blankets. Ay come back after you purty soon.” He would have slipped from the room at once, but Jane laid her hand upon his sleeve. “My baby?” she asked. “I cannot go without him.” “You do wot Ay tal you,” said Anderssen, scowling. “Ay ban halpin’ you, so don’t you gat too fonny.” When he had gone Jane Clayton sank down upon her berth in utter bewilderment. What was she to do? Suspicions as to the intentions of the Swede swarmed her brain. Might she not be infinitely worse off if she gave herself into his power than she already was? No, she could be no worse off in company with the devil himself than with Nikolas Rokoff, for the devil at least bore the reputation of being a gentleman. She swore a dozen times that she would not leave the Kincaid without her baby, and yet she remained clothed long past her usual hour for retiring, and her blankets were neatly rolled and bound with stout cord, when about midnight there came a stealthy scratching upon the panels of her door. Swiftly she crossed the room and drew the bolt. Softly the door swung open to admit the muffled figure of the Swede. On one arm he carried a bundle, evidently his blankets. His other hand was raised in a gesture commanding silence, a grimy forefinger upon his lips. He came quite close to her. “Carry this,” he said. “Do not make some noise when you see it. It ban your kid.” Quick hands snatched the bundle from the cook, and hungry mother arms folded the sleeping infant to her breast, while hot tears of joy ran down her cheeks and her whole frame shook with the emotion of the moment. “Come!” said Anderssen. “We got no time to vaste.”