Sidney Prale himself was not bad to look at. Thirty-eight he was, tall and broad of shoulder, with hair that was touched with gray at the temples, with a face that had been browned by the weather. Sidney Prale had the appearance of wearing clothes that had been molded to his form. He had a chin that expressed decision and determination, lips that could form in a thin, straight line if occasion required, eyes that could be kind or stern, according to the needs of the moment. A man of the world would have said that Sidney Prale was a gentleman of broad experience, a man who had presence of mind in the face of danger, a man who could think quickly and act quickly when such things were necessary. He was not alone at the rail--and yet he was alone in a sense, for he gave no one the slightest attention. He bent over and looked ahead eagerly, waving a hand now and then at the men on passing craft, like a schoolboy on an excursion trip. He listened to the bellowing sirens and foghorns, drank in the raucous cries of the ship's officers, strained his ears for the land sounds that rolled now and then across the waters. "It's great--great!" Sidney Prale said, half aloud. He bent over the rail again. A hand descended upon his shoulder, and a voice answered him. "You bet it's great, Prale!" Sidney Prale's smile weakened a bit as he turned around, but there was nothing of discourtesy in his manner. "You like it, Mr. Shepley?" he asked. "Do I like it? Does Rufus Shepley, forced to run here and there around the old world in the name of business, like it when he gets the chance to return to New York? Ask me!" "I have my answer," Prale said, laughing a bit. "And judge, then, how I like it--when I have not seen it for ten years." "Haven't seen New York for ten years?" Rufus Shepley gasped. "A whole decade," Prale admitted. "Been down in Honduras all that time?" "Yes, sir." "And you live to tell it? You are my idea of a real man!" Rufus Shepley said. Shepley took a cigar from his vest pocket, bit off the end, lighted it, and puffed a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air. Rufus Shepley was a man of fifty, and looked his age. If human being ever gave the appearance of being the regulation man of big business affairs, Rufus Shepley did. Sidney Prale had held some conversation with him on board ship, but they had not become very well acquainted, though they seemed to like each other. Each man seemed to be holding back, waiting, trying to discover in the other more qualities to like or dislike. "Ten years," Sidney Prale went on thoughtfully. "It seems a long time, but the years have passed swiftly." "I always had an idea," Rufus Shepley said, "that a genuine white man who went to one of those Central American countries turned bad after the first year and went to the devil generally. But you don't look it." "The idea is correct, at that, in some instances," Prale admitted. "Some of them do turn bad."