“Queen,” said the skipper simply, “you said a mouthful!” Twenty minutes later Sam was climbing up the side of the liner as it lay towering over the tug like a mountain. His clothes hung about him clammily. He squelched as he walked. A kindly-looking old gentleman who was smoking a cigar by the rail regarded him with open eyes. “My dear sir, you’re very wet,” he said. Sam passed him with a cold face and hurried through the door leading to the companion way. “Mummie, why is that man wet?” cried the clear voice of a little child. Sam whizzed by, leaping down the stairs. “Good Lord, sir! You’re very wet!” said a steward in the doorway of the dining saloon. “You _are_ wet,” said a stewardess in the passage. Sam raced for his state-room. He bolted in and sank on the lounge. In the lower berth Eustace Hignett was lying with closed eyes. He opened them languidly, then stared. “Hullo!” he said. “I say! You’re wet!” § 4 Sam removed his clinging garments and hurried into a new suit. He was in no mood for conversation and Eustace Hignett’s frank curiosity jarred upon him. Happily, at this point, a sudden shivering of the floor and a creaking of woodwork proclaimed the fact that the vessel was under way again, and his cousin, turning pea-green, rolled over on his side with a hollow moan. Sam finished buttoning his waistcoat and went out. He was passing the inquiry bureau on the C-deck, striding along with bent head and scowling brow, when a sudden exclamation caused him to look up, and the scowl was wiped from his brow as with a sponge. For there stood the girl he had met on the dock. With her was a superfluous young man who looked like a parrot. “Oh, _how_ are you?” asked the girl breathlessly. “Splendid, thanks,” said Sam. “Didn’t you get very wet?” “I did get a little damp.” “I thought you would,” said the young man who looked like a parrot. “Directly I saw you go over the side I said to myself: ‘That fellow’s going to get wet!’” There was a pause. “Oh!” said the girl. “May I—Mr.——?” “Marlowe.” “Mr. Marlowe. Mr. Bream Mortimer.” Sam smirked at the young man. The young man smirked at Sam. “Nearly got left behind,” said Bream Mortimer. “Yes, nearly.” “No joke getting left behind.” “No.” “Have to take the next boat. Lose a lot of time,” said Mr. Mortimer, driving home his point. The girl had listened to these intellectual exchanges with impatience. She now spoke again. “Oh, Bream!” “Hello?” “Do be a dear and run down to the saloon and see if it’s all right about our places for lunch.” “It is all right. The table steward said so.” “Yes, but go and make certain.” “All right.” He hopped away and the girl turned to Sam with shining eyes. “Oh, Mr. Marlowe, you oughtn’t to have done it! Really, you oughtn’t! You might have been drowned! But I never saw anything so wonderful. It was like the stories of knights who used to jump into lions’ dens after gloves!”