There, anchored off the end of the island, was a small and dingy-looking steamer, but the sight of it gladdened the hearts of the castaways. Pajama clad, they cavorted along the sands, whooping gleefully. Then, as they rounded a wooded point, they came on the stokers. Near at hand a ship's boat was beached, and two barelegged sailors were hunting turtle eggs; while a third stranger was engaged in earnest conversation with Feeny. Mr. MacCandlish swore. “My dear friend...,” admonished the bishop, greatly shocked. “It's an English tramp—the Nairn,” said Feeny pleasantly, as he turned toward them. “We sighted her along afore day and h'isted signals. This gentleman's her skipper. He was bound for Para, but he's taken a fresh charter and'll land us in New York inside of two weeks, barring the risk of the high seas and the acts of Providence—No, no, Mr. MacCandlish,” as the millionaire edged toward the Nairn's skipper, “a bargain's a bargain,—and the contract's signed. The ship's already under charter. But you'll find Mike Feeny always ready for to do business when he sees a chance to turn an honest dollar. I'm as willin' to speculate in transportation as in vittles. The Nairn ain't a Cunarder,—far from it,—but she'll land you in New York at two thousand a head; which gives us a nice profit.” Two hours later the Nairn was steaming north, and Feeny was watching the island as it merged with the blue obscurity of sky and sea; while from the after deck Mr. MacCandlish cast menacing glances in his direction. It was evident that his feelings toward that self-taught political economist were unbenevolent in the extreme. Somewhere about him was concealed much cash, and those many, many checks, which he intended to recover when they reached New York and he could invoke the aid of the law. Now Mr. Feeny cherished no illusions on this point; and one night, as the Nairn was steaming up the Jersey coast, he called his mates about him. “I misdoubt me philantrophic friend, Mr. Mac-Candlish. He's showin' a peevish spirit, I'm thinkin'. After all, he's no real political economist, but just a cheap skate who's played a sure thing so long he's got no sportin' blood left. If we put them bits of paper in at the bank for to take our money out, we'll get pinched instead,—he told me as much.” “What might you have it in your mind to suggest, Mister Feeny?” asked Mr. Corrigan. “Go to some tall buildin' on Broadway, and have a talk with one of them big lawyers.” Thus it came about that as Mr. Hargrew, whose specialty was corporation law, was glancing over his mail the next morning, a low-voiced clerk informed him that one Feeny earnestly desired speech with him. “He's Irish, and has a couple of men with him. It looks like the executive council of some labor union,” the clerk added. “Show them in,” said the lawyer. “Mornin',” said Mr. Feeny. “Good morning,” said the lawyer.