“Now, keep cool, Dick. Roche, you see, used to work for him,--I don't know but what they're related,--and it was because the Cap'n spoke to me about him that I recommended him to you when I did. And look here, Dick,”--Henry smiled as he laid a hand on his cousin's shoulder,--“I'm a good deal older than you are, and you can take my word for it. Don't get sour on things. Of course people will do you if they can; but it's human nature, and you can't change it by growling about it. You are doing well, and what you need now is to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Why should you want to hurry things along?” A flush came over Dick's face. “There's a reason all right enough. You see, Henry, there's a little girl not so very many miles from here--” “Oho!” thought Henry, “a little girl!” But his face was immobile, excepting a momentary curious expression that passed over it. “Now don't get to thinking it's all fixed up, because it isn't--not yet. But you see, I've been thinking that when I've got a little something to offer--” “There's another thing you can take my word for, my boy,” said Henry, with a dry smile; “don't get impetuous. Marrying may be all right, but it wants to be done careful.” Captain Stenzenberger's lumber yard was a few miles away, at the Chicago city limits. As the two sailors left the pier to walk up to the railway station, Dick was glad to change the subject for the first one that came into his head. “What do you suppose the _Foote_ has been doing here this week, Dick? I heard she put in Tuesday or Wednesday.” “Looking for Whiskey Jim, I suppose.” “Oh, are they on that track again?” “Haven't you seen the papers?” “No--not for more than a week.” “Well, it's quite a yarn. From what has been said, I rather guess it's the liquor dealers that are stirring it up this time. There is a story around that he has been counterfeiting the red-seal label on their bottles. I think they're all off the track, though. Anybody could tell 'em that there's no such man. Every time a case of smuggling comes up, the papers talk about 'Whiskey Jim,' no matter if it's up at the straits or down on the St. Lawrence.” “But what's the trouble now?” “Oh, they're saying that this fellow is a rich man that has a big smuggling system with agents all around the Lakes and dealers in the cities that are in his pay,--sort of a smuggling trust.” “Sounds like a fairy story.”