On the next day, when Mr. Francis Wolfe showed up with never a trace of anything but good health on his pleasing face, Jerningham invited him to spend the next evening in the apartments and hear Finsen tell how he had discovered the tribe of Antarctic giants, the shortest of whom was seven feet three inches; and how he had captured alive, thirty-three white bears. He asked Frank to invite five friends who might be interested, first, in dining with Jerningham and Commander Finsen, and then in hearing Finsen spin his yarn. Frank gladly undertook to find the audience. So they had a very nice little dinner, with just enough to drink and no killjoys in activity. And later, in Jerningham's little sitting-room at the hotel, they heard the great Dane, who was a prosaic viking with iron muscles and pale-blue eyes that made you uncomfortable for reasons unknown, tell them all about his remarkable voyage of discovery and his hunts--no end of things that he could tell them, but could not tell a mixed audience: perfectly amazing details, of which Frank and his friends talked for weeks. Then there was a little midnight supper, at which they all told stories that left no unpleasant aftereffects. One day after luncheon Jerningham, who had been in a particularly jovial mood, suddenly became very serious. He aimed at Frank one of those searching looks that seemed to go to the young man's soul. Then he said: “My boy, I'd like to say something to you.” “Say it.” “I shall probably hurt your feelings, so you must be prepared to keep your temper well in hand.” “You ought to know me better than that by now, Jerningham,” retorted Frank. He had grown not only to like, but even to admire, this strange miner. “Wolfe,” said Jerningham, slowly, “you are one of those unfortunate chaps who are cruelly handicapped by perennial youth. It is doubtless a pleasing thing to feel at fifty as you did at twenty. Nevertheless, it is bad business. It is all very nice to shun responsibility, but it makes you careless; and you can't expect to saddle consequences on your guardian after you are twenty-one. A boy of forty can't be trusted to take care of his own property.” “I can take care of mine,” laughed Frank, “without any trouble.” His property was about minus thirty thousand. “Your property now--yes. But suppose you had a million or two left you--or even more? Do you know what would happen to those millions, and do you know what would happen to you?” “I know--but I won't tell.” “Will you let me tell you?” asked Jerningham, so earnestly that Frank almost stopped smiling. “I'll hear you to the bitter end.” “The millions would go from your pocket into the pockets of--well, you know whose pockets! And your life would go into the Big Beyond by the W. W. route.” “I bite. What's W. W.?”