"I've a good notion," said Brett, "to get out my pigeon gun, take the club launch, board the _Sappho_ about midnight, hold the gun to old Merriman's head, and make him promise to save the country; or else make him put to sea, and keep him there. If he were kidnapped and couldn't unload any more securities, the market would pull up by itself." The young men chuckled, for the idea amused them in spite of their troubles. By a common impulse they turned and looked at the club's thirty-foot naphtha launch at anchor off the club's dock; and by a common impulse they both pointed at her, and both exclaimed: "The _Monitor_!" Then, of course, they were very careful not to say anything more until they had crooked together the little fingers of their right hands, and in silence registered a wish each. Then each spoke the name of a famous poet, and the spell was ended. "What did you wish?" said Brett idly. Powers could be very courtly and old fashioned. "My dear boy," he said, "I fancy that I wished for you just what you wished for yourself." Before this they had never spoken about her to each other. "I didn't know that you knew," said Brett. "Thanks." They shook hands. Then Brett broke into his gay, happy laugh. "That," said he, "is why you have to pay for dinner for Mr. Callender and me." "Are we to dine?" asked Powers, "before attacking the _Merrimac_?" "Always," assented Brett, "and we are to dress first." The two young men rose and went into the house, Powers resting his hand affectionately on Brett's further shoulder. It was so that they had come off the field after striking out Harvard's last chance to score. At dinner Mr. Callender, as became his age and experience, told the young men many clean and amusing stories. Though the clouds were thick about his head he had recovered his poise and his twinkling eye of the good loser. Let his night be sleepless, let the morrow crush him, but let his young friends remember that he had gone to his execution calm, courteous, and amusing, his mustache trimmed, his face close-shaved, his nails clean and polished. They had often, he knew, laughed at him for his pretensions, and his affectation of mysterious knowledge, and all his little vanities and superiorities, but they would remember him for the very real nerve and courage that he was showing, and knew that he was showing. The old gentleman took pleasure in thinking that although he was about to fail in affairs, he was not going to fail in character. He even began to make vague plans for trying again, and when, after a long dinner, they pushed back their chairs and rose from the table, there was a youthful resiliency in the voice with which he challenged Powers to a game of piquet. "That seems to leave me out," said Brett. "Well," said Mr. Callender, with snapping eyes, "can you play well enough to be an interesting opponent, or can't you?"