"The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And the deuce knows what we may do-- But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down on the Old Trail--the trail that is always new." "Anyway," he commented, "deuce only knows what we'll do after Argentine, and I don't care. Do you?" Her clasping hand answered, as he went on: "Oh, say, bles-sed! I forgot to look in the directory before we left New York to see if there wasn't a Society for the Spread of Madness among the Respectable. It might have sent us out as missionaries.... There's a flying-fish; and to-morrow I won't have to watch clerks punch a time-clock; and you can hear a sailor shifting the ventilators; and there's a little star perched on the fore-mast; singing; but the big thing is that you're here beside me, and we're _going_. How bully it is to be living, if you don't have to give up living in order to make a living." THE END