“I see him. He's swimming this way. I believe he's trying to escape,” one slender young woman cried. “Nonsense, Alice! He fell overboard and he's probably so frightened he doesn't know which way he is swimming.” This suggestion was from the beautiful blonde with bronze hair who stood beside her under a tan parasol held by a fresh-faced globetrotter. “Don't you believe it, Val. Look how he's cutting through the water. He's trying to reach us. Oh, I hope they won't get him. Somebody get a rope to throw out.” “By Jove, you're right, Miss Alice,” cried the Englishman. “It's a race, and it's going to be a near thing.” He disappeared and was presently back with a rope. “Come on! Come on!” screamed the passengers to the swimmer. “He's ripping strong with that overhead stroke. Ye gods, it's close!” exclaimed the Britisher. It was. The swimmer reached the side of the ship not four yards in front of the pursuing boat. He caught at the trailing rope and began to clamber up hand over hand, while the Englishman, a man standing near, and Alice Frome dragged him up. The mate of the Nancy Hanks, standing up in the boat, caught at his foot and pulled. The man's hold loosened on the rope. He slid down a foot, steadied himself. Suddenly the left leg shot out and caught the grinning mate in the mouth. He went over backward into the bottom of the boat. Before he could extricate himself from the tangle his fall had precipitated, the dripping figure of the swimmer stood safely on the deck of the _Bellingham._ In his wet foul slops the man was a sight to draw stares. The cabin passengers moved back to give him a wide circle, as men do with a wet retriever. “What does this mean, my man?” demanded the captain of the _Bellingham,_ pushing forward. He was a big red-faced figure with a heavy roll of fat over his collar. “I have been shanghaied, sir. From Verden. I'm the editor of the _World_ of that city.” “That's a lie,” proclaimed the mate of the _Nancy Hanks_, who by this time had reached the deck. “He's a nutty deckswabber we picked up at 'Frisco.” “Why, it's Mr. Farnum,” cried a fresh young voice from the circle. The rescued man turned. His eyes joined those of a slim golden girl and he was struck dumb. “You know this man, Miss Frome?” the captain asked. “I know him by sight.” She stepped to the front. “There can't be any doubt about it. He's Mr. Farnum of Verden, the editor of the _World._” “You're quite sure?” “Quite sure, Captain Barclay. My cousin knows him, too.” The captain turned to Mrs. Van Tyle. She nodded languidly. Barclay swung back to the mate of the _Nancy Hanks_. “I know your kind, my man, and I can tell you that I think the penitentiary would be the proper place for you and your captain, with my compliments to him.” “Better come and pay 'em yourself, sir,” sneered the mate. “Get off my deck, you dirty crimp,” roared the captain. “Slide now, or I'll have you thrown off.”