The steersman makes no reply, but, as his burden protests that he can walk, lets him down, and each young man takes an arm. In a few moments they are all, rescuers and rescued, in a hospitable kitchen drinking black coffee and crowding, with steaming clothes, about the range. The steersman drinks a second cup at a gulp and looks around for his men. He is not joining in the talk, for a heavy responsibility rests on him, but his eyes have the blaze of excitement in them and his square jaw is set hard. His white, drawn face shows that the work is telling. “Come on, boys,” he says quietly. “Time for the next trip.” Quiet falls on the room that was just now loud with talk. It continues while the crew men toss down their coffee, hastily retie their cork jackets, and file out into the night. The sailors have been exultant over their rescue; but now they are reminded of the comrades out yonder, and they fall into moody silence. But after all, it is a great thing to be alive when one has been clinging to a rope in a desperate sea with ugly thoughts to face. At any rate, these men seemed to find it so; for, after a time, when doubtless the white surf-boat was bobbing far out, one of the hundred white flecks on the black lake; when doubtless the poor fellows who had to wait, old Captain Craig with them, were still cursing and praying--and one of them had wept foolish tears when they parted--they fell back into talk. The drama had reached but the second act, and no one could say if it was to be a tragedy, but the warm kitchen and the plentiful coffee, and the thoughtless talk of the half-dozen students who had followed them in, were not to be resisted. Within half an hour the banter and jokes were flying fast. The elderly man, whose name was Higginson, was sitting close to the range, wrapped in a blanket. He found Apples at his elbow and spoke to him. “What crew is this?” “The Evanston crew.” The man nodded and was silent, but after a few moments he spoke again. “Who was that young man in the stem? Is he the Captain?” “No, the Captain is sick. He is Number One.” “What is his name?” “Halloran--Jack Halloran.” CHAPTER I--Mr. G. Hyde Bigelow In a mahogany office high up in a very high building sat Mr. G. Hyde Bigelow. An elaborate building it was, with expensive statuary about the entrance, with unusually expensive mosaic floors on all of the fifteen or more stories. A dozen elevators were at Mr. Bigelow's service, and a dozen uniformed elevator boys to bow deferentially whenever he granted his brief presence in the necessary actions of going up to his office or coming down from his office--boys that were fond of remarking casually when the great man had stepped out, “That's G. Hyde Bigelow.” A very expensive building, in fact, such as best comported with his dignity.