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 decease. I couldn't bear it, Carl: on this beautiful morning I should burst into tears. It would be the seventeenth time that that sad event has been alluded to either by you or our Henry: and I'm reluctantly beginning to think that you'll have to hire an assassin, and take lessons from him." He looked thoughtfully at the other, and an unholy joy began to dawn on his face. "I see you have thrown away your cigar, Carl. May I offer you a cigarette? No? … But why so brusque? Can it be—oh no! surely not—can it be that my little pet is feeling icky-boo? Face going green—slight perspiration—collar tight—only the yawning stage between him and his breakfast! Some people have all the fun of the fair. And I thought of asking you to join me below at lunch. There's some excellent fat pork…."

A few minutes later, Jerningham and the American found him leaning by himself against the rail, still laughing weakly.

"I ask no more of life," he remarked when he could speak. "Anything else that may come will be an anti-climax."

"What's happened?" asked Jerningham.

"It's happening," said Drummond joyfully. "It couldn't possibly be over yet. Peterson, our one and only Carl, has been overcome by the waves. And when he's feeling a little better I'll take him a bit of crackling…." Once again he gave way to unrestrained mirth, which finally subsided sufficiently to allow him to stagger below and feed.

At the top of the stairs leading to the luncheon saloon, he paused, and glanced into the secret place