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 single wild hope. He hurried forward, plunged into the group, and turned to the bearded man.

"Oh, captain, won't you take me as cabin-boy?" he begged.

The captain surveyed him with a surprised, twinkling eye, and Paul's wits began to work at high tension. Instinct told him he must lie as he had never before lied, boldly and directly, must rapidly invent a story that would hold water, at the same time allowing this particular specimen of grown-up-ness to indulge to the full whatever cut and dried theories it might have as to the judging and handling of youth. But, above all, he must gain his end, for if he didn't something would die within him.

The men standing near seemed to take it as a joke. Then there were arguments and cross-examinations, questions advanced in the hope of tripping him up. He met them all, and found new arguments to support every answer. Away at the base of sub-consciousness was an image of Gritty Kestrell. He was employing tactics that Gritty had, by her example, taught him—Gritty who braved everybody and always got what she wanted.

His name? Minas was too well known among sailors. Once more Aunt Verona must be his stand-by. But Windell was also well known. Then he had an inspiration. "Laval," he lied. "Paul Laval."

"Parlez-vous ding-dong?

"Parfaitement, monsieur."

More questions, more and more, but Paul held his ground. A harbour official advanced, accompanied by a lurching figure.

"Just looking for you, Captain Caxton," he said. "I've found you a man. He's not an A. B., but he's been before the mast." He jerked his thumb towards the applicant. "It'll take a day or two to sober him up, but he's a husky brute. Been working at the fisheries."

The captain turned to question the seaman, who replied