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“I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed.

“I expect you do,” said Mr. Hammond.”I expect all these ladies want their tea.” And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring her up a cup. If he’d been there he’d have got it for her—somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board…. But now he was back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn’t disappeared; back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him.

“Here, Jean!” he said.”Like a lift up?” And easily, gently, he swung the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart.

“Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her.

“Oh, don’t worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond!” said Mrs. Scott.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. Jean’s a little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?”

“Yes, Mr. Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of his felt hat.

But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream.”Lo-ok, Mr. Hammond! She’s moving! Look, she’s coming in!”

By Jove! So she was. At last! she was slowly, slowly turning round. A bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart, Mr. Hammond couldn’t say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm.

“Jean’ll be all right,” said Mr. Scott.”I’ll hold her.” He was just in time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old Captain Johnson.

“Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, “you’ve taken pity on us at last.”

“It’s no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond,” wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner.”You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain’t yer?”

“Yes, yes!” said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master’s side.”Mrs. Hammond’s there. Hul-lo! We shan’t be long now!”

With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks—they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange “Hul-lo!” across the water, and then turned round and burst out laughing and said something—nothing—to old Captain Johnson.

“Seen her?” asked the harbour-master.

“No, not yet. Steady—wait a bit!” And suddenly, between two great clumsy idiots—”Get out of the way there!” he signed with his umbrella—he saw a hand raised—a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and—thank God, thank God!—there she was. There was Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes—standing by the rail and smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief.