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“Yes,” said Mr. Meyer, “he owns stock; and we insure against barratry; but this man, as part owner, could not fall back on it.”

“And an unlawful act,” went on Rowland, “perpetrated by a captain who is part owner, which might cause shipwreck, and, during the perpetration of which shipwreck really occurs, will be sufficient to void the policy.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Meyer, eagerly. “You were drunk on der lookout–you were raving drunk, as he said himself. You will swear to this, will you not, my friend? It is bad faith with der underwriters. It annuls der insurance. You admit this, Mr. Thompson, do you not?”

“That is law,” said the attorney, coldly.

“Was Mr. Austen a part owner, also?” asked Rowland, ignoring Mr. Meyer’s view of the case.

“One share, is it not, Mr. Austen?” asked Mr. Meyer, while he rubbed his hands and smiled. Mr. Austen made no sign of denial and Rowland continued:

“Then, for drugging a sailor into a stupor, and having him on lookout out of his turn while in that condition, and at the moment when the Titan struck the iceberg, Captain Bryce and Mr. Austen have, as part owners, committed an act which nullifies the insurance on that ship.”

“You infernal, lying scoundrel!” roared Captain Bryce. He strode toward Rowland with threatening face. Half-way, he was stopped by the impact of a huge brown fist which sent him reeling and staggering across the room toward Mr. Selfridge and the child, over whom he floundered to the floor–a disheveled heap,–while the big Captain Barry examined teeth-marks on his knuckles, and every one else sprang to their feet.

“I told you to look out,” said Captain Barry. “Treat my friend respectfully.” He glared steadily at the first officer, as though inviting him to duplicate the offense; but that gentleman backed away from him and assisted the dazed Captain Bryce to a chair, where he felt of his loosened teeth, spat blood upon Mr. Meyer’s floor, and gradually awakened to a realization of the fact that he had been knocked down–and by an American.

Little Myra, unhurt but badly frightened, began to cry and call for Rowland in her own way, to the wonder, and somewhat to the scandal of the gentle old man who was endeavoring to soothe her.

“Dammy,” she cried, as she struggled to go to him; “I want Dammy–Dammy–Da-a-may.”

“Oh, what a pad little girl,” said the jocular Mr. Meyer, looking down on her. “Where did you learn such language?”

“It is my nickname,” said Rowland, smiling in spite of himself. “She has coined the word,” he explained to the agitated Mr. Selfridge, who had not yet comprehended what had happened; “and I have not yet been able to persuade her to drop it–and I could not be harsh with her. Let me take her, sir.” He seated himself, with the child, who nestled up to him contentedly and soon was tranquil.

“Now, my friend,” said Mr. Meyer, “you must tell us about this drugging.” Then while Captain Bryce, under the memory of the blow he had received, nursed himself into an insane fury; and Mr. Austen, with his hand resting lightly on the captain’s shoulder ready to restrain him, listened to the story; and the attorney drew up a chair and took notes of the story; and Mr. Selfridge drew his chair close to Myra and paid no attention to the story at all, Rowland recited the events prior to and succeeding the shipwreck. Beginning with the finding of the whisky in his pocket, he told of his being called to the starboard bridge lookout in place of the rightful incumbent; of the sudden and strange interest Mr. Austen displayed as to his knowledge of navigation; of the pain in his stomach, the frightful shapes he had seen on the deck beneath and the sensations of his dream–leaving out only the part which bore on the woman he loved; he told of the sleep-walking child which awakened him, of the crash of ice and instant wreck, and the fixed condition of his eyes which prevented their focusing only at a certain distance, finishing his story–to explain his empty sleeve–with a graphic account of the fight with the bear.