the matter you folks down there, anyway? Larboard watch, ahoy!"

"What joy he feels, as--ta-tum-dum-tee-dee-dum steals. La-a-r-board
watch, ahoy!"

No external bubbling contributed to this effervescence; the Sheridans'
table had never borne wine, and, more because of timidity about it
than conviction, it bore none now; though "mineral waters" were
copiously poured from bottles wrapped, for some reason, in napkins,
and proved wholly satisfactory to almost all of the guests. And
certainly no wine could have inspired more turbulent good spirits in
the host. Not even Bibbs was an alloy in this night's happiness, for,
as Mrs. Sheridan had said, he had "plans for Bibbs"--plans which were
going to straighten out some things that had gone wrong.

So he pounded the table and boomed his echoes of old songs, and then,
forgetting these, would renew his friendly railleries, or perhaps,
turning to Mary Vertrees, who sat near him, round the corner of the
table at his right, he would become autobiographical. Gentlemen
less naive than he had paid her that tribute, for she was a girl who
inspired the autobiographical impulse in every man who met her--it
needed but the sight of her.

The dinner seemed, somehow, to center about Mary Vertrees and the
jocund host as a play centers about its hero and heroine; they were
the rubicund king and the starry princess of this spectacle--they paid
court to each other, and everybody paid court to them. Down near the
sugar Pump Works, where Bibbs sat, there was audible speculation and
admiration. "Wonder who that lady is--makin' such a hit with the old
man." "Must be some heiress." "Heiress? Golly, I guess I could