or waited until evening and made up his notes, like a woman's
expense account, from a memory never noticeable for accuracy.

At dawn, the morning after we anchored, Charlie Jones roused me,
grinning.

"Friend of yours over the rail, Leslie," he said. "Wants to take
you ashore!"

I knew no one in Philadelphia except the chap who had taken me
yachting once, and I felt pretty certain that he would not
associate Leslie the football player with Leslie the sailor on
the Ella. I went reluctantly to the rail, and looked down. Below
me, just visible in the river mist of the early morning, was a
small boat from which two men were looking up. One was McWhirter!

"Hello, old top," he cried. "Or is it you behind that beard?"

"It's I, all right, Mac," I said, somewhat huskily. What with seeing
him again, his kindly face behind its glasses, the cheerful faith in
me which was his contribution to our friendship,--even the way he
shook his own hand in default of mine,--my throat tightened. Here,
after all, was home and a friend.

He looked up at the rail, and motioned to a rope that hung there.

"Get your stuff and come with us for breakfast," he said. "You look
as if you hadn't eaten since you left."

"I'm afraid I can't, Mac."