I was busy with a dress tie that I had washed and dried by pasting
it on a mirror, an old trick of mine when funds ran low. I was
trying to enter into Mac's festive humor, but I had not reacted yet
from the horrors of the past few months.

"Happiness!" I said scornfully. "Do you call this happiness?"

He put up the blacking, and, coming to me, stood eyeing me in the
mirror as I arranged my necktie.

"Don't be bitter," he said. "Happiness was my word. The Good Man
was good to you when he made you. That ought to be a source of
satisfaction. And as for the girl--"

"What girl?"

"If she could only see you now. Why in thunder didn't you take
those clothes on board? I wanted you to. Couldn't a captain wear
a dress suit on special occasions?"

"Mac," I said gravely, "if you will think a moment, you will
remember that the only special occasions on the Ella, after I
took charge, were funerals. Have you sat through seven days of
horrors without realizing that?"

Mac had once gone to Europe on a liner, and, having exhausted his
funds, returned on a cattle-boat.

"All the captains I ever knew," he said largely, "were a fussy lot
--dressed to kill, and navigating the boat from the head of a