it were, accidental, Peter was essentially a man of action; and life's
sedentary movements irked him sorely.

"Who is the individual monkeying around at the bow?" he asked presently.

"It is Mr. Bissett, the ship's engineer, who is putting a coat of white
lead over the yacht's name."

"Aha! Aren't we old-sleuthy, though! And what's that piece of stage-play
for?"

"All these little hookers," said Varney, "are listed in a book, which
many persons own. Why have the local press tell everybody to-morrow that
the yacht _Cypriani_ belonging to Mr. Carstairs, husband once-removed to
our own Mrs. Elbert Carstairs, is anchored off these shores?"

"It seems," said Peter, "like a lot of smoke for such a little fire."

He got up and sprawled on the rail, his yellow Panama pulled far over
his eyes, his gaze fixed on the shining water.

"First and last, I've seen rivers in my time," he said presently, "big
and little, pretty and not, clean and soiled, decent and indecent. Yes,
boy," said he, "you can take it from me that I've seen the world's
darnedest in the matter of rivers, and I have liked them all from Ganges
to the Sacramento and back again. There was a time when I didn't have
that sort of personal feeling for 'em, but a little chap up in Canada,
he helped me to the light. He was the keenest on rivers I ever knew."

He broke off to yawn greatly, started to resume, thought better of it,