This had led him into
strange trends of thought, had encouraged, in a way, superstitious
fancies not altogether good for him. He knew that, and he had cursed
his folly, and yet on this morning after the storm, on the after-deck
of a throbbing tugboat he nodded his head sharply, outward acquiescence
to an inward conviction that somehow, somewhere, he was going to see
that face again and hear that voice. That was as certain as that he
lived. And when this took place he would not be a tugboat mate. That
was all.
Whatever he did thereafter he had this additional incentive, the future
meeting with a tall, lithe girl with dark-brown hair and gray
eyes--brave, deep eyes, and slightly swarthy cheeks, which were crimson
as she spoke to him.
CHAPTER II
DAN'S SEARCH FOR THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
Daniel Merrithew was one of the Merrithews of a town near Boston, a
prime old seafaring family. His father had a waning interest in three
whaling-vessels; and when two of them opened like crocuses at their
piers in New Bedford, being full of years, and the third foundered in
the Antarctic, the old man died, chiefly because he could see no clear
way of longer making a living.
Young Merrithew at the time was in a New England preparatory school,
playing excellent football and passing examinations by the skin of his
teeth.
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