The _Fledgling_ gone and Welch and Crampton--that was all he could
think of as he sat gazing into the gray of the waters, which in closing
over the black tragedy immediately presented a surface as free from all
evidence of guilt as the placid surface of a mill-pond. He had made
himself in the _Fledgling_,--had rounded to the measure of a man aboard
of her,--had grown in the plenitude of man's strength and will and
courage and success. He felt the loss of his tug; it hit him hard; he
suffered in every mental corner and cranny. And when the two men who
had given their lives for him and for the yacht came to mind in all the
clearness of their personality and devotion to him, his head sank on
his hand and he groaned aloud.
A hand was laid gently on his shoulder, and looking up, he saw Mr.
Howland and a tall, beautiful girl by his side, both gazing at him from
the doorway with eyes filled with compassion.
"You were the captain of the tug?" asked Mr. Rowland.
"Yes, Captain Merrithew," and Dan ceased speaking and gazed at the deck.
"You owned the tug?"
"No," replied Dan.
"Captain Merrithew, I cannot say anything adequate. I appreciate what
you have done--I cannot say how much."
"Oh, father," broke in the girl, "tell him it was noble!"
[Illustration: "Oh, father," broke in the girl, "tell him it was
noble!"]
"It was noble," resumed Mr.
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