Adventure, August 1917 — page 83: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Wh, a eae ee oi ating a — ee of Yi = ae by Arthur D. Howden Smith wYy7s Sy “ hs Aa ws ON MPI S Ne “ne 2 Author of “Fair Salvage,” “Primitive Christianity,” etc i CCONAUGHY entered _ the offices of the Red Funnel Line with the soul- warming satis- faction of the man who has sixty thousand pounds banked to his credit. The clerks in the counting-room whispered behind their ledgers as he passed, for he was a great man now. No other skipper stood so high with the managing director and the board, and it was even rumored that he was to be permitted to purchase an interest in the line. To McConaughy the stir he created meant nothing. He nodded casually to a few underlings he knew and_ brushed through the swinging baize-covered door that led to the private offices. Here he found himself in a lobby. The door in front of him was labeled ‘Managing Director;”’ the door to his left ‘Board Room,” and the door to his right ‘‘Captain’s Room.” As he hesitated a moment, a high tenor laugh echoed from behind the manag- ing director’s door. ““Haw—haw—haw. I say, you know— haw—haw—haw. Rather neat—what? Take your bally motor to the Esplanade— what? And I said to him A deep bass voice rumbled indistinctly, and again there came a feeble “Shaw—haw.”’ McConaughy compressed his lips at the obvious English accent of that labored laughter, and turned into the door marked “‘Captain’s Room.” “What ho, McConaughy? Back again, 6 eh? Where from this time?” The speaker was Captain Craven, port superintendent of the line. “Ym from the States. Ma ship is docked. There was worrd the young leddy wished to see me.”’ ‘“‘That’s right. She sent word you were to come straight up.’ Craven leaned closer to him. “Who do you suppose is in there with her now?” McConaughy shook his head. “Lord Claragh.”’ “The Claragh Line?”’ “Ve guessed it.”’ ‘‘An’ what for would he be there?” Craven raised his eyebrows and winked mysteriously. ‘‘T think little o’ his mannerr, judgin’ by the seelly foolishness o’ his laughterr,”’ growled McConaughy. “That was not Claragh,” said Craven, with another wink. ‘‘’T was his son, man— the Hon. Herbert Tibbotts.”’ ‘““Whoever he may be, he’s a fool—just that,” rejoined McConaughy. “T could all but smeli he was English.” This seemed to strike Craven as uproar- iously funny. McConaughy looked at him with pronounced disfavor. ““Ha’ ye some jest?” he demanded. “Ih a fashion, yes,” admitted Craven, wiping away the tears which had run down to his face. ‘“To put the case in a nutshell, McConaughy, Claragh’s anxious to marry his son to Miss McNish.”’ “What? That brrayin’ donkey from the London mews?” cCoOmiclsoo 5}