Uneventfully the moments sped past, and at last the golden ball of the sun lifted itself above the horizon, sending long lances of light ricocheting over the dancing waters.
There was a twang in the air; the salt sea breeze thrummed in the rigging; in spite of himself, Caruth caught the uplift of the day. All was not hopeless, he told himself, with the buoyancy of his youth and his race, to which all things are possible. He had lost the first inning. “I’ll win her yet!” he cried aloud. “I’ll win her yet.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THIRTY-SIX hours later the Sea Spume lay in harbor at St. Petersburg, and Caruth had told his story to the American Chargé d’Affaires, who was conducting matters in the absence of the ambassador. As he stepped out of the office of the Chargé, he heard his name called in wondering tones.
The accents seemed familiar, and he whirled round. Then he started in amazement and held out his hand.
“Great Scott, Bristow!” he cried. “Where on earth did you spring from?”
The reporter grinned back at him. “Seems kind of funny, doesn’t it?” he answered. “But, shucks, this is a small world nowadays, and you oughtn’t to be surprised at meeting anybody.”
Caruth disregarded the persiflage. “Well!” he declared heartily. “I don’t know any man in the world I’d rather see. Your arrival is a regular Godsend. How did it come about?”
“Most natural thing in the world. The Consolidated Press man at St. Petersburg has been wanting for a year or two to come home on a long vacation, but they never could spare him. A few weeks ago, when things were quieter than they had been for some time, I asked them to send me over to relieve him. When I told them I could speak a little Russian, they agreed right away. I left New York two days after you did.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to come to Russia.”