"Yes; why?"
"I'm George P. A. Jones, of Mortimer & Jones, New York. I've heard of you; and God bless you for this night's work!"
"Mortimer & Jones? You don't say! Well, if this doesn't beat the Dutch! Why, if you're Robert E. Jones's boy, I'll sell you every carpet in the pack at cost." He laughed; and it was laughter good to hear, dry and harsh though it was. "Your dad was a fine gentleman, and one of the best judges of his time. You couldn't fool him a knot. He wrote me when you came into this world of sin and tribulation. Didn't they call you Percival Algernon, or something like that?"
"They did!" And George laughed, too.
"You're a sight. Any one sick? Got a medicine-chest aboard."
"No, only banged up and discouraged. I say, Mr. Ackermann, got an extra pipe or two and some 'baccy?"
"Flanagan, see what's in the chest."
Shortly Flanagan returned. He had half a dozen fresh corn-cob pipes and a thick bag of tobacco. George and Ryanne lighted up, about as near contentment as two men in their condition could possibly be.
Said Flanagan to Fortune: "Do you chew?"
Fortune looked horrified.