“The launch has made fast, sir. The British Consul and the Chief of Police of San Francisco are on board. They wish to see you.”
“Show them in. You may remain, Strong.”
Ned got to his feet and took up a standing position in a corner of the cabin. In a few minutes the orderly returned with the Chief of Police, a fat, pompous-looking man with a large, straw-colored moustache and goatee, and the British Consul, a tall, sun-burned man with a kindly countenance and affable manner.
After the preliminaries of introduction were over, the Chief of Police plumped out the question that Ned had been dreading to hear.
“You have a man named Strong on board this ship?” he asked.
“Yes, Gunner’s-Mate Strong,” was the rejoinder. “In fact, he is here now.”
The captain waved a hand toward Ned, who swallowed hard and prepared to take calmly whatever was to come. What game was this? The British Consul, quite forgetting his official dignity, crossed the cabin in two jumps and seized Ned’s hand and began wringing it as if it had been a pump handle.
“Let me thank you, although no words can express my gratitude,” he exclaimed, “for the noble act you performed in the Park when you saved my daughter from almost certain death on a runaway horse.”
“Eh? What’s this?” exclaimed Captain Dunham.
“Simply, sir, that you have in your crew one of the most modest heroes I ever heard of,” cried the consul enthusiastically. “He rescued my daughter when her horse ran away with her and would almost certainly have dashed her to death had it not been for this lad’s bravery. I want to express my admiration for the nation that can produce such fine types of young manhood.”