“I believe Mr. Hodden is aft somewhere.”
“Oh,—Hodden!” cried the young man, profanely; “he’s a chestnut. Where’s Kenan Buel?”
The reporter did not wait for a reply, for he saw by the crowd around a very flushed young man that the victim had been found and cornered.
“Really, gentlemen,” said the embarrassed Englishman, “you have made a mistake. It is Mr. Hodden you want to see. I will take you to him.”
“Hodden’s played,” said one of the young men in an explanatory way, although Buel did not understand the meaning of the phrase. “He’s petered out;” which addition did not make it any plainer. “You’re the man for our money every time.”
“Break away there, break away!” cried the belated Brant, forcing his way through them and taking Buel by the hand. “There’s no rush, you know, boys. Just let me have a minute’s talk with Mr. Buel. It will be all right. I have just set up the champagne down in the saloon. It’s my treat, you know. There’s tables down there, and we can do things comfortably. I’ll guarantee to produce Buel inside of five minutes.”
Brant linked arms with the young man, and they walked together down the deck.
“Do you know what this means, Buel?” he said, waving his hand towards the retreating newspaper men.
“I suppose it means that you have got them to interview me for business purposes. I can think of no other reason.”
“I’ve had nothing to do with it. That shows just how little you know about the American Press. Why, all the money I’ve got wouldn’t bring those men out here to interview anybody who wasn’t worth interviewing. It means fame; it means wealth; it means that you have turned the corner; it means you have the world before you; it means everything. Those young men are not reporters to you; they are the heralds of fame, my boy. A few of them may get there themselves some day, but it means that you have got there now. Do you realise that?”