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Leaving Captain Weaver to converse with the skipper and to supply his wants, Captain Acton passed his arm through the Admiral's and led him aft. The voice choked up and a tear splashed down on the hand clenched on her lap. "It was dirty mean of you," sniffled Anson. "You know how much I like pie an' tarts; an' here I am havin' to lug yourn an' gettin' none fer myself. Fer two cents I'd chuck this dinner-pail in the crick.".

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The Admiral viewed his son critically. The walk home, followed by a sousing of the face in cold water, had helped to attenuate the lingering fumes in the young man's brains, and on the whole his mind was about as steady as could be expected in one who was always more or less under the influence of drink. "Oh," she cried miserably, "what haven't you done, Tom Wilson? Didn't you bring me here to this lonesome spot when I was happy with my son, happy an' contented?" Anson's blue eyes were staring at the wide unprotected window. Outside, the moon swam hazily above the forest; shadows like huge, misshapen monsters prowled on the sward; weird sounds floated up and died on the still air. "He'll never find the Scroggie will," he would speak again. "He'll always be poor.".