Mr. Billings waited until the end before he interpreted it.

"Key West says the only boat under steam in the Kingston harbor is the Arabella, a privately owned pleasure-craft. She's headin' out of the harbor now with everythin' wide open and expects to make the Omega in six to seven hours. Key West asks the Omega to get in touch with the Arabella. Sounds promisin', don't it, Lyman?"

"Promisin', sure. If Buck Peters can only keep afloat that long."

Mr. Billings leaned toward the horn. "Here comes Hank in again: 'Thank... God . . . for... Arabella. . . . Hope... hold . . . out.... Listing

we

... can.

...

blue-prints of the Omega. He was puzzled. What was Buck Peters worrying about keeping afloat for when his first report had been that the damage was aft of the for'castle? If the XY doors wouldn't shut out the main leak, what about the BX doors thirty-foot astern? The Cap'n tapped the desk with a pencil. Something was mighty darn queer.

Suddenly it came to him. He turned and pounded Willie Brown on the back excitedly.

"I got it, boy! 'Cause he ain't got the XY doors shet. He don't even know about 'em. There's a galley been built in there right in front of them doors. All he's got to do is tear out a beaver-board

wall, close them XY doors. ll up number seven hold on the starboard, and she'l float until Heil freezes over."

The Cap'n pounded the desk as he talked. Ed Billings stared at him openmouthed.

“Wa-al, Lyman, what are you goin' to do about it?"

Cap'n Quiller slumped again. “That's the ketch. Here I am on dry land niggerin out what Buck Peters should be doin' off. Pedro Keys. 'N I may be wrong at that. Gosh but I'd like to know if Buck knows about them XY doors."

Willie had a suggestion. "You might wire Key West to ask him."

Ed Billings shook his head. "They wouldn't pay no attention to a private message. But say, Lyman, why couldn't you call up the company in New York and have them wire Key West to shoot out a few words of advice comin' straight from headquarters?"

It was the Cap'n's turn to shake his head dubiously. He had a mental picture of some fresh young night clerk in the office of the Consolidated Shipping Lines chuckling over the phone at his idea of broadcasting advice to the Omega. Still, if he could catch Oid Man Snyder in the office he might be able to convince him that even an ex-captain on the retired list might know something or other about the Omega.

"Got a sen on board, hasn't he? Can't talk with him. Connect him with Eaves."

A few minutes later the clerk was back. "He says he doesn't want to ask about his son. Says he's got a private message he must deliver to you personally."

"Oh, well." Snyder picked up the telephone. "Give me that call from Captain Quiller.... Hello Quiller. Sure. All right. let it come. Galley in number eight hold. What about it? Hold on there. Say that again. Don't shout. I can hear you all right. Now let it come slowly.... Tear out galley in number eight. Yes, yes, go on. Close XY and BX doors. Fiil number seven on starboard. Is that all? Thanks. Thanks a lot. You ought to know if anybody does. We'll get busy on that right away. Gbye." Snyder turned to the clerk. "Get that Key West Government Station on the long distance at once. Send Bixby and Steele in here on the run.”

Less than a half-hour later Cap'n Quiller sitting in his Baytown radio-room heard Key West sending out into the air his advice to Captain Peters on board the Omega. Ed Billings was more excited about it than the Cap'n.

They're sendin' it out jest as you told 'em. Lyman.”

The Cap'n groaned. "Yup. Jess as I told 'em. An I may be so dead wrong they'll be laughin' at me on all of the seven seas. But godfrey! with a boy on board it ain't goin' to hurt me none to make a fool of myself when there's a chance it may help."

Breathlessly they waited for a response to the message from Hank. At last it came.

*

bowed his head humbly. He was praying for Hank.

The big window to the east that had loomed inky-black all night suddenly began to take on a grayish blue. The gray faded out as the blue came in stronger and stronger. Somewhere a cock crowed. Another and still another cock. It was dawn in Baytown.

Mrs. Quiller stirred uneasily on the couch. Rosamund reached over and patted her reassuringly. By the window Cap'n Quiller stared out hollow-eyedthe night had made him an old man. Ed Billings dozed in his chair. Willie Brown stood guard by the radio.

The last message had come in around two-thirty. It told briefly of an attempt to launch a life-boat, of the loss of fourteen men, of the others waiting bravely on board for the inevitable. The Arabella had not been sighted. Earlier there had been a private message from Captain Peters: a farewell and his regrets that he had not known about the XY doors in time to do more good. There had also been a private message from Hank: "Good-by and love to all, including Rozie." Rosamund had wept on Mrs. Quiller's shoulder when this came in, the only time during the long night that she gave any indication of breaking down.

With the first rays of light Rosamund got up stiffly and stole quietly downstairs. There were sounds of a fire in the making, later the pungent aroma of coffee. Apparently the smell of coffee penetrated to Mr. Billings's nostrils for he woke up and looked expectant. Rosamund called for Willie to carry up the tray. Besides the pot of coffee there were doughnuts and thinly sliced pieces of buttered toast. Cap'n Quiller thanked Rozie but could take nothing. He tried a mouthful of coffee, gulped, and put the cup down quickly.

"Sticks in my throat," he said. "Thanks jess the same, girlie."

As Mrs. Quiller was still asleep, Ed Billings and Willie Brown shared the breakfast. After the fourth doughnut Mr. Billings sighed contentedly and dozed off again. This pleased Willie, for sleepyeyed as he was he enjoyed the importance of being official guardian of the radio.

At ten minutes of five the telephone began ringing, long impetuous rings intended to rouse a sleeping household if necessary. It woke Mrs. Quiller and Ed Billings, and kept on ringing. No one made a move toward answering it. Each looked at the other, awed, fearful. The Cap'n lifted appealing eyes to Rosamund.

"Probably somebody has the wrong number," she said and tripped out of the room. When she came back her lips were trembling, all the color had left her face. Her voice faltered. "A Mr. Snyder in New York wants to speak to you, Uncle Lyman."

"Old Man Snyder, eh?" The Cap'n's jaw dropped. "What's he wantin' this time o' mornin'?"

Slowly Cap'n Quiller got up and shambled wearily out, each stair creeking as he made his way down to the telephone. A deathlike stillness came over the radioroom broken only by soft sobbing from Rosamund who had hidden her head on Mrs. Quiller's bosom. She was breaking under the strain.

The Cap'n's crackling voice, raised to a telephone pitch, floated up the stairs. "What's that? Yup. This is Quiller.

Whaddye say? No, no. We ain't heard nothin' since 'bout two-thirty. . . . Safe? Thank God!" The Cap'n was halfway up the stairs. "Hank's safe! Safe 'n well 'n happy. Whoopee! Wait until I hear more and I'll tell yer."

Mrs. Quiller and Rosamund both cried, unashamed. Willie executed a jig that threatened momentarily to damage beyond repair the best radio receiving set in seven counties. Ed Billings gawped foolishly at the proceedings, wanting to join in the celebration but not knowing just where to begin. Finally he compromised by eating another doughnut. No one tried to overhear the rest of the Cap'n's conversation: Hank was safe and that was all that really mattered.

Some time elapsed before the Cap'n finished talking with Old Man Snyder. When he reappeared in the radio-room, he was no longer hollow-eyed. He was a young man again. There was a positive swagger to his walk as he came in. went over and kissed his wife and patted Rosamund fondly before he told his news.

He

"The boy's safe. Had a narrow squeak

M

ASON SEARS and I travelled together in the Far East in 1922. While in Peking we heard much talk of Mongolia and the Gobi desert. There were stories of gold and bandits, of men who had gone "Mongolia mad," of wild rides on the trail of the antelope herds, of Urga and of the Hutukhtu-the living god of all the Mongols.

We had a few days to spare after returning from an extensive hunting expedition in North Shansi and determined therefore to make a short trip into the Gobi desert.

Early one morning in November we swung off the train at Kalgan. Beyond

the great walls of this ancient border city Mongolia stretches away into the unseen distances. Kalgan is old and worn and tiered as if it were holding the weight of centuries upon its shoulders, but the breath of the frontier lurks about its grand old walls. Dusty, hoof-worn trails that have been travelled for thousands of years lead away northward into a vast wilderness-the wilderness of Ghenghis and Kublai Khan.

It was a country of romance and adventure, I thought, and the heart of Mongolia was still to me the heart of mystery, the heart of the unknown. But what was this talk of motor-cars on the Gobi desert? Could it be true that motor-cars were crossing Mongolia? What an outrage to the beauty of the desert and how terribly incongruous!