the slough, bellowing, en route, a gentle note of derision. The knife chucked out of sight in the soft ooze.

Kelly reared up and lifted a clinched fist, calling down the wrath of heaven upon the frog. The frog came to the surface in time to hear the opening words of the invocation and then, quickly, he dived again. It appeared that the large enemy was following up the attack with further pursuit. The soft earth under the cook's left foot had caved beneath his weight and Kelly had begun a frantic whirling of arms in an effort to regain his balance. Against the steady drag of gravity his efforts were in vain. He dived, in desperation, head foremost into the slough, landing heavily at a point where mud was thicker than water. The frightened frog swam rapidly away. With bathing hippopotami and mud volcanoes the place was becoming too crowded. He sought a new frontier.

By the time the cook had righted himself in his form-fitting environment, Jerry was making for the skiff. He ran a hundred feet and lay down, rolling and writhing in the clutches of some sudden malady, but after a while he managed to regain his feet and finally, staggering, to attain the skiff. He rowed to the side of the anchored cook, and after a period of heaving and hauling, the tentacles of vacuum were severed and Kelly was dragged aboard. He flopped into the wide skiff and subsided with a walrus-like thud that threatened to sink the craft.

Jerry endured the difficult silence as long as he could, and addressed the plastered victim of the encounter: "It were noble av ye, Paddy, divin' afther th' l'apin' divvil."

"Have sinse, lad, have sinse!" replied the exasperated Kelly. "I should have detained 'um wid a brick."

"Or started divin' sooner nor he made his leap," the waiter retorted. "But what mope have ye, Paddy, th' froight av gittin' shaved so close have kilt 'umelse he'd have come back an' bit ye."

"Quiet, lad, an' l'ave me groan in peace. Th' dirthy baste, lost to me skillet-an' takin' me best knife wid 'um, hang 'um!" The defeated pair landed 'longside the dredge where willing hands assisted the cook in his slithering passage up the four

foot free-board of the hull. Volunteers connected up the fire hose and started the force-pumps. After playing the hose on Kelly for five minutes he was sufficiently furrowed to permit of his disrobing without the use of a shovel. Jerry returned from the quarters on the deck above, bringing dry raiment and towels, and in a few minutes the incident had passed into the classic annals of the Mississippi dredging fleet.

Kelly and his helper returned to the galley.

"Bust open a case av thim hen eggs, Jerry," the cook presently directed, "an' if ye find a pair av thim widout beaks, I'll fence them in wid dough an' poach 'um f'r th' dinner av Cappy, blame th' tinder stomach av 'um.'

He glanced at the clock and immediately tunnelled into the pan of meat, after which, from the armful that he had accumulated, he rapidly covered the hot surface of the galley range with round. steak.

The hands of the clock touched twelve. "Dish up!" he said, to Otto. He turned to Jerry who had discovered an unexpected pair of passable eggs in a total of two dozen which he had inspected. "Th' Pinkertons have nothin' on you, lad, f'r detectin' things," he complimented. The cook deposited each of the eggs in the hollow of a lump of dough which lay in the bottom of a small pan. "Gintly, thim eggs is feeble," he cautioned, as Otto poured in the boiling water. When the eggs had whitened they were deposited on toast, after which, heavily disguised with a generous seasoning of pepper and garnished with the pale-green sprouts of an ambitious potato, they were forwarded to Captain Porter. Jerry, acting as observer of results, addressed the cook with his report.

"Th' face av Cappy twishted a bit, an' th' nose on 'um strolled around, but he ate thim, Paddy! Ate thim he did-ye can ask 'um f'r Sundah safe now, Paddy. Th' man is fed!"

Kelly braced himself with another splash of stimulant and ambled for'd to Captain Porter's office. "Cap'n, sir," he began, "I have bad news fer ye about a broom th' flunky wid th' blue pants lost overboard whilst attimptin' to murther a

"When I say to-morrow, I mean it, Paddy," the captain again interrupted. "Colonel McDonald and the commission are due here Monday afternoon on the Grant. You get back here Sunday night." "I'll be here, cap'n, wid bells on, an' thank you again, sir." The cook retired to his quarters and began a series of contortions by means of which he gradually affected a change of costume in the confines of a stateroom nominally six feet by eight, but which contained, in addition to the person of the cook, a trunk, a bed, and a hot segment of the stack which led upward from the starboard battery of boilers. But in spite of difficulties, the transition was finally an accomplished fact. Augmented and adorned with a rusty black Prince Albert suit, "of a vintage," a salmon-colored vest, squidgy black shoes and a hemispherical brown derby, the cook made his way to the galley in search of assistance in the matter of sartorial adjustment which would add final perfection to the splendor of his haberdashed avoirdupois.

"C'mere, Jerry, an' lash this tie around me throat," he ordered.

His admiring assistant tied a cow-hitch in the violent green scarf and retreated two paces so that the perspective would include the full effect of the perfected ensemble.

"An eyeful, Paddy," he finally exclaimed, "an eyeful wid th' grand clothes!"

The cook dismissed the flattery with a regal wave of his hand. A tubular celluloid cuff, slung by the energy of the centrifugal gesture, escaped from the retaining sleeve of the antique Prince Albert. It landed on the top of the hot range. There followed a flash of blinding flame and a pungent odor, and then a burst of oratory hotter than the flame and incensed with the brimstone accents of a

frazzled soul. Otto, the treasonable Proosian, inwardly wallowing in rare delight, retrieved the agate cuff-button from the top of the range and presented it to his chief with a servile bow. Kelly's language cooled as suddenly as it had flamed. He gave thought to the professional duties of the moment. "Roast beef f'r dinner to-morrow, Otto," he directed, "but leave it tough or else thim stiffs'll never git back on their hin' legs, wanst they git their snouts in th' trough."

He turned to the waiter. "Th' skiff, Jerry, an' row me ashore." The pair went below and embarked. They landed at the end of a meandering path which had been worn to the river's edge from the track of the railroad whose embankment paralleled the stream. The cook bade his assistant a brief farewell. "An' watch th' Proosian," he admonished, in parting. "Wanst he starts a goulash barbecue, Cappy loses a crew. I know thim stiffs. Watch th' Proosian. To-morrow I'll be back, lad."

The cook walked down the track toward the station, which lay a mile away. The rusty Prince Albert absorbed and retained the rays of the July sun. Color from the green scarf dyed the neck-band of his shirt. The rock ballast between the rails hurt his feet, but realization of these several discomforts was dulled by a vision of his ultimate goal-the long bar in Grogan's Place where wines, liquors, and cigars awaited those adventurers who would partake thereof.

The local was twenty minutes late in arriving at St. Louis. Kelly made up a part of this lost time in his stampede from the portals of Union Station to the doors of Grogan's Place. He indorsed a pay check and waved away the proffered cash. "Tell me whin I'm through," he ordered the keeper of the liquid lightning. Kelly drank with an overhand stroke that produced results. In half an hour his nerves had steadied and thereafter he drank with a consistent application and an industry which excited admiring comment on the part of various professional drunkards. who trained at Grogan's Place. In the stretch he drank with a Chesterfieldian deliberation and an easy grace that added lustre to the shining elbow of the rusty Prince Albert. But none of the gladiators who have sought victory in Grogan's

Place have ever won their battles, and as the hours passed the mantle of defeat descended upon the too ambitious Kelly, crushing him to the dust of the arena. At midnight he reposed on the floor in the back room.

Upon the departure of his chief, Otto had tasted the sweetness of full authority. In the breast of the treasonable Proosian ambition flamed to a white heat. In his mad lust for power the despot ruled that pickled beef should form the evening fare. Soused in a bath of biting vinegar, large platters of what had been good roast beef were served for the Saturday supper of the crew. The general indorsement of his superior culinary skill, which Otto had hoped to inspire by means of the pickled beef was not forthcoming, however, and Otto suffered the keen lash of disappointment when he observed the manner in which his offering was received.

"Whoof!" This from Highpocket Hillman, busy with his first mouthful of the pickled beef. "Whoof! Th' bull beef is soured!" Not until Otto had personally explained the superior qualities of pickled beef did the men venture to indulge their appetites. They ate sparingly of the beef, grumbling a little, but they were too intent on starting the Saturdaynight poker games to dwell at length upon the nicer flavors of their food.

Sunday morning witnessed another attempt on Otto's part to introduce a menu peculiar to his personal ideas of what was good to eat. Instead of the customary flannel cakes with their high factor of specific gravity and their absorptive powers equal to those of blue blotters, the Proosian presented a series of serrated edged affairs, floppy and yellow. These had a novel flavor due to the fact that Jerry had participated in their preparation. Otto had assembled and mixed the ingredients, meanwhile audibly reflecting that he was at last a full-fledged "meat cooker," enjoying all the fame that the imperial rank bestows. Jerry overheard the soliloquy. "Meat cooker, hey!" he inwardly commented. "Dutch pancakes, is it? Well-wid them crippled eggs an' wan shot av coal-oil in thim cakes, th' lads'll meet Paddy wid a brass band, afther killin' Otto." He quietly in

troduced the shot of coal-oil and stirred it into the cake batter. . . . Breakfast finished, there remained upon each plate one Dutch pancake. The men had satisfied their appetities on coffee and bacon, and slabs of bread. Otto observed the reception accorded his work and presently his chagrin flamed to a slow anger. There followed a denunciation of all dredge crews, uttered in spluttering syllables of Proosian rage which the listening Jerry mightily enjoyed. Whenever Otto showed signs of running down he was re-energized by some cleverly aimed barb, shot with cunning skill from Jerry's inexhaustible quiver.

"Th' lads be sayin' th' Proosians niver can be learned t' cook f'r sour applesthey bein' baboons wanst an' eatin' raw fish an' th' like." The Proosian volcano responded nobly.

"Highpocket an' Th' Turtle be raisin' a mob t' hang you, Otto, if dinner ain't pleasin' thim," he casually remarked during a lull in the Proosian's verbal activities. This was pure fiction, but like the cake of soap that excites the geyser in Yellowstone, it obtained results, rocking the Proosian's reason and incidentally insuring that the Sunday dinner would be a complete catastrophe. Frantic with the memory of his two preceding failures, made desperate by the cruel tactics of the heartless Jerry, and finally compelled to witness the cremation of eight apple pies, Otto leaped headlong into a menu that included delicacies whose first requisite is that calm skill which comes from placid confidence.

As a result, the crew dined on onions, oleomargarin, molasses, coffee, and bread. Otto contemplated this final disaster. "Der revolver, if it der catridges had, I vould myself in der head shoot," he proclaimed.

"Th' bullet might glance an' hurt a man," Jerry comforted. "An' don't get things messed up wid shootin' yourself, annyway-jump overboard."

Jerry had called his bluff, but the Proosian sought to justify his delay in despatching himself. "Gott! If at der schwimming wasser verein der medals I wass not vinning for floating, der drowning vouldt be easy."

heartless Jerry. "Paddy'll hand thim steaks f'r supper whin he comes an' th' stiffs'll pull through. Wan hour more an' th' local gits in."

But the confident words did not accord with an anxious note that was strangely present in Jerry's voice. Subconsciously he feared the outcome of the day should Paddy not arrive. Some keen telepathy, perhaps, for underneath the calm that pervaded the crew's quarters the ferment of insurrection had begun its lift. Jerry, perhaps, had overplayed his hand. Where Sunday was usually a festival occasion, characterized by idle prowlings along the river banks, or inland rambles after casual adventure, on this sullen day the crew, to a man, remained aboard the dredge.

When the St. Louis local whistled for the distant station several members of the crew strolled to the guards of the dredge. Seated along the rail they watched the stretch of track that led from the railroad station. Fifteen minutes passed and no Paddy. Another ten minutes and still there was no sign of the cook.

"Staggerin' an' settin' down it'll take him half an hour to git in sight," The Turtle observed.

"Nope he's missed th' train, I tell you," Highpocket insisted. "He's missed the train."

They waited a while longer and then returned to their quarters. The news that the cook had not arrived was communicated to their fellows. It was received in silence. Finally, one of the younger members spoke.

"Well," he reflected, "th' old burg looks good to me."

"She sure do," The Turtle presently agreed, "an' whilst I ain't no blanket stiff nor yet no short-stake bum, I'm more 'n thirty dollars to th' good an' both me feet is itchin'."

"Wan more dose av that Otto's grub an' it'll be a rough-box an' a lonely grave on th' bank, good-by, proud world, fer me." This from Tender Eye, senior member of the stokers.

They thought of the lure of the lights of town. Suddenly Highpocket sat up on the edge of his bunk. "I've made mine!" he announced. He arose to his feet and

started for the head end. Tender Eye halted him. "Where are yez headed f'r?" he asked.

"For'd to tell Cappy t' mix me up a walk. I'm launched."

"Wait wan second-wait wan second," Tender Eye advised. "Would ye be junglin' up this night in th' willys on th' bank, or will ye lay aboard an' take it easy 'til th' mornin'? Have sense. I'm wid ye in th' mornin'."

The advantage of retaining the comforts of their present quarters for the night instead of spending it on shore where they would wait until the following afternoon for the train to St. Louis was instantly apparent. Highpocket, The Turtle, and Tender Eye having set the example, other members of the crew made haste to speak their thoughts. It developed that the desertion was a unanimous movement. To the last man they determined to quit on the following morning, and, having made their decision, and with their minds contemplating the pleasures that awaited them in St. Louis, their spirits improved and a general cheerfulness soon made itself apparent. At the supper-table their good-natured chattering fell on the anxious ears of the Proosian and led him to discard his doubts as to his ability as a "meat cooker."

"So, Jerry, der meat cooker I am yet," he remarked. His confidence was coming back. "Hear der laffing-und garlic mit der steak."

"It's d' steak an' not d' poison," Jerry objected; but he, also, was mistaken, for it was neither steak nor seasoning which inspired the light mood of the crew.

It seemed to Jerry that all hearts were gay except his own. He was distressed about his absent chief. It may have been the prompting of experiences of the past, or some faint thread of mental sympathy through which he sensed an answering impulse from the absent Paddy, but whatever it was, the heavy fact remained that Paddy had not returned. Nor was he to return that night, for at the moment Paddy was a guest of the St. Louis police department.

With the coming of the dawn on Sunday morning the cook had stirred from his stupor in the back room of Grogan's