Years ago Mrs. Maurier had learned that unadulterated fruit juice was salutary, nay, necessary to a nautical life. A piece of information strange, irrelevant at first draught, yet on second thought quite possible, not to mention pleasant in contemplation, so she had accepted it, taking it unto her and making of it an undeviating marine conviction. Hence there was grapefruit again for dinner: she was going to inoculate them first, then take chances.

Fairchild’s gang was ultimately started from its lair in his quarters. The other guests were already seated and they regarded the newcomers with interest and trepidation and, on Mrs. Maurier’s part, with actual alarm.

“Here comes the dogwatch,” Mrs. Wiseman remarked brightly. “It’s the gentlemen, isn’t it? We haven’t seen any gentlemen since we left New Orleans, hey, Dorothy?”

Her brother grinned at her sadly. “How about Mark and Talliaferro?”

“Oh, Mark’s a poet. That lets him out. And Ernest isn’t a poet, so that lets him out, too,” she replied with airy feminine logic. “Isn’t that right, Mark?”

“I’m the best poet in New Orleans,” the ghostly young man said heavily, mooning his pale, prehensile face at her.

“We were kind of wondering where you were, Mark,” Fairchild told the best poet in New Orleans. “We got the idea you were supposed to be on the boat with us. Too bad you couldn’t come,” he continued tediously.

“Maybe Mark couldn’t find himself in time,” the Semitic man suggested, taking his seat.

“He’s found his appetite, though,” Fairchild replied. “Maybe he’ll find the rest of himself laying around somewhere nearby.” He seated himself and stared at the plate before him. He murmured, Well, well, with abstraction. His companions found seats and Major Avers stared at his plate. He murmured Well, well, also. Mrs. Maurier chewed her lip nervously, putting her hand on Mr. Talliaferro’s sleeve. Major Ayers murmured:

“It does look familiar, doesn’t it?” and Fairchild said:

“Why, it’s grapefruit: I can tell every time.” He looked at Major Ayers. “I’m not going to eat mine, now. I’m going to put it away and save it.”

“Right you are,” agreed Major Ayers readily. “Save ’em by all means.” He set his grapefruit carefully to one side. “Advise you people to do the same,” he added at large.

“Save them?” Mrs. Maurier repeated in astonishment. “Why, there are more of them. We have several crates.”

Fairchild wagged his head at her. “I can’t risk it. They might be lost overboard or something, and us miles from land. I’m going to save mine.”

Major Ayers offered a suggestion. “Save the rinds, anyway. Might need ’em. Never can tell what might happen at sea, y’know,” he said owlishly.

“Sure,” Fairchild agreed. “Might need ’em in a pinch to prevent constipation.” Mrs. Maurier clasped Mr. Talliaferro’s arm again.

“Mr. Talliaferro!” she whispered imploringly. Mr. Talliaferro sprang to the breach.

“Now that we are all together at last,” he began, clearing his throat, “the Commodore wishes us to choose our first port of call. In other words, people, where shall we go to-morrow?” He looked from face to face about the table.

“Why, nowhere,” answered Fairchild with surprise. “We just came from somewhere yesterday, didn’t we?”

“You mean to-day,” Mrs. Wiseman told him. “We left New Orleans this morning.”

“Oh, did we? Well, well, it takes a long time to spend the afternoon, don’t it? But we don’t want to go anywhere, do we?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Talliaferro contradicted him smoothly. “To-morrow we are going up the Tchufuncta river and spend the day fishing. Our plan was to go up the river and spend the night, but this was found impossible. So we shall go up to-morrow. Is this unanimous? or shall we call for a ballot?”

“Gabriel’s pants,” the niece said to Jenny, “I itch just to think about that, don’t you?”

Fairchild brightened. “Up the Tchufuncta?” he repeated. “Why, that’s where the Jackson place is. Maybe Al’s at home. Major Ayers must meet Al Jackson, Julius.”

“Al Jackson?” Major Ayers repeated. The best poet in New Orleans groaned and Mrs. Wiseman said:

“Good Lord, Dawson.”

“Sure. The one I was telling you about at lunch, you know.”

“Ah, yes: the alligator chap, eh?” Mrs. Maurier exclaimed. “Mr. Talliaferro” again.

“Very well,” Mr. Talliaferro said loudly, “that’s settled, then. Fishing has it. And in the meantime, the Commodore invites you all to a dancing party on deck immediately after dinner. So finish your dinner, people. Fairchild, you are to lead the grand march.”

“Sure,” Fairchild agreed again. “Yes, that’s the one. His father has a fish ranch up here. That’s where Al got his start, and now he’s the biggest fisherd in the world—”

“Did you see the sunset this evening, Major Ayers?” Mrs. Wiseman asked loudly. “Deliciously messy, wasn’t it?”

“Nature getting even with Turner,” the poet suggested.

“That will take years and years,” Mrs. Wiseman answered. Mrs. Maurier sailed in, gushing.

“Our southern sunsets, Major Ayers—” But Major Ayers was staring at Fairchild.

—“Fisherd?” he murmured.

“Sure. Like the old cattle ranches out west, you know. But instead of a cattle ranch, Al Jackson has got a fish ranch out in the wide open spaces of the Gulf of Mexico—”

“Where men are sharks,” put in Mrs. Wiseman. “Don’t leave that out.” Major Ayers stared at her.

“Sure. Where men are men. That’s where this beautiful blonde girl comes in. Like Jenny yonder. Maybe Jenny’s the one. Are you the girl, Jenny?” Major Ayers now stared at Jenny.

Jenny was gazing at the narrator, her blue ineffable eyes quite round, holding a piece of bread in her hand. “Sir?” she said at last.

“Are you the girl that lives on that Jackson fish ranch out in the Gulf of Mexico?”

“I live on Esplanade,” Jenny said after a while, tentatively.

“Mr. Fairchild!” Mrs. Maurier exclaimed. Mr. Talliaferro said:

“My dear sir!”

“No, I reckon you are not the one, or you’d know it. I don’t imagine that even Claude Jackson could live on a fish ranch in the Gulf of Mexico and not know it. This girl is from Brooklyn, anyway—a society girl. She went down there to find her brother. Her brother had just graduated from reform school and so his old man sent him down there for the Jacksons to make a fisherd out of him. He hadn’t shown any aptitude for anything else, you see, and his old man knew it didn’t take much intelligence to herd a fish. His sister—”

“But, I say,” Major Ayers interrupted, “why do they herd their fish?”

“They round ’em up and brand ’em, you see. Al Jackson brands—”

“Brand ’em?”

“Sure: marks ’em so he can tell his fish from ordinary wild fish—mavericks, they call ’em. And now he owns nearly all the fish in the world; a fish millionaire, even if he is fish-poor right now. Wherever you see a marked fish, it’s one of Al Jackson’s.”

“Marks his fish, eh?”

“Sure: notches their tails.”

“Mr. Fairchild,” Mrs. Maurier said.

“But our fish at home have notched tails.” Major Ayers objected.

“Well, they are Jackson fish that have strayed off the range, then.”

“Why doesn’t he establish a European agent?” the ghostly poet asked viciously.

Major Ayers stared about from face to face. “I say,” he began. He stuck there. The hostess rose decisively.

“Come, people, let’s go on deck.”

“No, no,” the niece said quickly, “go on: tell us some more.” Mrs. Wiseman rose also.

“Dawson,” she said firmly, “shut up. We simply cannot stand any more. This afternoon has been too trying. Come on, let’s go up,” she said, herding the ladies firmly out of the room, taking Mr. Talliaferro along also.