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come back."

    "Ah."

    "But I've had every possible investigation made. He sailed from Aden in October.
    There were winds and storms. He went woefully undermanned--a crew of two, I believe.
    The Orkney, bound from Cape Town to Batavia, sighted him, making south under a little sail. That was the last. There was nothing in the way of land south of his position except the Antarctic ice. I'm afraid he's gone, Harriman."

    The banker seemed disappointed.

    "I had hoped--as had my wife--that you might give a few friends--privately, of course-a vestige of optimism."

    "I'm sorry."

    Whitney was impassive at the mention of Harriman's wife---but his recognition of the source of the call was affirmed by it.

    "Well--I must go along. Business, you know. Business. It's improving--although
    'ninety-seven nearly dumped my cart."

    "Please pay my respects to Mrs. Harriman."

    "Indeed I shall. And mine to Mrs.Whitney."

    They bowed twice.

    Mr. Harriman went out on the street. A newsboy recognized him and tipped his hat. He signaled to his coachman and presently drove away toward Wall Street.

    Some while later Elihu Whitney appeared on the sidewalk. He stepped into one of the carriages which lined the street. The driver took down the For hire sign.

    "Mouquin's," the lawyer said.

    Time began to mint the bright years. Man's dates turned the century. The tempo of life in America increased.

    Stephen Stone began to be forgotten and the type on the masthead of the Record carried his name in less and less conspicuous sizes. The Record bought a paper in Cleveland and one in Chicago.

    Elihu Whitney's sideburns produced their first streak of gray. Harriman shaved off his mustache.

    Gas lights went out and electric lights took their place. Telephones spread everywhere. Phonographs played. Langley and Wright began to watch birds.

    On the island there was one marked change. The baby that had been brought there in a basket had deserted it. Jack used it now for carrying coal from the pile on shore to McCobb's forge.

    There was, in fact, no baby any longer--but a person. A very young person.

    Henry Stone, at six, had blue eyes and hair the color of a new penny. His skin was dark, like his father's, and, despite a round muscularity, he showed signs of becoming at least as tall as the owner of the now disintegrated Falcon. He had an amazing vitality and a constant interest in all the phenomena of life, no matter how common or how inconsequential.

    His first step had been a delight to the three men. His fiftieth step had inaugurated their worries.

    They were entranced when he had started to talk. And at that time Stephen Stone had put in effect his policy for the child.

    Henry was disciplined.

    He was taught to read at the age of four, sitting on his father's knee, holding a book, scowling, and perspiring in an effort to do as he was told.

    He was educated in the matter of independence. He dressed himself. He did his own errands. Duties were given to him. He fed the chickens and hung up his own clothes.

    He was also tutored in the uses of an outdoor life. At five he could swim almost indefinitely in the wire enclosure which McCobb had made in the sea. His short legs could keep up tirelessly with his father's strides.

    Possibly Stephen Stone was impatient to see his system in fleet, and perhaps the boy was precocious, for he had advanced in learning to read and write and spell well beyond the place designated for a child of six by common schools. He certainty had gained on all ordinary children of his own age in the matter of his knowledge of the outer world.

    McCobb had supplemented his father's lessons in games and sports with all the knowledge of trees and flowers, insects and reptiles, fish and birds and animals which he had gained. McCobb had become a competent biologist in six years, with the aid of the books which Stone had brought from America.

    Jack, who was devoted to him, contributed little to his wisdom and much to his soul. Jack had