“I was waiting for this!” cried Billy.

With the delight of a mischievous child Claire laughed aloud.

“You—­you did it!” she accused.

“I did!” said Billy.  “And now—­we must run like the devil!”

The Prinz der Nederlanden was drawing slowly out of the harbor.  Shoulder to shoulder Claire and Billy leaned upon the rail.  On the wharfs of Port-au-Prince they saw lanterns tossing and candles twinkling; saw the Louisiana, blazing like a Christmas-tree, steaming majestically south; in each other’s eyes saw that all was well.

From his pocket Billy drew a long envelope.

“I can now with certainty,” said Billy, “state that this is mine—­ours.”

He opened the envelope, and while Claire gazed upon many mille franc notes Billy told how he had retrieved them.

“But what danger!” cried Claire.  “In time Ham would have paid.  Your president at Washington would have made him pay.  Why take such risks?  You had but to wait!”

Billy smiled contentedly.

“Dear one!” he exclaimed, “the policy of watchful waiting is safer, but the Big Stick acts quicker and gets results!”

THE BOY SCOUT

A rule of the Boy Scouts is every day to do some one a good turn.  Not because the copy-books tell you it deserves another, but in spite of that pleasing possibility.  If you are a true scout, until you have performed your act of kindness your day is dark.  You are as unhappy as is the grown-up who has begun his day without shaving or reading the New York Sun.  But as soon as you have proved yourself you may, with a dear conscience, look the world in the face and untie the knot in your kerchief.

Jimmie Reeder untied the accusing knot in his scarf at just ten minutes past eight on a hot August morning after he had given one dime to his sister Sadie.  With that she could either witness the first-run films at the Palace, or by dividing her fortune patronize two of the nickel shows on Lenox Avenue.  The choice Jimmie left to her.  He was setting out for the annual encampment of the Boy Scouts at Hunter’s Island, and in the excitement of that adventure even the movies ceased to thrill.  But Sadie also could be unselfish.  With a heroism of a camp-fire maiden she made a gesture which might have been interpreted to mean she was returning the money.

“I can’t, Jimmie!” she gasped.  “I can’t take it off you.  You saved it, and you ought to get the fun of it.”

“I haven’t saved it yet,” said Jimmie.  “I’m going to cut it out of the railroad fare.  I’m going to get off at City Island instead of at Pelham Manor and walk the difference.  That’s ten cents cheaper.”

Sadie exclaimed with admiration: 

“An’ you carryin’ that heavy grip!”

“Aw, that’s nothin’,” said the man of the family.

“Good-by, mother.  So long, Sadie.”