He had viewed cricket-matches from tree-tops, had answered the call of fire at midnight, and tramped ten miles to see the finish of a great regatta.

But something was about to take place which seemed entirely beyond his attainment.

Two hours passed before he solved the problem.
"Takin' the rest-cure, kid ?" asked a passing sailor as he shied a stick at Sandy's shins.
Sandy stretched himself and smiled up at the sailor.

It was a smile that waited for an answer and usually got it--a smile so brimming over with good-fellowship and confidence that it made a lover of a friend and a friend of an enemy.
"It's a trip that I'm thinkin' of takin'," he cried blithely as he jumped to his feet.

"Here's the shillin' I owe you, partner, and may the best luck ye've had be the worst luck that's comin'." He tossed a coin to the sailor, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, executed a brief but brilliant _pas seul_, and then went whistling away down the wharf.