“That,” answered Mr. Heatherbloom smiling, “is my boss.”

“Well,” she observed, “I don’t like his face.”

“Some of the darkies he’s knocked down share, I believe, your opinion,” he laughed.  “Excuse me a moment.”  And Mr. Heatherbloom stepped to the dumfounded person in question, handed him the note-book and pencil, with a request to keep tab for a moment, and then returned to the girl.  “Now, I’m at your command,” he said with a smile.

“Suppose we take a walk?” she suggested.  “We can talk better if we do.”

A moment Mr. Heatherbloom wavered.  “Sorry,” he then said, “but I’ve promised to stick by the job.  You see the old tub sails to-morrow for South America and it’ll be a task to get her loaded before night.  Some of the hands, as well as the supercargo, have been bowled over by fire-water.”

“I see.”  There was a strained look about her lips.  Before them heavily laden negroes and a few sailors passed and repassed.  The burly red-headed mate often looked at her; amazement and curiosity were depicted on his features; he almost forgot the duties Mr. Heatherbloom had, for a brief interval, thrust upon him.  Betty Dalrymple, however, had ceased to observe him; he, the others, no longer existed for her.  She saw only Mr. Heatherbloom now; what he said, she knew he meant; she realized with an odd thrill of mingled admiration and pain that even she could not cause him to change his mind.  He would “stick to his job”, because he had said he would.

“I’m interrupting, I fear,” she said, a feeling of strange humility sweeping over her.  “When is your day’s work done?”

“About six, I expect.”

“The governor gives a ball for me to-night,” she said.

“Excellent.  All the elite of the port will be there, and,” with slow meditative accent, “I can imagine how you’ll look!”

“Can you?” she asked, bending somewhat nearer.

“Yes.”  His gaze was straight ahead.

The white glove stole toward the black hand.  “Why don’t you come?”

“I?” He stared.

“Yes; the governor has sent you an invitation.  He thinks you a secret-service officer.”

Mr. Heatherbloom continued to look at her; then he glanced toward the boat.  Suddenly his hand closed; he hardly realized the white glove was in it.  “I’ll do it, Betty,” he exclaimed.  “That is, if I can.  And—­there may be a way.  Yes; there will be.”

“You mean, you may be able to rent them?” With a sparkle in her glance.

“Exactly,” he answered gaily, recklessly.

Both laughed.  Then her expression changed; she suppressed an exclamation, but gently withdrew her hand.

“How many dances will you give me, Betty?” He had not even noticed that he had hurt her; his voice was low and eager.

“Ask and see,” she said merrily, and went.  But outside the shed, she stretched her crushed fingers; he was very strong; he had spoiled a new pair of gloves; she did not, however, seem greatly to mind.  As for Mr. Heatherbloom, for the balance of the day he plunged into his task with the energy of an Antaeus.