“My daughter, Miss Edith Herndon,” squeaked the Professor, and when I put out my big hand to take her little one I thought I’d fall down on the deck on account of the Niagara of blood that seemed to rush to my brain.

It’s funny how all the little imperfections in your dress and manner rise up suddenly and bang you hard on the bump of observation when you find yourself in front of some one whose good opinion you want to earn.  I felt it so the moment I stood before the girl in the cream serge suit.  My drill outfit, that I had thought rather clean when I brushed the shell grit from it after my sleep on the wharf, looked as black as the devil’s tail when she appeared.  My hands appeared to be several degrees larger than the prize hams that come out of Kansas, and my tongue, as if it recognized the stupidity of the remarks I attempted to make, started to play fool stunts as if it wanted to go down my throat and choke me to death.

The girl guessed the sort of predicament I was in at that moment.  God only knows how many months had passed since I had spoken to a woman like her.  Not that good women are lacking in the Islands, but because they were on a different plane to me.  I had been belting native crews on trading schooners between the Carolines and the Marquesas, and when ashore I had little opportunity for speaking to a woman of the type of Edith Herndon.

And she understood the feeling that held me tongue-tied.  To make me feel at my ease she started to tell of everything that had happened from the moment that The Waif had cleared Sydney Heads, and the time she spent in that recital was as precious to me as the two-minute interval between rounds is to a prize-fighter who has been knocked silly the moment before the round ends.  I had shaken the dizziness out of my head when she finished, and I had obtained control over my tongue.

“You must tell us a lot about the South Seas,” she cried.  “You have been down here such a long time that you must have many interesting things to relate.  Captain Newmarch will not talk, and Mr. Leith refuses to see anything picturesque in the sights he has seen during his wanderings.”

“Who is Mr. Leith?” I asked.

“He is father’s partner in this expedition,” she said quietly.  “He has lived down here for many years, but he will not tell us much.  And Barbara is anxious to know everything she can.”

“Barbara?” I stammered.  “Then—­then there is another lady aboard?”

“Oh, yes! my sister,” cried the girl.  “I think I hear her coming now.”

There was no question about the latter part of her remark.  A burst of laughter that was more infectious than influenza came from the companion-stairs, and immediately in its wake came a girl who made me think, as I compared her to Miss Edith, of a beautiful yacht alongside a stately liner.  Barbara Herndon was sunshine personified.  Laughter went with her wherever she went, and a pair of Tongans, polishing brasses, immediately put their molars on view, as if they had understood what caused the smiles upon her pretty face as she came toward us.