Spurlock smiled at the doctor.

“He’ll not trouble you on the liquor side, Mac.”

[Illustration:  Distinctive Pictures Corporation.  The Ragged Edge. A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.]

“So much the better.  You will have a bungalow to yourself,” continued McClintock, “and your morning meal will be your own affair.  But luncheon and dinners you will sit at my table.  I’m a stickler about clothes and clean chins.  How you dress when you’re loafing will be no concern of mine; but fresh twill or Shantung, when you dine with me, collar and tie.  If you like books and music, we’ll get along.”

“Then you are taking me on?” Spurlock’s eyes grew soft like those of a dog that, expecting the whip, saw only the kindly hand.

“I am going to give you a try.”

“When will you want me?”—­with pitiful eagerness.  “How shall I get to you?”

“My yacht is in the river.  The doctor here says he can get you aboard to-morrow night.  But understand me thoroughly:  I am offering you this job because my friend wants to help you.  I don’t know anything about you.  I am gambling on his intuition.”  McClintock preferred to put it thus.

“To-morrow night!” said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper.  Out of the beaten track, far from the trails of men!  He relaxed.

The doctor reached over and laid his hand upon Spurlock’s heart.  “Thumping; but that’s only excitement.  You’ll do.”

Then he looked at Ruth.  Her face expressed nothing.  That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon:  she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge.  He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free.

“I have good news for you.  If you do not find your aunt, my people will take you under wing until you can stand on your own.”

“That is very kind of you,” she acknowledged.  The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile.

The doctor missed the expression of terror and dismay that flitted across Spurlock’s face.

Once they were below, McClintock turned upon the doctor.  “I can readily see,” he said, “why you’ll always be as poor as a church mouse.”

“What?” said the doctor, whose thoughts were in something of a turmoil.  “What’s that?”

“The old human cry of something for nothing; but with you it is in reverse.  You are always doing something for nothing, and that is why I love you.  If I offered you half of my possessions, you’d doubtless wallop me on the jaw.  To be with you is the best moral tonic I know.  You tonic my liver and you tonic my soul.  It is good sometimes to walk with a man who can look God squarely in the face, as you can.”

“But wasn’t I right?  That pair?”

“I’ll take the boy; he’ll be a novelty.  Amiable and good-looking.  That’s the kind, my friend, that always fall soft.  No matter what they do, always someone to bolster them up, to lend them money, and to coddle them.”