“No, no!  I have had wicked thoughts.”

He laughed and pushed back his chair.  “So has the butterfly evil thoughts.  We’re to be given a treat to-night.  McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day.  I say, I’ll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock.  That old chap has a remarkable range in reading.  But, hang it, I know it’s good!”

“Of course it is!”

In the afternoon he began work on another tale.  It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away.  But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs.  From McClintock’s came an infernal tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump!  There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear.  But eventually Spurlock laughed.  Not so bad.  Battle, murder, and sudden death—­and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it.  He made a note of the idea and stored it away.

He read “The Beachcombers” to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.

“That’s a good story, lad.  You’ve caught the colour and the life.  But it sounds too real to be imagined.  You’ve never seen a typhoon, have you?”

“No.”

“Well, imagination beats me!”

“It’s something Ruth saw.  She told me the tale the other night, and I’ve only elaborated it.”

“Ah, I see.”  McClintock saw indeed—­two things:  that the boy had no conceit and that this odd girl would always be giving.  “Well, it’s a good story.”

He offered cigars, and Ruth got up.  She always left the table when they began to smoke.  Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct.  Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco.  She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting.  Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.

“Yes, sir,” said McClintock, as he sat down; “that’s South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours.  I like the way you shared it.  I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred.”

“Oh, Ruth couldn’t put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no reason to hide the source.”

“Have you told her?”

“Told her?  Told her what?” Spurlock sat straight in his chair.

“You know what I mean,” said the trader, gravely.  “In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here’s a black mark on your ticket, lad.  My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. You are not a tourist seeking adventure.  You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice.”

Spurlock grew limp in his chair.  “If you thought that, why did you give me this job?”—­his voice faint and thick.

“The doctor and I agreed to give you a chance—­for her sake.  Without realizing what she has done, she’s made a dreadful mess of it.  A child—­as innocent as a child!  Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels!  I don’t know what you have done; I don’t care.  But you must tell her.”