And after a while he settled back on his oars, cast a last glance astern, and pulled for the Ariani, aboard of which Portlaw was already bellowing at him through an enormous megaphone.

Malcourt, who looked much younger than he really was, appeared on the after deck, strolling about with a telescope tucked up under one arm, both hands in his trousers pockets; and, as Hamil pulled under the stern, he leaned over the rail:  “Hello, Hamil!  Any trade with the natives in prospect?  How far will a pint of beads go with the lady aborigines?”

“Better ask at the Beach Club,” replied Hamil, laughing; “I say, Malcourt, I’ve had a corking swim out yonder—­”

“Go in deep?” inquired Malcourt guilelessly.

“Deep?  It’s forty fathoms off the reef.”

“I didn’t mean the water,” murmured Malcourt.

CHAPTER II

A LANDING

The Ariani was to sail that evening, her destination being Miami and the West Coast where Portlaw desired to do some tarpon fishing and Wayward had railroad interests.  Malcourt, always in a receptive attitude, was quite ready to go anywhere when invited.  Otherwise he preferred a remunerative attention to business.

Hamil, however, though with the gay company aboard, was not of them; he had business at Palm Beach; his luggage had already been sent ashore; and now, prepared to follow, he stood a little apart from the others on the moonlit deck, making his adieux to the master of the Ariani.

“It’s been perfectly stunning—­this cruise,” he said.  “It was kind of you, Wayward; I don’t know how to tell you how kind—­but your boat’s a corker and you are another—­”

“Do you like this sort of thing?” asked Wayward grimly.

“Like it?  It’s only a part of your ordinary lives—­yours and Portlaw’s; so you are not quite fitted to understand.  But, Wayward, I’ve been in heavy harness.  You have been doing this sort of heavenly thing—­how many years?”

“Too many.  Tell me; you’ve really made good this last year, haven’t you, Garry?”

Hamil nodded.  “I had to.”

He laid his hand on the older man’s arm.  “Why do you know,” he said, “when they gave me that first commission for the little park at Hampton Hills—­thanks to you—­I hadn’t five dollars in all the world.”

Wayward stood looking at him through his spectacles, absently pulling at his moustache, which was already partly gray.

“Garry,” he said in his deep, pleasant voice that was however never very clear, “Portlaw tells me that you are to do his place.  Then there are the new parks in Richmond Borough, and this enormous commission down here among the snakes and jungles.  Well—­God bless you.  You’re twenty-five and busy.  I’m forty-five and”—­he looked drearily into the younger man’s eyes—­“burnt out,” he said with his mirthless laugh—­“and still drenching the embers with the same stuff that set ’em ablaze....  Good-bye, Garry.  Your boat’s alongside.  My compliments to your aunt.”