"Glad of that, too. But I repeat, I've lost the parlour varnish and the

art of parlour talk. For seven years I've been wandering in strange

places, most of them hard; so I say what I think and act on the spur. That

dog had liquor on his breath. Is Cunningham secretly letting them into the

dry-stores?"

"The man may have brought it aboard at Shanghai. What a horrible thing a

great war is! In a week it knocks aside all the bars of restraint it took

years to erect. Could a venture like this have happened in 1913? I doubt

it. There comes your father. But who is the man with him? He's been

hurt."

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"Father's watchdog. They had to beat him up to get his gun away from him.

That was the racket we heard. Evidently Father expects you to read to him,

so I'll take a constitutional."

"Why, where's your uniform?" she cried.

"Laid it aside. From now on it will be stuffy. Those military boots were

killing me. I borrowed the rig from one of the pirates, but I'll have to

go barefoot."

"Will you come to your chair soon? I shall worry otherwise. You might run

into that man again."

"I shan't go below," he promised, starting off.

Twenty thousand at compound interest for seven years, he thought, as he

made the first turn. A tidy sum to start life with. Could he swallow his

pride? And yet what hope was there of making a real living? He had never

specialized in anything, and the world was calling for specialists and

discarding the others. Another point to consider: Foot-loose for seven

years, could he stand the shackles of office work, routine, the sameness

day in and day out? He was returning to the States without the least idea

what he wanted to do; that was the disturbing phase of it. If only he were

keen for something! A typical son of the rich man. The only point in his

favour was that he had not spent his allowances up and down Broadway. No,

he would never touch a dollar of that money. That was final.

What lay back of this sudden desire to make good in the world? Love! There

wasn't the slightest use in lying to himself. He wanted Jane Norman with

all the blood in his body, with all the marrow in his bones; and he had

nothing to offer her but empty hands.

He shot a glance toward the bridge. And because he had no right to

speak--obligated to silence by two reasons--that easy-speaking scoundrel

might trap her fancy. It could not be denied that he was handsome, but he

was nevertheless a rogue. The two reasons why he must not speak were

potent. In the first place, he had nothing to offer; in the second place,

the terror she was no doubt hiding bravely would serve only to confuse

her--that is, she might confuse a natural desire for protection with

something deeper and tenderer, and then discover her mistake when it was

too late.




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