It was the noon hour. Scores of men were resting in the shade of the huts as she strode briskly past. They all smiled cheerily, but there was good humoured mockery in their smiles. Here and there were groups of women talking earnestly, excitedly.

Abel Landover was leaning in his doorway, watching her approach. His eyes gleamed. She was very beautiful, she was very desirable. She had been in his mind for months,—this fine, strong, thoroughbred daughter of a thoroughbred gentleman. His sleeves were rolled up, his throat was bare; his strong, deeply lined face was as brown as a berry; if anything, his cold grey eyes were harder and more penetrating than in the days when they looked out from a whiter countenance. He was a strong, dominant figure despite, the estate to which he had fallen,—a silent, sinister figure that might well have been described as “The Thinker.” For he was always thinking.

“I understand you tackled the 'boss' this morning, Ruth,” he said as she came up.

“I daresay the news is all over the island by this time,” she replied, still angry.

“Was it worth while?” he inquired, a trace of derision in his voice.

She was on the point of replying rather emphatically in the negative, when suddenly she recalled the look in Percival's eyes and the first words he spoke to her. She caught her breath. Her eyes sparkled, her lips parted in a rosy smile.

“Yes, Mr. Landover, it was worth while,” she said, and went on, leaving him to reflections that were as perplexing as they were unanticipated.

She experienced a short spell of triumph. After all, Percival was in love with her. She did not need Olga Obosky to tell her that. She could see, she could feel for herself. A certain glee possessed her,—indeed, as she afterwards succeeded in analysing the sensation, it bordered decidedly on malice. She had it in her power to make him miserable and unhappy. She would enjoy seeing him unhappy!

The meanness of the woman who longs to injure the man who loves her, whether loved or unloved, revealed itself for the moment in this fair-minded, generous girl. (It is a common trait, admitted by many fair-minded and generous women!) But even as she coddled and encouraged the little sprout of vengeance, the chill of common-sense rushed up and blighted it.

She had a sickening impression that Percival would fail to play the part according to her conception. In fact, he was quite capable of not playing it at all. He would pursue the even tenor of his way—(she actually made use of the time-honoured phrase in her reflections),—and she would get small satisfaction out of that.

Moreover, there was Olga Obosky to be reckoned with. She was conscious of a hot, swiftly passing sense of suffocation as the thought of Olga rushed unbidden into her brain,—for an instant only,—and then came the reaction: a queer chill that raced over her body from head to foot. What part would Olga Obosky play in the game?

The women congregated on the forward deck of the Doraine after supper that night. The evening repast was no longer dignified by the word dinner. The sky was inky black; not a star flickered in the vault above. There were low, far off mutterings of thunder. The rail lanterns,—few and far between,—threw their pallid beams down into the rippling basin in a sickly effort to penetrate the gloom.

Captain Trigger and Mr. Mott, smoking their pipes on the makeshift bridge, studied the throng of women in dour silence.

“I understand the farmers are praying for rain,” remarked Mr. Mott, sniffing the air with considerable satisfaction.

“It would do no end of good,” said Captain Trigger, without taking his eyes from the chattering mass below.

Mr. Codge, the purser, joined them.

“What are they waiting for?” he asked. “Why don't they call the meeting to order?”

“They did that half an hour ago,” said Mr. Mott. “Good Lord, man, can't you hear them talking? Have you no ears at all?”

“But they're all talking at once.”

“And why shouldn't they?” demanded the First Officer. “It's their meeting, isn't it?”

“I met Miss Clinton as I was coming up. She was going to her room. I asked her how the meeting was getting along. I don't believe she understood me, because all she said was 'good-night.'”

“I guess she understood you, all right,” said Mr. Mott, again sniffing the air. “Seems to me it's getting a little nearer, Captain Trigger. There's a little breeze coming up, too.”

“A good thunder-storm,—” began the Captain, musingly, but failed to complete the sentence.

“Would settle something besides the dust,” said Mr. Codge, after a deferential wait of a few seconds.

A figure detached itself from the mass on the weirdly lighted deck below and, approaching the perch of the three officers, came to a halt almost directly below them. The light of a lantern fell fairly on the upturned, smiling face of Olga Obosky.

“What is the hour, Captain Trigger?” she inquired.

“Almost nine, Madame Obosky.

“That is nearly two bells, eh, yes? How peaceful you look up there, you three old owls.”

“Come up!” invited the Captain cheerily. She joined them a moment later. “Tell me, are they leaving a shred of Percival and his band of outlaws?”

Mr. Codge struck a match and held it for her to light a cigarette. She inhaled deeply and then expelled the smoke in what seemed like a prolonged sigh of satisfaction.

“They are very funny, those women,” she said, placing her elbows on the rail and looking down at the crowd. “Do you know what the trouble is now? It is this: they cannot think of a way to condemn the action of those men as a body without also including Mr. Percivail in the verdict.”

“How's that?”

“Ninety-five per cent, of them want to exonerate Mr. Percivail, but they don't know how to do it in view of the fact that he is the guiltiest man of them all. That's why I say they are very funny, those women. They approve of what he has done in naming the baby, because whatever he does must be right, but they are almost unanimous in charging that all the other men out there were wrong. So they are in a great dilemma.”

Captain Trigger laughed. “I see. What was Miss Clinton's position in the debate?”

“Oh, she was one of those who insisted that Mr. Percivail alone be held accountable, the other men not at all. She was the chairman, you see, and they were oblige to listen to her at first. But zen, presently, one of those Brazilian ladies said it was a shame to put all the blame on dear Mr. Percivail, who is such a gentleman and so splendid and all zat,—and zen—then zat Mrs. Block jump up and say that if it was not for Mr. Percivail her husband would have been killed last week when he fell off of the landing into ten sousand feet of water. And the great Careni-Amori she get up and say she would die for Mr. Percivail because he is such a gentleman, and two of those nurses at the same time cry out that he ought to be in the hospital because he is so worn-out working for other people zat he can hardly drag his poor feet around. And so it goes. Miss Clinton has departed, her chin in the air. But she does not deceive me. She has gone to her room to have a good weeping.”

“Well, I wish they'd get together on something,” growled the Captain; “so's we can all go to bed and get a few hours' sleep.”

“Like as not they're keeping the baby awake with all this jabbering,” said Mr. Codge. “And that isn't good for babies, you know. They've got to have plenty of sleep. Specially little ones.”

“Will you tell me, Captain Trigger, why Mr. Percivail did not come aboard tonight?” asked Olga suddenly. “They were expecting him.”

“And they were disappointed, eh?”

“I dare say. At any rate, a good many of them kept peering out over the water most of the time, and listening for the sound of oars.” She laughed softly.

The men chuckled. “Talk about strategy,” said Mr. Mott, “he's a bird at it. Keeps 'em guessing, he does. By glory, I wish I'd known how to handle women as well as he does. I might have been married fifteen or twenty times if I could have kept 'em anxious and worried,—but I couldn't. I never did have any sense about women. That's why I'm a bachelor instead of a grandfather.”

“He told Miss Clinton he was coming,” said Olga, harking back to the unanswered question.

“I daresay he changed his mind,” said the Captain, rather evasively.

“I do not believe zat. There is some other reason. He is not a woman, Captain Trigger.”

“Well, to tell you the truth—but don't let it go any farther, Madame,—he came aboard just before supper to find out how Mrs. Cruise is getting along. Dr. Cullen told him exactly what all these women down there know,—that she's very low,—so he went ashore. Said something about not wanting to take part in any racket that might disturb her,—noisy talk, and all that,—and left a bunch of wild flowers for her in case she was better by morning.”

There was a slight noise behind them. Turning, they saw the figure of a woman in the shadow of the deck house.

“Who's there?” demanded Mr. Mott.

Ruth Clinton stepped forward into the light.

“Did he—did he do that?” she asked huskily.

“He did,” said the Captain.

“And is she so very ill? I did not know, Captain Trigger.”

“She's likely to die, Miss Clinton,—poor little woman.”

Ruth was silent for a moment. Then: “Do you think she—she can hear all that hubbub down there?”

“I am sure she cannot. But Percival was afraid she could, so he—well, he thought it best not to make it any worse by adding his groans of agony when you women tore him limb from limb out here on deck. That's the way he put it, so don't look at me like that.”

Ruth suddenly hung her head and walked away. As she disappeared down the steps, Mr. Codge remarked, sotto voce:

“She isn't as rabid as she was, is she?”

“She's got it in for Percival ever since he took that fall out of Landover,” said Mr. Mott.

“Think she's—er—keen on Landover? He's a good bit older than she is,—twenty years or so, I should say.”

“Don't ask me, Codge. As I was saying awhile ago, I don't know anything whatsoever about women. They know all about me, but, gosh, I'm worse than a baby goat where they're concerned. There's no law against her being in love with Landover, and there's no law against him marrying a woman fifty years younger'n himself if he feels like it. Now you take that good looking Russian over there talking to the Captain. Who knows what's in her mind? Nobody, sir,—nobody. All I know is that Landover tried to—”

“Sh! They've got ears like cats,” cautioned Mr. Codge.

“—And she put him in his place so quick it made his head swim. That's why he's got it in for her so hard. He says she's not fit for decent women to associate with. On the other hand, if she had been willing to flirt a little with him, and so on, he would have said all the other women were cats if they refused to take up with her. That's a man all over for you, Codge. I hope Miss Clinton ain't considering getting married to that man. He's one of these here what-do-you-call-'ems? Er—”

“Sybarites?” said Codge, who had picked up a good deal from conversations with Peter Snipe.

“That ain't the word,” said Mr. Mott. “Now, I'll lay awake all night trying to think of that word. Damn the luck!”

He fell into a profound state of mental concentration, from which he was aroused a few minutes later by the swift and almost unheralded shower that rushed up ahead of the thunderstorm. The rumble of the “apple carts” in the vault above had suddenly become ominous, and there were fitful flares of light in the blackness.

The indignation meeting broke up in a wild scurry of skirts. It is worthy of mention that nothing definite had transpired. The speeches of the ardent suffragettes from the wilds of London were all that the most exacting could have demanded, for they covered all of the known and a great many of the unsuspected iniquities that the masculine flesh is heir to, but except for an introductory sentence or two they failed to touch upon the object of the meeting. They all began with something like “While I am frank to admit that Doraine is a very pretty name,” or “Notwithstanding the fact that Doraine is a lovely name,” or “If I had a child of my own, I should not in the least object to calling her Doraine,” and so on and so forth, but they cruelly abandoned the baby in the next breath, leaving it to be revived by the ensuing speaker.

The rain came just in time to prevent a vote being taken on a motion made by Miss Gladys Spotts. She moved that a committee of three be appointed to serve notice on Captain Trigger, et al, that it was the unanimous sense of the meeting that the women should not only have voice and vote on all public questions, but also representation in the official government. She had learned that there was talk of electing a mayor, a town clerk, a treasurer, a sheriff and a board of commissioners, and it ought to be understood in advance that—

The torrent came at that instant, but it requires a very slight stretching of the imagination in order to understand precisely what Miss Spotts insisted ought to be understood.

It rained very hard all night, and thundered, and lightened, and blew great guns. Not one, but all of the women, tucked away in their bunks, wondered how those poor men were faring out there in that black and lonely camp!

The next morning it was still raining. (In fact, it rained steadily for three days and nights.) Betty Cruise died shortly after daybreak, and with her death ended the controversy over the naming of her babe.

She was the first to be laid to rest in the burying-ground on Cape Sunrise. Services were conducted on the Doraine by the Reverend Mr. Mackenzie, assisted by Father Francisco. All work was suspended on the morning of the funeral. Shortly before noon the entire company walked, in a long, straggling procession, from the landing to the spot three miles distant where the lonely grave awaited its occupant. Careni-Amori sang “Lead, Kindly Light” and “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” at the graveside. There were tears in a thousand eyes, and every voice was husky. To most of these people, Betty Cruise meant nothing, but she was to lie out there alone on the wind-swept point, and they were deeply moved. They all went back to work after the midday meal, a strangely silent, thoughtful company,—even down to the lowliest “Portugee.”

Mr. Mott, the gaunt old cynic, surprised every one, including himself, by adopting the infant! He announced his decision on the day after the funeral.

“That baby's got to have a father and a grandfather and a mother, and all that,” he declared to Captain Trigger, “and I'm going to be all of them, Weatherby. It ain't legal, I know, and I reckon I'll have to turn her over to her proper relatives if they make any demand,—provided we ever get off this island,—but while she's here she's mine, and that settles it, and as long afterward as God's willing. Chances are that no one at home will want to be bothered with an infant that don't actually belong to 'em, so I shouldn't wonder but what I'll have her always. What are you laughing at?”

“I was just thinking that you didn't mention anything about being a grandmother to her.”

“Is that meant to be sarcastic?”

“Not at all,” said the Captain hastily, noting the look in Mr. Mott's eyes. “But for fear you may think it was, I take it all back, Andrew.”

“I laid awake all last night worrying about how lonely and useless and unoccupied I'm going to be if we stick here on this island for any considerable length of time, not to say, always, and I made up my mind that if I had that kid to bring up, life would be sort of worth while. I'll probably live a good deal longer if I have something to live and work for. Ain't that so?”

“It certainly is,” agreed the Captain. “Do you mind my asking how you're going to feed it?”

“I've got that all attended to,” said Mr. Mott calmly. “I've been to see three of these women who've got tiny babies, and they've promised between 'em to nurse this one. It's all fixed, Captain. Of course, I don't know how it's going to work out, seeing as one of 'em is Spanish, one of 'em Portugee and the other a full-blooded Indian,—but they're all healthy.”

“It's very noble of you, Andrew,” said the Captain, laying his hand on the First Officer's shoulder.

“Absolutely not,” snapped Mr. Mott. “It's nothing but plain, rotten selfishness on my part,—and I don't give a damn who knows it.”