Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. " "Because he said he was a Yale man?" "That might be it. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. E. Clement's church. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. I sha'n't utter a word. "A sail?" said McClintock.
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