"A beauty named Atupu," or "A black-eyed girl?" They had no aid among
the girls they interrogated.

"Why bother with some one who may be dead when we are here?" they
asked. And Juan listened to the sirens and rested content.

At Lovaina's there were seventy to dinner. Captain and officers were
cheek by jowl with gunners and plain sailors. The veranda was jammed
with tables, corks hitting the ceiling, glasses clinking, and Spanish,
French, English, and Tahitian confused in the chatter and the shouts
of To Sen, Hon Son, the maids, and a dozen friends of the hostess
who always came at such times to share the glory of the service.

Lovaina was at the serving-table with volunteers cutting cakes and
taking the money. The parlor, with its red and blue plush chairs,
was filled with Argentineans playing the piano and singing songs of
their country. Suddenly Lovaina discovered that some one had stolen
the album of portraits from the piano-top. These were of her family,
and of notable visitors who had written grateful notes after their
return home, and sent their pictures to her. Professor Hart, teacher
of English aboard the Sarmiento, was asked to find the thief, and he
promised that he would have the ship searched.

Lovaina lamented her loss, but counted her sovereigns. The Argentineans
had English gold, and Lovaina passed the shining, new pieces from
one hand to the other, enjoying their glitter and sound. She liked
to play with coins, and often amused herself as did the king in the
blackbird-pie melody.

"My God!" said Lovaina, as she pulled me down to her bench and rubbed