time o' day?" he drawled. "Not a word. Not a derned word, 'Rion."

Landing at the fish wharf, Tunis Latham walked up the straggling
street of the district inhabited for the most part by smiling brown
men and women. Fayal and Cape Cod are strangely analogous,
especially upon a summer's day. The houses he passed had one room;
they were little more than shacks. But there were gay colors
everywhere in the dress of both men and women. It was believed that
these Portygee fishermen would have their seines dyed red and yellow
if the fish would swim into them.

A young woman sitting upon a doorstep, nursing a little, bald,
brown-headed baby, dropped a gay handkerchief over her bared bosom
but nodded and smiled at the captain of the _Seamew_ with right good
fellowship. He knew all these people, and most of them, the young
women at least, admired Tunis; but he was too self-centered and
busied with his own thoughts and affairs to comprehend this.

At the corner of one of the houses a girl stood--a tall,
lean-flanked, but deep-bosomed creature, as graceful as a well-grown
sapling. Her calico frock clung to the lines of her matured figure
as though she had just stepped up out of the sea itself. Around her
head she had banded a crimson bandanna, but it allowed the escape of
glossy black hair that waved prettily. Her lips were as red as
poppies, full, voluptuous; her eyes were sloe-black and as soft as a
cow's. Fortunately for the languishing girl's peace of mind--she had
placed herself there at the corner of the house to wait for Tunis
since the moment the _Seamew_ had dropped anchor--she did not know
that the young captain had noticed her only as "that cow" as he
swung by on his way to the road that wound up the slope of Wreckers'