Curly flung himself down upon a seat, and lighted a cigarette. He cast
a furtive glance at Reynolds, thinking that perhaps he might be the
"parson."

"What have ye been doin', Curly?" the old man asked. "An' why was ye
driftin' out under that fog-bank? Ye nearly got left, let me tell ye
that."

"I know we did, and I thought that d----, excuse me, Sam," he
apologized, as he again glanced toward Reynolds. "I mean, I thought
that the fog-bank would never lift. We've been doing some of the
islands for several months."

"Strike anything?"

"Nothing, an' nearly starved in the bargain. If it hadn't been fer an
Indian mission, we wouldn't be alive now."

"Then missionaries are of some use after all, Curly. You was allus
hard on 'em, if I remember right."

"Umph! They're all right when one's starving. If they'd only leave
the Gospel dope out, it wouldn't be so bad."

"Got a dose of it, eh?"

"Should say I did. Morning, noon an' night I had to go to church with
the Indians. I've had enough to last me the rest of me life. Say,
weren't we glad to get away!"