mile-long wooded island a bare thousand yards off the weather
bow.

A mangrove fringe covered the shoreline, two thirds of the way
around the key. At the eastern end was a strip of snowy beach
backed by an irregular line of coconut palms, and with a very
respectable dock in the foreground. From the pier a wooden
path led upward through the scattering double row of palms to
a corrugated iron hut, with smaller huts and outbuildings half
seen through the foliage-vistas beyond.

"I've some fairly good mango trees back yonder," said Standish
as he brought the launch alongside the dock's wabbly float,
"and grapefruit that is paying big dividends at last. The
mangoes won't be ripe till June, of course. But they're sold
already, to the last half-bushel of them."

"'Futures,' eh?" suggested Gavin,

"'Futures,'" assented Milo. "And 'futures' in farming. are
just about as certain as in Wall Street. There's a mighty
gamble to this farm-game."

"How long have--?" began Gavin, then stopped short and
stared.

One or two negro laborers had drifted down toward the dock, as
the boat warped in at the float. Now, from the corrugated
iron hut appeared a white man, who, at sight of the boat,
broke into a limping run and was in time to catch the line