There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. Mrs. Babies and females have got to keep hold of somebody or go under—anyhow, for the next few generations. He won’t be in uniform. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. "You see?" Ruth said. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later.
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