that white, when I see them as yearlings, you'd never suspect
they had a dab o' the tar-brush in 'em at all. The boy had red
hair--provin' he was yourn, Gib."

Mr. Gibney could stand no more. He sat down on the hatch coaming
and covered his face with his hard red hands. "If there was kids,
Scraggsy," he sobbed, "I didn't know it. I had everything else,
Scraggs, but heirs to my throne. Scraggsy, believe me or not, but
if I'd had children I'd have stuck by Pinky. I wouldn't desert my
own flesh an' blood, so help me."

"Well," Scraggs went on sorrowfully, "Pinky's dead an' so her
troubles is over. I heard some years ago she'd passed on with
consumption. But them two _hapahaole_ kids o' yourn, Gib. Just
think of it. Banged an' ragged around between decks, neither
black nor white--too good for the natives an' not good enough for
the whites. Princes on their mother's side, they been robbed o'
their hereditary rights by a gang o' native roughnecks, while
their own father loafs alongshore in San Francisco an' enjoys
himself."

"Looky here, Scraggs," Mr. McGuffey struck in ominously. "Ain't
you said about enough? Don't hit a feller when he's down."

"Well, he ain't down so low that he can't climb back. If he's got
a spark o' manhood left in him he'll never rest until he goes
back to Aranuka, looks up them progeny o' his, an' does his best
to make amends for the past. Gib, you can't work for me aboard
the _Maggie_--not if the old girl couldn't turn her screw until
you stepped aboard. Pers'nally you got a lot o' fine p'ints an'