I like you, but now that I know your past----"

He threw out his hands despairingly. "It's your morals, Gib, it's
your blasted morals."

"You're right, Scraggs," Mr. Gibney mumbled brokenly. "It's my
duty to go look up them poor children o' mine. Bart, you stick by
old Scraggsy. I owe him somethin' for showin' me my duty an' I'm
lookin' to you to pay the interest on my bill till I get back
with them poor kids o' mine. Until then I guess I ain't fit to
'sociate with white men."

Mr. McGuffey appeared on the point of weeping and put his arm
around his old comrade in silent sympathy. Presently Mr. Gibney
shook hands with him and Scraggs and, motioning them not to
follow him, went ashore. Before him, in his mind's eye, there
floated the picture of a South Sea Island with the nodding,
tufted palms fringing the beach and the glow of a volcano against
the moonlit sky. Standing on the headland, waving him a last
farewell, stood the broken-hearted victim of his capricious
youth, the lovely Pinky Poui-Slam-Bang. Every lineament of her
beautiful features was tattooed indelibly on his memory; he knew
she would haunt him forever.

He went up to the Bowhead saloon, had a drink, leaned on the end
of the bar and thought it over. There was but one way to get back
to Aranuka and that was to ship out before the mast on a South
Sea trader--and with that thought came remembrance of the _Tropic
Bird_, soon to be discharged and outward bound.