Terry halted a moment at the curb, rapt in appreciation of the spot. Acres of lawn, splashed with flaming red and yellow canna beds, swept from roadway to edge of sea: wide shell roads, smooth as planks, wound in great curves into the dark groves of cocoanut palms which surrounded the inclosure on three sides and extended back a thousand acres in symmetrical rows of towering trunks which created endless shaded glades: turning slowly, he saw the immaculately policed prison inclosure showing through the steel grillwork which an intelligent mind had substituted for grim and stuffy prison walls. It seemed less prison than sanctuary.
The development of the prison farm, the development of its Moro inmates, was Wade's life. "Lieutenant, I am glad you like it," he said simply. "It is home to me."
The Governor had strolled out on the lawn for a lingering look around him. Returning to the veranda he eyed Wade and Bronner quizzically.
"Each of you has too fine an establishment for the barren needs of bachelors. I wish you had more confidence in the blissful state of matrimony!"
Wade shook his head decisively. The Major snorted.
"Huh! No petticoats for mine!"
A stolid Moro servant padded up with a tray bearing four cocktails: in a moment carried them kitchen-ward, rejected.
The Governor laughed: "Not one in four! An unusual showing, Wade." He turned to Terry: "You never drink?"
"I—I don't care for it, Governor."
A pause, and he added, flushing slightly: "That was not quite honest, sir. I have never tried it."