"Well, you succeeded," said John Quincy without enthusiasm.
The lieutenant sat down with the manner of one booked to remain indefinitely. "I'll tell the world it's some night," he offered.
"Speaking of the world, when do you fellows leave Honolulu?" asked John Quincy.
"I don't know. To-morrow, I guess. Me, I don't care if we never go. Hawaii's not so easy to leave. Is it, Cary?"
She shook her head. "Hardest place I know of, Johnnie. I shall have to be sailing presently, and I know what a wrench it will be. Perhaps I'll follow the example of Waioli the swimmer, and leave the boat when it passes Waikiki."
They lolled for a moment in silence. Suddenly John Quincy sat up. "What was that you said?" he asked.
"About Waioli? Didn't I ever tell you? He was one of our best swimmers, and for years they tried to get him to go to the mainland to take part in athletic meets, like Duke Kahanamoku. But he was a sentimentalist—he couldn't bring himself to leave Hawaii. Finally they persuaded him, and one sunny morning he sailed on the Matsonia, with a very sad face. When the ship was opposite Waikiki he slipped overboard and swam ashore. And that was that. He never got on a ship again. You see—"
John Quincy was on his feet. "What time was it when we left the beach?" he asked in a low tense voice.
"About eight-thirty," said Booth.
John Quincy talked very fast. "That means I've got just thirty minutes to get ashore, dress, and reach the dock before the President Tyler sails. I'm sorry to go, but it's vital—vital. Cary, I'd started to tell you something. I don't know when I'll get back, but I must see you when I do, either at Mrs. Maynard's or the hotel. Will you wait up for me?"