She found him one morning, a day or two later. She came down to the wharf, alone, and on foot. He held a note-book and pencil, but that he had not been above lending physical assistance, on occasion, to the natives bearing bags and other merchandise, was evident from his hands which were grimy as a stevedore's. His shirt was open at the throat, and his face, too, bore marks of toil. Betty Dalrymple stepped impetuously toward him; she looked as fresh as a flower, and held out a hand gloved in immaculate white.
"Dare I?" he laughed.
"If you don't!" Her eyes dared him not to take it.
He looked at the hand, such a delicate thing, and seemed still in the least uncertain; then his fingers closed on it.
"You see I managed to find you," she said. "Who is that man who stares so?"
"That," answered Mr. Heatherbloom smiling, "is my boss."
"Well," she observed, "I don't like his face."
"Some of the darkies he's knocked down share, I believe, your opinion," he laughed. "Excuse me a moment." And Mr. Heatherbloom stepped to the dumfounded person in question, handed him the note-book and pencil, with a request to keep tab for a moment, and then returned to the girl. "Now, I'm at your command," he said with a smile.
"Suppose we take a walk?" she suggested. "We can talk better if we do."
A moment Mr. Heatherbloom wavered. "Sorry," he then said, "but I've promised to stick by the job. You see the old tub sails to-morrow for South America and it'll be a task to get her loaded before night. Some of the hands, as well as the supercargo, have been bowled over by fire-water."