Stretching forth a trembling hand, Triplett plucked the blossom from Kippy's hair!
You can only imagine the commotion which ensued when I tell you that, in the Filberts, for a man to pluck a flower from a woman's hair means only one thing. Poor Kippy was torn between love of me and what she thought was duty to my chief. I had a most difficult time explaining to her that Triplett meant absolutely nothing by his action, a statement which he corroborated by all sorts of absurd "I don't care," gestures—but he clung to the flower.
An hour later when we had escorted the ladies safely to their compound, I paddled back to the yawl. Peering through the port-hole I could see Triplett by the light of a phosphorous dip working on a rude diagram; at his elbow was the blue flower in a puta-shell of water.
"Triplett," I asked sternly, as I stood beside him an instant later, "what is that flower?"
"That," said Triplett, "is a compass-plant."
"And what is a compass-plant?"
"A compass-plant," said Triplett, "is—-," but for the third and last time, I anticipate.
I must get over that habit.