She wanted to dance. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. She sat perfectly still, however.
"I am glad you think that," she replied. "Please tell me whenever I am at fault."
"I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. You're an angel of goodness."
"No, no! I have had wicked thoughts."
He laughed and pushed back his chair. "So has the butterfly evil thoughts. We're to be given a treat to-night. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. But, hang it, I know it's good!"
"Of course it is!"
In the afternoon he began work on another tale. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. But eventually Spurlock laughed. Not so bad. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away.
He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
"That's a good story, lad. You've caught the colour and the life. But it sounds too real to be imagined. You've never seen a typhoon, have you?"
"No."