"Well, imagination beats me!"
"It's something Ruth saw. She told me the tale the other night, and
I've only elaborated it."
"Ah, I see." McClintock saw indeed—two things: that the boy had no conceit and that this odd girl would always be giving. "Well, it's a good story."
He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. She always left the table when they began to smoke. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.
"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. I like the way you shared it. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred."
"Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no reason to hide the source."
"Have you told her?"
"Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair.
"You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. You are not a tourist seeking adventure. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice."
Spurlock grew limp in his chair. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"—his voice faint and thick.