"Oh!" said the other, scraping the frozen sugar off the rim of his empty glass as he spoke, and sucking it off his finger--"Oh! if that's all, he's welcome enough to go to the Virgin Isles if he wants to. I thought he wanted to shove some dollars into coco-growing or Liberian coffee. A tourist, eh?"
"That's all," said Reginald, "only a tourist."
"Well! there's good enough sailing round the Virgin Isles or any others in these parts, if you want to sail; but I thought Mr. Juby said you were a sailor. Now, if you are, what do you want to go sailin' about for? Isn't dry land good enough for a sailor off duty?"
"Do you know the Virgin Islands?" asked Reginald, not caring to notice the man's cantankerous disposition.
"Know 'em! I guess I do know 'em! all the lot. And not one worth a red. Which do you particular want to see?"
"All of them," replied Reginald. "Perhaps Tortola in particular."
"Tortola! the rottenest of the lot, except, perhaps, Anegada. Or, p'raps I'd best say Coffin Island. That is about the--there! well!----I'll be----"
"Coffin Island!" exclaimed Reginald, now very wary. "That's a sweet name! What sort of a place is that?"
"Kinder place fit to go and die in, to just roll yourself up in and kick. Kind of a dog's hole, covered with palm trees, gros-gros, moriches and all, Spanish baggonets and sich like. A place as is all yellow and voylet and pink and crimson with flowers, and smells like a gal's boodwar," (this was an awful mouthful for him, but he got it out safely), "though I don't know much about gals' boodwars neither. My daughters ain't got none."
"It must be lovely," Reginald said quietly.