"But what did they call you, afterward? What was the childish name you referred to?"
"Another of my mother's humorous fancies. She called me 'Ajo,' and others quickly caught up the horrid nickname. It is merely a contraction of A. Jones, and in Sangoa I am called nothing else."
"Ajo," repeated Beth, her sweet voice giving the title a pleasant sound.
"In Spanish it would be pronounced 'Ah-ho.'"
"But we are not Spanish in Sangoa."
"What are your people?"
"Formerly all Americans. The younger generation are, like myself I suppose, Sangoans by birth. But there isn't a black or yellow or brown man on our island."
"How many inhabitants has Sangoa?"
"About six hundred, all told."
There was silence for a while.
"Any pains yet?" inquired Beth.