“I! It matters but little to me where I go. But I am sick to death of this island, and long to be doing something. I am a man without a home, without ties, a wandering South Sea deadbeat—no friends.”
“You must not say that,” she said softly. “I am sure you have many friends. Just now you spoke of one—José Otano.”
“Aye, I did; but I meant friends in Europe, in the outer and greater world—people who care for, who even give me a passing thought.”
“That is sad, indeed. Oh, it must be sad to be alone, quite, quite alone in the world. And I am very, very sorry for you, Mr. Sherry.”
The deep ring of sympathy in her voice warmed my heart to the little woman.
“Mrs. Krause,” I said—and I spoke quietly, “you are a brave woman, else you would not dare to come with me in a small boat to so distant a place as Fiji or Samoa. But will you be braver still, and risk your life in a still more dangerous enterprise?”
“I will, indeed, Mr. Sherry. I have no sense of the fear of death—none, absolutely none,” she replied.
“Then let us give up the idea of Fiji,” I cried, catching her hand, “let us go to the north-west—to Guam, to your own home.”
“Oh,” and she gave a low gasp of pleasure. “Oh, yes, indeed, it will be a wonderful voyage.”
“Yes, if we ever get there,” I said. “But we can try.”