And presently, having won Chain Tickle, he pulled slowly to Aunt Amelia’s wharf, where he moored the punt, dreaming all the while of Haleema, Khouri’s daughter, star of the world. Before he climbed the hill to the little cottage, ghostly in the dusk and rain, he turned again to Hapless Harbor. The fog had been blown away; beyond the heads of the Tickle—far across the angry run—the lights of Hapless were shining cheerily.
“Ver’ good sailor—me!” thought Salim. “Ver’ good hand, you bet!”
A gust of wind swept down the Tickle and went bounding up the hill.
“He not get me!” muttered Salim between bared teeth.
A second gust showered the peddler with water snatched from the harbor.
“Ver’ glad to be in,” thought Salim, with a shudder, turning now from the black, tumultuous prospect. “Ver’ mos’ awful glad to be in!”
THE DARK, SMILING SALIM, WITH HIS MAGIC PACK, WAS WELCOME