Mr. McGuffey appeared on the point of weeping and put his arm around his old comrade in silent sympathy. Presently Mr. Gibney shook hands with him and Scraggs and, motioning them not to follow him, went ashore. Before him, in his mind's eye, there floated the picture of a South Sea Island with the nodding, tufted palms fringing the beach and the glow of a volcano against the moonlit sky. Standing on the headland, waving him a last farewell, stood the broken-hearted victim of his capricious youth, the lovely Pinky Poui-Slam-Bang. Every lineament of her beautiful features was tattooed indelibly on his memory; he knew she would haunt him forever.
He went up to the Bowhead saloon, had a drink, leaned on the end of the bar and thought it over. There was but one way to get back to Aranuka and that was to ship out before the mast on a South Sea trader—and with that thought came remembrance of the Tropic Bird, soon to be discharged and outward bound.
Five minutes later, Mr. Gibney was aboard the Tropic Bird and had presented himself at her master's cabin. "Where're you bound for next trip, sir?" he inquired.
"General trading through the Marquesas, the Society Islands, and the Gilberts."
"Happen to be goin' to Aranuka, in the Gilberts?"
"You bet. Got a trading station there."
"How are you off for a good mate?"
"Got one."
"How about a second mate?"
"Got a crackerjack."