"Is that your first or last name?"
"Both, sar—h'Allan h'Allan."
"Mr. Allan Allan, you're unusually dark for a Scotchman," said Kirk, gravely. "Now, speaking as one gentleman to another, do you happen to know where we can get a hand-out?"
"'And-out?" inquired the puzzled negro.
"Yes; a lunch. Can't you lead me to a banana vine or a breadfruit bakery? I'm starving. They grow the finest cocoanuts in the world right here—worth five cents apiece; they require no care, have no worms, no bugs. You sit still and they drop in your lap. Can't you show me a tree where we can sit and wait for something to drop?"
Allan replied, seriously: "But when the cocoanut falls, it is no good for h'eating, sar. The milk is h'acid."
"I see you have a sense of humor; you should be in the consular service. But h'acid or sweet, h'eating or cooling, I must get something into my stomach—it's as flat as a wet envelope."
The Jamaican rose, saying: "Step this way, please. I know the place where a very good female is. Per'aps she will make us a present."
"How far is it?"
"Oh, not too far," Allan replied, optimistically, and Kirk hopefully followed him.