His face sobered, and he stood for several moments staring thoughtfully into space. Then his gaze chanced to fall upon the great crimson blossom which had so nearly lured the girl to her death.
“Hello!” he exclaimed; “that’s an amaryllis. Wonder if she wasn’t coming to pick it–” He snapped shut the lid of the cigarette case, thrust it carefully into his shirt pocket, and stepped forward to pluck the flower. “Makes a fellow feel like a kid; but maybe it’ll make her feel less sore at me.”
He stood gazing at the flower for several moments, his eyes aglow with a soft blue light.
“Whew!” he sighed; “if only– But what’s the use? She’s ’way out of my class–a rough brute like me! All the same, it’s up to me to take care of her. She can’t keep me from being her friend–and she sure can’t object to my picking flowers for her.”
Amaryllis in hand, he gathered up his bow and club. Then he paused to study the skin of the decapitated adder. The inspection ended with a shake of his head.
“Better not, Thomas. It would make a dandy quiver; but then, it might get on her nerves.”
When he came to the ant-hill, he found companions and honey alike gone. He went on to the cocoanuts. There he came upon Winthrope stretched flat beside the skin of honey. Miss Leslie was seated a little way beyond, nervously bending a palm-leaf into shape for a hat.
“I say, Blake,” drawled Winthrope, “you’ve been a deuced long time in coming. It was no end of a task to lug the honey–”
Blake brushed past without replying, and went on until he stood before the girl. As she glanced up at him, he held out the crimson blossom.
“Thought you might like posies,” he said, in a hesitating voice.