"Can't now. Too long a yarn. I want to tell you about the results. Couldn't do it to any one else," explained Blake, blushing darkly under his thick layer of tropical tan. He sought to beat around the bush. "Well, I proved myself fit to survive in that environment, tough as it was—sort of cave-man's hell. Queer thing, though, Jenny—Miss Leslie—proved fit, too; that is, she did after right at the start. She's got a headpiece, and grit!"
"Takes after her dad," suggested Griffith.
"Him!"
"As to the brains and grit."
"Not in anything else, though. They're no more alike than garlic and roses."
"Getting poetic, eh?" cackled Griffith.
"Don't laugh, Grif. It's too serious a matter. I'd do anything in the world for her. She's the truest, grittiest girl alive. She told me straight out, there at the last, that she—she loved me."
"Crickey!" ejaculated Griffith. "She told you that?—she?—Miss—"
"Hush! not so loud!" cautioned Blake. Again the color deepened in his bronzed cheeks. His pale eyes shone very blue and soft. "It was when we heard the siren of Jimmy's steamer. She—You'll forget this, Grif? Never whisper a hint of it?"
"Sure! What you take me for?"