Grumbling to himself, he struggled to his feet. What was his surprise then to find himself looking into the eyes of Madge Kennedy.
“I—I couldn’t stand my stateroom all alone on such a night,” she told him. “I hoped some one would be down here, so I came.”
“I am glad you did,” Johnny struggled to a place opposite her, then looked across the table at her.
“You’re not used to storms at sea,” he said, noting the weary expression on her face.
“Not this kind.”
“Nor anyone else I guess. Don’t worry. We’ll weather it. We’ll be in New York one of these days with our cargo. Then the sun will be shining on both sides of the street.”
“Will it, Johnny?” A wistful look came into her eyes.
“Do you know, Johnny,” she went on, “I’ve been thinking to-night of our orchard and our jungle. I dreamed a bad dream last night. Dreamed that we couldn’t sell the fruit, couldn’t go back to our orchard and our jungle because there was no money.
“That would be pretty bad, particularly for Grandfather. He’s lived there since he was a very young man. He loves it and he loves his black Caribs.
“You know, Johnny,” her eyes became suddenly dreamy, her voice mellow, “I’ve read in books how people who live in other lands love their homes, their stone castles and their thatched cottages, their apple orchards, their groves and their tiny clustered villages. All that sounds fine, but very far away. For we too came to love our homes in the tropical jungle. To see sunset redden behind the tops of the tangled jungle, to hear the night birds call, to see the shadow of palms lengthen and lengthen, then to feel the damp of evening kiss your cheeks. Oh yes, Johnny, there is a charm in our land. And to us it is home.”