To Connart and his wife there seemed something miraculous in the unfolding of this island from the wastes of the blue and desolate sea. They had pictured this new home often in their minds, but they had pictured nothing like this. It had been waiting for them all their lives, and it seemed to them now that the souls of all the pleasant places they had ever seen or dreamed of were waiting to greet them on that summer-girdled reef.
As they passed the break and entered the lagoon the true island beach of blinding white sand showed its curve lipped by the emerald waters, and through the foliage came glimpses of the white houses of the little town.
“Look,” said Mrs. Connart, wide-eyed and drawing deep breaths as if to inhale the strangeness and beauty of the scene before her, “there are people on the beach, natives, and look at the canoes.”
“There’s a boat pushing off,” said Connart, “and a big fellow in a striped suit in her.”
“That’s Seedbaum,” said Captain Bowlby; “wonder what he wants, comin’ to inspect—gin, likely.”
The anchor fell, waking the echoes of the woods, and the Golden Gleam, swinging to the tide that was just beginning to steal out of the lagoon, lay with her nose pointing to the beach whilst the boat came alongside, and the man in the striped suit scrambled on board.
He was a big man, with bulging eyes, a shaved head, and feet encased in worn-out tennis shoes. The suit seemed made of flannelette.
Mrs. Connart at first sight took a profound dislike to this individual.
Seedbaum—for Seedbaum it was—saluted Bowlby, gave him good-day, cast his eye at the strangers and opened up.
“I knew you before you made the anchorage,” said he, “dropped in for water, I suppose.”