"She's right," he said, softly, "no decent woman would marry a dirty fellow like me."
He stood hesitatingly, then turned away towards his hut. There he got water and scoured himself almost savagely, then changed his clothes, and somewhat sheepishly, if the truth be told, made his way towards the Paradise Hotel.
It was pretty full; everyone had knocked off work for the day—the whole camp was spending the evening convivially—they hailed Bob with delight. Someone thrust a pewter pot into his hand, bade him drain it, and give them a song.
Bob looked round at the presiding goddess.
"If it's quite agreeable to all, I'll be happy," he said.
His look asked for Mariposas' permission. She did not answer for a moment, but looked him all over; he felt himself colouring.
"You've not been working to-day, have you, Bob?" she said.
He blushed painfully, and, their attention thus drawn, the whole camp noticed his spotless cleanliness.
"Yes," he answered.
"Then you've been getting married, or going to a christening since?"