"Steve!"
He looked at his partner and smiled. Steve had a voice about as melodious as the jay-bird.
"Then I am not wanted?"
All the men looked at Mariposas, waiting for her to speak. They thought in some way Bob had offended.
"No," she said, "not here. Good-night, Bob; give my love to your sweetheart."
He went out slowly, and back to his hut. He could not understand how he had offended the girl—what made her treat him so. It never crossed his mind that it might simply be wilfulness. Once or twice he sang his little love song over to himself; then he closed his eyes, folded his arms as they had been folded when he held the girl he loved in them, and tried to think she was there still.
About midnight Steve came in. Bob opened his eyes and looked at him. Something about his footstep had struck him as unusual; generally it was light, now it dragged; his face, too, was colourless, and in his boyish eyes there were tears.
Bob rose slowly and went to him.
"Anything wrong, Steve?" he asked, laying his great hand upon his partner's shoulder with a touch gentle as a woman's.
Steve dropped his face upon his hands.