Garman slowly, "you were the average young cub I'd get
to my feet and apologize for speaking sense; but you're fairly well
grown. All you need, Payne, is to have the fresh young mask pulled
from the face of Life and to see the old hag as she really is. Then
you'd be fit for something. Payne, I believe I'm going to do that
service for you."

He looked toward the house where Annette was to be seen on the
verandah. He smiled as he saw how Roger's eyes followed his.

"Payne, it's those girls with the fair, thin skin that the Southern sun
and tropical environment are ruthless with. They've no shield against
nature's relentless desire down here, tropical nature's desire for a
welter of life. And when they're too young to have developed the hard
outer shell of experience, why, their womanhood is just naked to the
searching, smirching tropical sun, and they go plumb crazy. Develop
dual personalities. Lose their civilization. Want to go into the
jungle, and so on. Thin white skin, like thinnest silk, and blue veins
full of young red blood showing through. A fine spectacle, Payne; a
natural princess among girls writhing in a struggle against the luring
muck of the jungle. Ever hear of Palm Island? She's struggling
against going there. Well, she'll lose her struggle; has lost it;
that's settled. Come on to dinner."

On the verandah he paused sharply, whirling about with the swiftness of
a tiger. Ramos, the Mexican, had come galloping out of the jungle,
flogging his horse as he came.

"Well?" Garman's attitude, suggested the crouch of a tiger ready to
spring.

"_Si_! Yes; it is so!"

"They've got him?"

"Yes. He is on Palm Island, surrounded; not caught."

"A-a-ah!" Garman rubbed his hands together as a growl of triumph
rumbled up from his thick red throat. "Have Prince saddled, Ramos.
Then ride back and watch so they don't hurt him. I'll follow--I'm
called away--on business, Annette. You entertain Mr. Payne."

With a leap he was off the verandah and running for the stables.

Payne met him as he mounted, and caught the horse by the head.

"Garman, who's the man Ramos spoke of?"

"Let go, you fool! The brute's a striker."

Payne dodged the flash of the animal's forehoofs, but caught a bridle
rein.

"Who is he, Garman?"

"A fool--trespassing. Just business."

"Not Higgins or any of my men?"

"No, nobody you know. Look out!"

The horse lunged forward. Payne stepped aside. Garman was