things,
fifty thousand acres of Oahu pasture land, which he had bought for a
dollar an acre, grew eight tons of sugar to the acre every eighteen
months. No, in all truth, Isaac Ford was an heroic figure, fit, so
Percival Ford thought privately, to stand beside the statue of Kamehameha
I. in front of the Judiciary Building. Isaac Ford was gone, but he, his
son, carried on the good work at least as inflexibly if not as
masterfully.

He turned his eyes back to the _lanai_. What was the difference, he
asked himself, between the shameless, grass-girdled _hula_ dances and the
decollete dances of the women of his own race? Was there an essential
difference? or was it a matter of degree?

As he pondered the problem a hand rested on his shoulder.

"Hello, Ford, what are you doing here? Isn't this a bit festive?"

"I try to be lenient, Dr. Kennedy, even as I look on," Percival Ford
answered gravely. "Won't you sit down?"

Dr. Kennedy sat down, clapping his palms sharply. A white-clad Japanese
servant answered swiftly.

Scotch and soda was Kennedy's order; then, turning to the other, he
said:--

"Of course, I don't ask you."

"But I will take something," Ford said firmly. The doctor's eyes showed
surprise, and the servant waited. "Boy, a lemonade, please."

The doctor laughed at it heartily, as a joke on himself, and glanced at
the musicians under the _hau_ tree.

"Why, it's the Aloha Orchestra," he said. "I thought they were with the
Hawaiian Hotel on Tuesday nights. Some rumpus, I guess."

His eyes paused for a moment, and dwelt upon the one who was playing a
guitar and singing a Hawaiian song to the accompaniment of all the
instruments.

His face became grave as he looked at the singer, and it was still grave
as he turned it to his companion.

"Look here, Ford, isn't it time you let up on Joe Garland? I understand
you are in opposition to the Promotion Committee's sending him to the
States on this surf-board proposition, and I've been wanting to speak to
you about it. I should have thought you'd be glad to get him out of the
country. It would be a good way to end your persecution of him."

"Persecution?" Percival Ford's eyebrows lifted interrogatively.

"Call it by any name you please," Kennedy went on. "You've hounded that
poor devil for years. It's not his fault. Even you will admit that."

"Not his fault?" Percival Ford's thin lips drew tightly together for the
moment. "Joe Garland is