ened ostentatiously, and
after a suitable pause, produced a cabinet photograph which he pressed
to his lips with a theatrical flourish.

Barry crouched in his chair, feet drawn under him, hands gripping the
chair arms and supporting most of his weight. Little watched the group
curiously, for the moment forgetting his inflammable friend. The picture
went around, to the accompaniment of coarse jests, the burden of which
indicated that the Celebes Mission field was due to either gain a
convert in Leyden or lose a valued worker in the person of the picture's
original.

Leyden replied with a remark that would have procured him a beating in a
sailor's dive, and Barry lurched to his feet with a lurid, rumbling
oath. Little started up, too, but half-heartedly, then sat down to
follow the action of his friend. He too had caught that last remark, and
his fingers itched to feel Leyden's windpipe throb under them.

Barry staggered across the veranda, cleverly simulating drunkenness.
Furious as he was, he was cool enough to play a definite and reasonably
safe game. He lost his balance ten feet from Leyden's chair, recovered
himself with a damp hiccough and maudlin apology, then darted forward
and sprawled among the hilarious group with hands outstretched for the
table to support himself.

Mumbling incoherently, he slowly raised himself and glared owlishly
around, caught sight of the picture in Leyden's hand, and grabbed for
it.

"Pretty, pretty," he gabbled, leering at Leyden and prodding that fuming
gentleman in the ribs with a hard finger. "'Zat your sister?"

An awkward laugh burst from the party. Recalling the remarks they had
been bandying about, they considered how little sport they would have
caused Leyden had the original of that picture been in truth his sister.
Leyden flushed to his hair roots, then paled with fury. He seized Barry
by the shoulder, picked up a glass of schnapps, and flung the stinging
liquor into the sailor's face.

Barry's pose dropped in a flash. He made an expertly short job of the
coolie kicker now the opening had come. Ramming a right fist like a
jib-sheet-block hard into Leyden's solar plexus, he brought the same
hand up streaking to the jaw; his left shot out as his man staggered to
fall, and crunched home with a smash into the now distorted features.

Uproar ensued. The landlord ran in, feigning distress. Little joined,
and the supposedly drunken sailor was hauled away from his fallen
adv