li, for instance, they haven't any rabbits and they serve up cats
instead. 'Gato piquante' they call it, which means savory cat. I've
never tasted it, but I know those who have, and they say that it makes
the finest kind of stew."

"Why not?" commented Drew, with a grin. "Catfish is good. So is
catsup. Why not cat stew?"

"I think you men are just horrid!" exclaimed Ruth. "Taking away poor
Wah Lee's character like this behind his back."

"Well, I guess we won't have to worry about his falling from grace on
this cruise," laughed her father. "We're too well stocked up for him
to be driven to try experiments."

When they went up on deck, the moon had risen. Its golden light tipped
the waves with a sheen of glory and turned the spray into so much
glittering diamond dust. Under its magic witchery, the ropes and
rigging looked like lace work woven by fairy fingers.

The crew were grouped up in the bow, and one of them was playing a
concertina. Mr. Rogers paced the deck, casting a look aloft from time
to time to see that the sails were drawing well. The wind had a slight
musical sound as it swept through the rigging, and this blended with
the regular slapping of the water against her sides as the _Bertha
Hamilton_ sailed steadily on her course.

The air was the least bit chilly, and this gave Drew an excuse for
tucking Ruth cozily into the chair he had placed in a sheltered
position behind the deckhouse. His fingers trembled as he drew the
rugs and shawls around her. She snuggled down, wholly content to be
waited on so devotedly, and perhaps--who knows?--sharing to some degree
the emotion that made the man's pulse race so madly.

CHAPTER XV

THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER

Drew placed his own chair close beside Ruth's--as close as he dared.
And they talked.

There was something in the witchery of that moonlit night that seemed
to remove certain restraints and reserves imposed by the cold light of
day, and they spoke more freely of their lives and hopes and ambitions
than would have been possible a few hours earlier.

The girl told of the main events that had filled her nineteen years of
life. Her voice was tender when she spoke of her mother, whose memory
remained with her as a benediction. After she had been deprived by
death of this gentle presence, she, Ruth, had stayed with relatives in
Santa Barbara and Los Angeles during her vacations and had passed the
rest of her time at boarding school. She