and covered his face with his hard red hands. "If there was kids,
Scraggsy," he sobbed, "I didn't know it. I had everything else,
Scraggs, but heirs to my throne. Scraggsy, believe me or not, but
if I'd had children I'd have stuck by Pinky. I wouldn't desert my
own flesh an' blood, so help me."

"Well," Scraggs went on sorrowfully, "Pinky's dead an' so her
troubles is over. I heard some years ago she'd passed on with
consumption. But them two _hapahaole_ kids o' yourn, Gib. Just
think of it. Banged an' ragged around between decks, neither
black nor white--too good for the natives an' not good enough for
the whites. Princes on their mother's side, they been robbed o'
their hereditary rights by a gang o' native roughnecks, while
their own father loafs alongshore in San Francisco an' enjoys
himself."

"Looky here, Scraggs," Mr. McGuffey struck in ominously. "Ain't
you said about enough? Don't hit a feller when he's down."

"Well, he ain't down so low that he can't climb back. If he's got
a spark o' manhood left in him he'll never rest until he goes
back to Aranuka, looks up them progeny o' his, an' does his best
to make amends for the past. Gib, you can't work for me aboard
the _Maggie_--not if the old girl couldn't turn her screw until
you stepped aboard. Pers'nally you got a lot o' fine p'ints an'
I like you, but now that I know your past----"

He threw out his hands despairingly. "It's your morals, Gib, it's
your blasted morals."

"You're right, Scraggs," Mr. Gibney mumbled brokenly. "It's my
duty to go look up them poor children o' mine. Bart, you stick by
old Scraggsy. I owe him somethin' for showin' me my duty an' I'm
lookin' to you to pay the interest on my bill till I get back
with them poor kids o' mine. Until then I guess I ain't fit to
'sociate with white men."

Mr. McGuffey appeared on the point of weeping and put his arm
around his old comrade in silent sympathy. Presently Mr. Gibney
shook hands with him and Scraggs and, motioning them not to
follow him, went ashore. Before him, in his mind's eye, there
floated the picture of a South Sea Island with the nodding,
tufted palms fringing the beach and the glow of a volcano against
the moonlit sky. Standing on the headland, waving him a last
farewell, stood the broken-hearted victim of his capricious
youth, the lovely Pinky Poui-Slam-Bang. Every lineament of her
beautiful features was tattooed indelibly on his memory; he knew
she would haunt him forever