cko-day
Farm; New Gibraltar (the western end of the island); St. Anthony Falls.
Michael O'Malley Malone christened the turbulent little waterfall up in
the hills. He liked the sound of the name, he claimed, and besides it
was about time the stigma of shame that had so long rested upon the poor
old saint was rewarded by complete though belated vindication.

Strange to say, no name was ever proposed for the "camp." Back in the
mind of each and every member of the lost company lay the unvoiced
belief,--amounting to superstition,--that it would be tempting fate to
speak of this long row of cabins as anything more enduring than "the
camp."

Notwithstanding his dominant personality and the remarkable capacity
he had for real leadership, Percival was a simple, sensitive soul. He
writhed under the lash of conspicuous adulation, and there was a good
deal of it going on.

The satiric Randolph Fitts, notwithstanding his unquestioned admiration
for the younger man, took an active delight in denouncing what he was
prone to allude to as Percival's political aspirations. It is only fair
to state that Fitts confined his observations to a very small coterie of
friends, chief among whom was the subject himself.

"You are the smartest politician I've ever encountered, and that's
saying a good deal," he remarked one evening as he sat smoking with a
half dozen companions in front of one of the completed huts. They were
ranged in a row, like so many birds, their tired backs against the
"facade" of the cabin, their legs stretched out in front of them.
"You're too deep for me. I don't see just what your game is, A. A. If
there was a chance to graft, I'd say that was it, but you could graft
here for centuries and have nothing to show for it but fresh air.
Even if you were to run for the office of king, or sultan or shah, you
wouldn't get anything but votes,--and you'd get about all of 'em, I'll
say that for you. To a man, the women would vote for you,--especially if
you were to run for sultan. What is your game?"

Percival smoked in silence, his gaze fixed on the moonlit line of trees
across the field.

"And speaking of women, that reminds me," went on Fitts. "When does my
lord and master intend to transplant our crop of ladies?"

"What's that, Fitts?" said Percival, called out of his dream.

"Ladies,--what about 'em? When do they come ashore to occupy the
mansions we have prepared for them?"

"Captain Trigger suggests next week."