alk over prolonged tiffins
and wait for the heat of mid-day to wane.

A hush had fallen over the city, like the lull which precedes the
breaking of a typhoon, a panting sort of hush. Heat waves rose from
the bare expanse of the Luneta like siroccos from the nether
regions, and the palm trees of the Malecon Drive, seen through the
shimmering air, appeared to dance like souls in torture.

Beyond the Luneta the tawny walls of the city fairly cracked with
the heat, and over them could be seen the sea of roofs of the
intra-mural section, the heart of Manila, inside its ancient
bastions. Spires rose from the ruck of low buildings like dead
trees denuded of their branches. Down the bay a streamer of smoke
hung over the Bataan hills, the last vestige of the outward-bound
_Taming_, a sort of farewell pennant left behind to tell that she
was driving jauntily toward Hong Kong.

"It'll be cooler in an hour," ventured Wilkins.

"If you'll order a rig for me," said Trask, "I'll roll down to the
customs house and see about my baggage."

"How about tiffin, sir?"

"Good idea. I'll have it with you. Never mind the rig now. By the
way, I heard some gossip coming down. Did you ever hear of a man
named Dinshaw? A sailor?"

"Looney Dinshaw? Raw-ther! He's a joke."

"How a joke?"

"Oh, the poor old blighter, he sells pictures which he paints
himself. They're pictures of an island he says he was wrecked on,
that's full of gold. Comes up here and sells 'em to trippers."

"But the island?" persisted Trask. "There was a Swede yarning with
the skipper, but they wouldn't let me hear."

"Dinshaw's _loco_," said Wilkins. "Lost his ship on this island
three or four years ago. It's somewhere up the north coast. He was
taken off by a Jap fisher crew blown down from the Rykukus. He lost
his ship right enough, and his mind with it. To hear him talk you'd
think it was solid gold."

"Solid gold is what I'm hunting for when I'm working," said Trask
with a smile. "I'd like to look into this business."

"There's plenty who's looked into it, sir, but they can't get
anything but babble out of the old fellow. He thinks everybody
wants to cheat him."

"Where can I find him?"

"In the Sailors' Home, kept by Prayerful Jones in Calle San
Fernando, a charity place for sailors on the beach. I say, you're
not serious?"

"Indeed I am. Not that I expect to find a solid gold island, but if
it's off the coast of Luzon it might give me a lead to someth