"She says somethin' in Mexican--or some language, anyway. But I see she don't know any more 'n me.--It's just like this. The current's gone out o' the wire.--Last I ever see of 'em, she's leadin' him off in the sunrise toward the box cars--leadin' him by the hand.--Now did you ever hear a funnier experience than that to happen to a man?" "No," I said, "I never did." "You had to pity him," he added. "Yes," I agreed.--And I could think of her leading him by the hand. I saw Signet again. It was on my first and last voyage to the Marquesas. Under the shadow of a mountain, on a stone platform facing the sea, sat Signet, quite nude save for a loin cloth, and with an unequivocal black beard falling down on his breast. There was a calmness about him. "How did you come here?" I asked, at length. "She wanted it," he said. "She's a wonderful woman," he said to me, "a wonderful woman. She would do anything for me, Dole. _Anything!_ We've got a kid." I made shift to get in a question I had carried long in mind. "Somebody beat you out at Papeete, then, after all?" He turned upon me a faintly quizzical look. "I mean, somebody saw her--some tourist--that time she danced at Papeete--Remember?--and got away with it?" The thing seemed already so remote that he had to grope back. Then he laughed. "Lord, no. Look here, Dole. It was her herself seen the thing at Papeete. On board a tourist boat. I found out about it since I learned her language good. Her and some others went aboard to dance the _hula_--same as always, you know. Then some of _them_, the tourists, understand--Well, they had to spring the latest thing from Broadway. And then this woman of mine--Well, you can imagine. Like a woman with a new hat. Got to run right off and show it to the whole damn length and breadth of the South Seas. That's all.--And once upon a time I thought I was bright.--" Out of the half house at the rear of the platform came the daughter of a queen, bearing under one arm a prince of this island valley, and in the other hand a bowl of coconut wine for the visitor. And for her lord. For you will see that at last, despite the malignant thrusts and obstacles of destiny, this gutter snipe of Gotham had come to a certain estate. When I left, he accompanied me slowly to the beach. "You ought to like it here," I said. "After all, the city could never have given you so much." "No," he said. Wide-eyed, he took in the azure immensity of the sea. "No. Here a guy has got time to think, think, without any hurry or worry.--I been thinking, Dole, a lot. I ain't going to say nothing about it, but Dole, I b'lieve I got an idea coming along. No flivver this time. A real, sure-fire hunch. Something that'll go big in the city. Big!" And so I left him there in the shadow of the mountain, staring at the impassable sea. KINDRED[19] By HARRIET MAXON THAYER (From _The Midland_)