"There's the machine," Dr. Kennedy said, rising. "I've got to run. I'm sorry I've shaken you up, and at the same time I'm glad. And know one thing, Isaac Ford's dab of unruly blood was remarkably small, and Joe Garland got it all. And one other thing. If your father's left hand offend you, don't smite it off. Besides, Joe is all right. Frankly, if I could choose between you and him to live with me on a desert isle, I'd choose Joe." Little bare-legged children ran about him, playing, on the grass; but Percival Ford did not see them. He was gazing steadily at the singer under the _hau_ tree. He even changed his position once, to get closer. The clerk of the Seaside went by, limping with age and dragging his reluctant feet. He had lived forty years on the Islands. Percival Ford beckoned to him, and the clerk came respectfully, and wondering that he should be noticed by Percival Ford. "John," Ford said, "I want you to give me some information. Won't you sit down?" The clerk sat down awkwardly, stunned by the unexpected honour. He blinked at the other and mumbled, "Yes, sir, thank you." "John, who is Joe Garland?" The clerk stared at him, blinked, cleared his throat, and said nothing. "Go on," Percival Ford commanded. "Who is he?" "You're joking me, sir," the other managed to articulate. "I spoke to you seriously." The clerk recoiled from him. "You don't mean to say you don't know?" he questioned, his question in itself the answer. "I want to know." "Why, he's--" John broke off and looked about him helplessly. "Hadn't you better ask somebody else? Everybody thought you knew. We always thought . . . " "Yes, go ahead." "We always thought that that was why you had it in for him." Photographs and miniatures of Isaac Ford were trooping through his son's brain, and ghosts of Isaac Ford seemed in the air about hint "I wish you good night, sir," he could hear the clerk saying, and he saw him beginning to limp away. "John," he called abruptly. John came back and stood near him, blinking and nervously moistening his lips. "You haven't told me yet, you know." "Oh, about Joe Garland?" "Yes, about Joe Garland. Who is he?" "He's your brother, sir, if I say it who shouldn't." "Thank you, John. Good night." "And you didn't know?" the old man queried, content to linger, now that the crucial point was past. "Thank you, John. Good night," was the response. "Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I think it's going to rain. Good night, sir."