"Look here," he muttered hoarsely, with the assumption of his most matter-of-fact manner, "let me advance you a thousand dollars or so—in case you should have a use for it. Be an investment for me," he added, with a short laugh. "What use is it to me in the Marquesas or Solomon Islands, eh?" "No, thanks, Dibdin," I told him. "I can mention one or two good banks on the Island of Manhattan—if you don’t know of any." "Don’t be an ass, Randolph," he came back with severity. "I’ll write you a cheque." "No, you won’t," I replied with equal obstinacy. "I won’t take it. If I need it, I’ll cable you." "Devil you will," he growled irritably. "Cables don’t run where I’ll be. You’re an ass, after all." "Thanks. Would you like to see the children before you go?" "H’m, yes," he answered meditatively. "No, by gosh!" he added in sudden confusion. "No, I can’t. Got to run. Slews of things still to do." Inscrutable devil, Dibdin! Who would have supposed him such a bundle of oddly-assorted emotions? "By the way," he said abruptly, as he was starting, "Carmichael—heard from him—everything all right?" Inwardly I felt a tug as though some one had pulled violently upon some cord inside me. "Oh, yes," I lied as urbanely as I was able, "everything quite all right. You’ll keep me in addresses, I suppose?" He scrutinized me for an instant so searchingly that with a tremor I feared he would see through me. "Oh, yes, of course," he finally answered. "The Hotel de France, Papeete, is a good address until you hear of another. They know me there." "Good," I tapped him on the back. "Write a fellow a word whenever you can. Pretty lonely here after you’re gone." "Lonely!" he repeated. "And you—oh, by George, and I’d almost forgotten—and you to be married in a few days—lonely!" "That’s—off," I faltered—"for the present." "Off!" he exclaimed aghast. "Did she break it off?" "Put it off," I corrected. "When you told her of keeping the kids?" I nodded my head slowly, watching the odd play of his features. He opened his arms quickly as though he were about to hug me like some grizzly old bear—then as quickly he dropped them, shamefaced. "By God!" he uttered solemnly. "This—this gets me—the way things came about. You—you are a man, Randolph, my lad. Courage—that wins everything in the end. Even when it loses, it wins. Yes, sir." I have not the remotest idea what he meant by those words. "Broken up about it?" he demanded abruptly. What my gesture proclaimed to Dibdin I don’t know. For me it expressed all that I had passed through during the last ten days. "No, you’re right. No use," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Sit tight, my boy. Courage—the only thing! Now, good-by," he wrung my hand, "and God bless you." "Same to you, old boy, and best of luck." And now the only intimate friend I possess has gone and left a hole in the atmosphere as large as Central Park. *CHAPTER VI*