Billy didn’t like his looks. Just why, he could not have told. But he didn’t like ’em. He wasn’t frightened though--besides, she was getting prettier and prettier at every step. Her hair was red and her eyes were purple with fire in them; her lips were red as a flame-tree’s flower, or maybe more red. She was slender without being slim and moved as easily as a pandanus leaf swinging in a little breeze. Billy was very susceptible to beauty. He would have thrown himself face down right there on the sand for her to walk on at the least suggestion that such an attitude would be pleasing to her. She was young without being girlish--nor was there anything old womanish about her. No. Billy, who was a bit hazy on historical events, was sure that she looked exactly like those women who bowl kings off their thrones, get men assassinated--or whatever else they want. Not that she looked wicked. No. But--well, Billy was a long way from home and she wore her clothes as they are worn on the Boardwalk; she carried herself as women do on Fifth Avenue. And then she was pretty. “Is there a man here by the name of Roscoe Tomlin?” the little man asked, turning hard blue eyes on Billy as though he were a bum or wastrel. “Who’s he?” said Billy, looking innocent. “Who are you?” the woman asked. She spoke pleasantly, encouragingly, as though Billy interested her. He and the ladies always did get along, anyway. “I’m Billy Rand,” he said. “The missionary’s assistant.” “And who is the missionary?” She asked it quickly, eagerly. “Mr. Roscoe Tomlin,” said Billy, bowing low. “You--you--you,” the little man stuttered angrily, “why didn’t you tell me that when I asked you?” “Because,” Bill answered, looking right at him, “I didn’t know the lady was interested!” “I’ll fix you!” the man shouted, and came toward Billy as though about to do something he shouldn’t. He was about Billy’s size--and Billy never ran in front of ladles, not pretty ones at any rate. But hostilities were suppressed peremptorily. She snapped out in a surprised tone: “Captain Farewell!” The Captain stopped. Anybody would have stopped. “That’s all right,” Billy assured her. “Us missionaries is used to such fellers. Bad lot o’ men come to these islands--crooks and things!” The Captain appeared to be on the verge of blowing up; but she--she did not seem to notice. She smiled as she asked: “Is Mr.--I mean is the Rev. Mr. Tomlin as--as pugnacious as you?” “Him?” asked Billy. “Why, he trained me! He eats ’em alive.” “Cannibal, eh?” said the Captain. “I told you how white men degenerated among the natives,” he remarked to her. Then of Billy he asked, “Is this Rev. Mr. Tomlin married or--” He stopped right there. Billy didn’t quite know what the Captain was driving at, but sensed enough to make him want to fight. “Has Mr. Tomlin a wife?” she asked. “Has he a _native_ wife?” the Captain emphasized.